Yet another story about Cara, the closet lesbian who pretty much runs a library and who has used the institution as a means to find naΓ―ve young ladies who have certain qualities that are out of step with current culture. The middle aged woman has spent her whole life being the one in charge both in work and of affairs of the flesh, and now she has found herself on the receiving end.
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"Drive away... drive away..." the librarian kept repeating as her shaking fingers drummed the steering wheel while she looked at the crummy three story house where Phyllis Gross supposedly lived, muttering, "You don't need this."
The problem was that she did need this. Cara had lived her life preying on young ladies who were insecure, timid and most importantly hairy. Those characteristics had been increasingly more challenging to find as time has gone on, and Cara also suspected that as she aged she had become less appealing.
Phyl had been right in that Cara had become dependent on the butch mechanic's version of affection, turning the dominant into the submissive, and that the worse Phyl treated the librarian the better she liked it, or maybe needed it.
That was why today when Phyl didn't come herself to the library to fix the elevator - a service call Cara had requested but that wasn't needed because the elevator was fine - Cara had found out where Phyl lived and come to see her. She found herself needing the sight and scent of the coarse mechanic. The neighborhood was as nasty as Phyl, and Cara was shocked that a woman with a good job would live in such a decrepit part of the city.
There were a bunch of rowdy young men on the steps of the house, and Cara was growing tired of waiting for them to disperse but the sun was going down so she finally got out of her car and nervously approached the house. The hoodlums made a narrow path for her up the stairs, and the vulgar comments they made were bad enough but one of them squeezed her bottom on her way past.
When Cara got to the front door she looked at the mailboxes to see what apartment Phyl lived in but only a couple of them even had names on them. In desperation Cara asked the group if they knew which apartment Ms. Gross lived in, and they thought that was a riot.
"Hey lady," one of the hooligans snapped as he rose to his feet and joined her on the landing. "You don't need that dyke. I got about 10" that can take care of what you need."
"Last door first floor," the guy finally answered, and after Cara fumbled with the doorknob the punk helped her with it, adding, "remember what I said - no bullshit - I got what you really need."
Cara practically jumped inside the front door with her heart racing, and after her eyes adjusted to the dingy light of the hallway she walked down to the last door and timidly knocked on it while looking back at the front door in fear. It took a couple more knocks before the door opened and an angry looking Phyl stood in the doorway with an intimidating stance.
"What the fuck do you want?" she snarled as a greeting.
"I - I wanted to talk with you," Cara explained as she looked back towards the entrance. "Can I come in?"
"What's the matter? Afraid of the little boys on the porch?"
"They were mean."
"Pussies," Phyl said as she let Cara inside and closed the door behind her. "I've kicked a couple of their asses before, and the ones that beat me up took enough of a pounding to make them not want to try me again."
"You fight them?" Cara asked as she looked at Phyl who wasn't wearing her uniform shirt but only the same familiar wife beater with the sweat stains under the arms, and nothing else. "You like to punch people, like you did me the last time we were together."
"I didn't punch you Cara, I slapped you."
"It knocked me down," the librarian sniffed.
"If I punched you, you might still be on the floor," Phyl declared. "You swore at me."
"You were hurting me. Squeezing my nipples like you wanted to crush them."