November 13, 1987
Single, middle-aged and bespectacled Angelina Lione may look the part of the prim, proper and sexually repressed, buttoned-up librarian, but she's most definitely NOT your father's librarian -- at least not in private. Blessed with a ravenous and unquenchable sexual appetite, Angelina navigates the Dewey Decimal System as deftly as she negotiates about her lovers' hearts, minds and bodies. Her orgasms, in fact, are so intense that she oftentimes faints during the throes of passion.
High fashion and high maintenance, Angelina always models the latest designer threads -- accentuated by one of her dozen pairs of high-heeled dress boots. Her sophisticated look even extends to smoking accessories. The haughty diva wouldn't dream of smoking a cigarette if it wasn't filtered through her long, black holder. More of a cigarette holder sucker and stroker than a smoker, however, Angelina seductively works the black shaft with her mouth, tongue and fingers as if it was a penis proxy; the effect that playing with the long, stiff holder has on would-be lovers is like snake charming. Under the sexy siren's magic spell, they're entirely at her mercy; powerless to resist the temptation to pleasure her -- as if they really would.
Romantic suitor Tom Bailey has been in love with Angelina since he was a 13-year-old student of hers, drawn to the librarian's sexy boots and seductive smoking. Over the past nine years, his feelings -- like his fetishes -- for the femme fatale have only grown stronger. But in order to win Angelina's hand, he'll have to fight off the advances of Harry Seymour, his former principal, and the man who she once carried on a torrid affair with.
It's youth, vitality and inexperience vs. age, knowledge and history. At stake is the love and lust of the feral Angelina, a woman whose libido knows no bounds.
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"Well, here we are," Tom announced, as he swung the front door open to his apartment, then flicked on the lightswitch by the entrance. "After you."
Angelina stepped leather-booted foot into the electric-light--bathed living room, stopped to look about and did her best to suppress an audible gasp. For a woman who prided herself on good taste and the finer things in life, the slapdash decorating clashed with her refined sensibilities as sharply as the paint-by-numbers portrait of dogs playing poker that hung on a wall disagreed with the brown, metal fold-out card table. Strewn around the room were telltale signs of the apartments' inhabitants: an opened pizza box, littered with half-eaten slices, empty beer bottles and old, mismatched furniture. The most expensive piece of personal property: a brand-spanking new 24-inch television screen. One need not look at the lease to know that the apartment's renters were young bachelors, likely fresh out of college.
"How...charming," Angelina politely lied, as Tom removed her fur coat from her shoulders.
"Thanks," Tom answered proudly and cluelessly, turning away to drape his lover's fur on a wire hanger in the hall closet. "Sorry, the weekends are when we usually clean up."
"So, this is a week's worth of garbage," she confirmed, daintily and warily picking up and examining a piece of pizza crust by the brown leather-gloved tips of her left thumb and index finger, before quickly placing it back in the box and rubbing her hands together as if to wipe off the filth, lest it be contagious.
"Yeah, my roommates are pigs. Hey, make yourself at home. I'm gonna get a glass of water. Do you want something to drink or snack on?"
"I'd love a Perrier with a twist of lime, but oh, don't even mention food," Angelina said, carefully sinking her body into the dented sofa, before crossing her black, high-heeled, knee-high leather boots. "I couldn't eat another bite. Really. Between dining out with Harry and now you, I don't want to even think about how much weight I've probably gained in the last week."
A glum-faced Tom emerged from the kitchen with Angelina's "Perrier" -- an ad-libbed concoction of two parts Hoboken tap, mixed with one part tonic water -- in hand.
"Please don't mention him," he requested, referring to Angelina's old beau, who walked back into her life two weeks ago and proceeded to disrupt Tom and the sexy librarian's budding romance.
"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling. It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. I promise not to repeat Harry's name the rest of the night. This is our time."
Angelina slipped off her leather gloves then patted the faded-brown open couch cushion to her left with her bare hand, signaling Tom to join her. The young man obliged and handed his lover her drink.
"Delmonico's certainly lived up to its world-class reputation," Angelina said, deftly changing the subject. "It was such a treat. That meal was absolutely exquisite. But you really didn't have to take me to such an expensive restaurant on our date, my dear. I would have been perfectly content with merely a four-star french restaurant in Manhattan."
"Ah, price is no object," Tom said with a dismissive wave of his hand, while calculating in his head how many minimum credit card payments it would take him to pay off their $250 meal. "I wondered if the atmosphere might be too stuffy."
"No, I loved it. It had an old-world charm to it -- right down to its clientele. All those rich, powerful men, smoking their big fat cigars. So masculine. It reminded me of my years with Harry. He had this way of smoking a cigar that was just so hypnotizing. You've probably never smoked a cigar before, have you? You're pretty young for that."
"No, never."
"Pity. You should think about it. There's nothing quite like a mature man, who's obviously confident in his own skin, smoking a cigar. It just turns me to butter every time. Harry doesn't smoke any more, but he just looked so masculine and in control, when he would light my cigarette in a holder and then light his own cigar. The universe was in perfect order. The roles of man and woman weren't blurred like they so often are today. All these women today who smoke cigars...what nonsense. The woman should smoke from a long, feminine cigarette holder and the man should smoke his big, fat cigar. That picture made so much sense. I felt so submissive and secure when I was with him. He didn't even have to touch me to arouse me. The sight of him smoking his cigar would just absolutely turn me to jelly. Sometimes, I'd faint in his arms just at the sight. Oh, how he could seduce me with just his cigar."
"Angelina, please. You promised not to mention his name any more."
"Oh, I'm sorry, darling. No more Harry talk. So, where are your roomates tonight?"
"At the bars, probably. We've got the place to ourselves til at least closing time."
Angelina placed her drink on the cheap coffee table in front of her. Turning back to face Tom, she seductively slipped her arms around his neck, until her hands stacked behind his head, then rested her forearms on his shoulders.
