Clare and Present Danger

You don't turn around, but your arms lower and you rest your forehead against your hands gasping in both frustration and relief. Your legs remain still, but the arch in your back decreases slightly. You try to catch your breath, you nipples still burning and throbbing. You become aware of air against your partially uncovered ass, and the coolness along the gusset of your panties awakens you to your own wetness.

You become aware of the movement behind you, so you lift your arms back up, now resting your forehead against the door. You feel a kind of wantonness as your low back once again assumes a deeper curve, displaying your ass. You hear the sounds of books being pulled out of their places on your shelves, and your curiosity nearly tempts you to turn around. The truth is, you're torn by curiosity—turn your head to discover what he's doing and potentially spoil his plans, or stay against the door, knowing nothing and let his plans unfold. You begin to mentally calculate the pros and cons of each, losing track of the sounds behind you.

Your ponytail is suddenly gripped and pulled, forcing your head off the door and stretching your upper body even more. You feel hands sliding under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribcage. They reach along your back and you feel your simple lace-edged cotton bra suddenly give way.

He grips your ponytail saying, "Stand up," then releases it, stepping between you and the door. Without realizing, your arms are still raised up, and he slides your shirt and bra up and over your head and hands. You shiver a little. Your stance has slackened a bit, allowing your jeans to fall to your knees. He lifts his foot and places it in the center, using it to push your jeans to the floor.

"Step out," he says.

Then, as you stand arms raised, nipples tighter than you can ever remember, wearing only panties, he shows you what he pulled from the shelf.

It's your beloved, dog-eared copy of the 50th anniversary edition of The Feminine Mystique. The cover is a simple white with bold black text. Although it's paperback, its nearly 600 pages give it a heft similar to a hardback.

You watch his hands fan the pages like a card dealer shuffling cards. You feel the wind of the movement as his arms lift and the pages fan first over your right nipple, then the left. He steps to the right, "Lean forward."

You return your hands to the door, feeling the brush of your ponytail over your shoulder as he moves it aside. Then the spine of the book is brushing along your spine. The graze is deliberately gentle, causing goosebumps all over. Your eyes are closed and your mouth hangs open as you feel the top edge of the spine press into your sacrum. You never realized that the space between your back dimples was so sensitive. You gasp, legs shaking, the arch of your low back unconsciously deepening.

Your ass is lifting and lifting, your spine stretching as he presses more firmly. His foot is once more between your feet as he urges your legs to widen again.

The nearly unbearable tickle of the book pressing into your back increases. Without thought, you being to whimper again, and you wonder if he can tell that your panties are getting wetter.

He can.

He watches the purple cotton darken with wetness as he moves the book's edge from one dimple to the other. Your back arches just that little bit more and he can see your sticky wetness begin to slide along your inner thighs.

You gasp when his hand shifts and the book lifts from your back. Before you can take a breath of relief, you feel the book pushed between your thighs, the spine pressing into your wet pussy.

"Close your legs tightly."

His mouth is right at your ear. You press your legs together and his hand releases the book. You can feel the spine tight against your throbbing clit. You want to squirm and shake and rub, so turned on that you don't even register the fact that the juices of your pussy are spilling all over this seminal volume of feminist literature.

"Stand up."

You lift away from the door.

His lips brush against your ear with the same light graze as his fingers along your low back. "Hold it tight," he whispers. The tips of his fingers once again caressing that exposed area where your bottom meets your leg. You gasp, faltering slightly, and the book slips down your legs. You catch yourself, feeling the book now right at mid-thigh. He chuckles, his hand reaching to the front and back to slide it back into place. He pushes forward and back against your clit, ostensibly centering the book. Your bottom flexes as you press again to grip the volume.

His fingers return to the very edges of your cheeks. You clench harder. Which only seems to increase that unbearable itchy tickle. He seems to know this, chuckling as his fingers caress over and over and over. You unconsciously tighten and release your pussy.

"Such a good little feminist."

His lips are right at your ear. You try to hold your leg still as rising goosebumps make you shiver. He places a hand along your low back, stepping closer. The material of his shirt rubs over your swollen nipples. His other hand reaches to cup the back of your head as he leans in giving soft, surprisingly gentle kisses along your cheek.

As his mouth travels to the side of your neck, you feel his finger reaching past the waistband of your panties. His palm is still warm between your back dimples as his long fingers slide past the cotton barrier. Two stretch along you bottom cheeks, while the middle finger wiggles up and down the top of your crack.

Your bottom is clenched too tightly for him to go any further. Not unless you let the book fall. But he has no interest in going further.

His finger continues to move up and down in little strokes.

"Don't let it drop, little feminist," he whispers.

Your legs press tighter, your clit throbbing, and suddenly it feels as if his finger is rubbing over and over your swollen clit. Every part of you feels stretched too tight, or too thin. Your mouth opens and you start to whimper, your distress only increasing as he reaches his other hand to play with your right nipple.

You moan when he says, "Keep pressing," and then he becomes relentless.

"Keep pressing, my wet little feminist. I need you to cum."

"You want to cum for me don't you?"

"Tighter, little one."

"Feel it on your swollen clitty?"

"I haven't even touched your pussy and you're already so wet."

"Let me give you what you need."

"You need to cum for me."

"Fuck that book, little feminist."

"Fuck that book."

"Fuck that book."

His voice, the words, his fingers on your nipple, his finger along the slit of your ass, the book pressing and pressing and pressing. Your head moving back and forth, your whimpering transforming into the pleading repetition of, "please, please, please, please, please..."

"Claire," he says firmly, "It's time to cum." Then his mouth finds the most sensitive part of your neck and begins to suck.

You feel yourself being stretched tighter and thinner and tighter and thinner and tighter until with a sudden scream, your body springs back into itself.

He catches you as you collapse forward, your entire body convulsing. You gasp and gulp for air, shuddering, hands gripping his shoulders as you press closer. Suddenly, his thigh is there sliding between your own, but you don't use it to rest. Still feeling that unbearable inner tickle, you unconsciously rock and rock against it, the now dampened Feminine Mystique sprawled open, forgotten on the floor.