Trust Ch. 08a

She was about thirty-five and way too attractive to be a stereotypical spinster librarian even though she seemed to be aspiring to it. The first few times I saw her she always looked the same: plain coloured long-sleeved roll-neck top, plain grey or black skirt just above the knee, black tights and flat lace-up shoes, straight black hair tied back in a pony tail or piled up on her head with a clip, no make up and no jewellery except for ear studs and a plain and simple watch. I couldn't help get the feeling that for some reason she was deliberately not making the best of herself.

She helped me a few more times with researching various projects I was doing and we became quite friendly. So it was that during one session the monitor of the PC at the service desk suddenly packed up. She took me into the staff office behind the desk so we could carry on by using her own PC. I saw to my great interest that all around her workspace were ballet posters and photos of ballerinas.

"I see you're a ballet fan. Do you dance?" I asked her.

"I just go to an adult beginners' class. Nothing special; just basic steps and movements, but it's a good way to exercise and I do enjoy imagining that I'm a real ballerina for a little while each week." She smiled wistfully for a moment, stroking the edge of her keyboard.

"Did you want to be a ballerina when you were a girl?" I asked, smiling back. Her smile took on a hint of sadness, which made me feel self-consciously regretful for asking her.

"My parents belonged to a strict religious sect that took a very dim view of girls showing off and displaying their bodies in any way, so I wasn't allowed," she replied, her smile now visibly taking an effort to maintain.

"It's horrible when your parents stop you doing the things you really want to do. Mine are like that too," I sympathised. Our shared smile was now one of fellow feeling.

The next time I saw her she looked different. The basic elements were the same as before, but were now presented in a way that was altogether brighter, softer and far more feminine. She wore a pretty white silk blouse with lace trim. Her attractive floral pattern skirt came up higher above her knees to show off more of her legs; and she had very nice legs, which were now shown off in pale cream tights with an embossed diamond pattern, which complemented her skirt beautifully. She wore just enough make up to show off her enigmatically attractive eyes and mouth to fine advantage and she now wore her hair loose on her shoulders, highlighting their delicate feminine form. Best of all, on her feet she now wore shiny black ballerina pumps with pretty bows on the tops. I looked at her admiringly for a moment and then realised with a start of amazed recognition that she was doing all this for me.

"I have to do something about this, now," I decided. I stepped up to her, placed my mouth close to her ear, which was now wearing a beautiful diamond and pearl drop earring, and whispered confidentially to her, "I can get tickets for the Northern Ballet Theatre performance on Saturday. Would you like to come?"

She looked surprised at first, then thoughtful for a moment, and then she beamed at me.

"I'd love to," she whispered back.

The recollection of her look of apparent delight at being asked out by a man -- more a youth really -- almost half her age comforted me as I walked out of the library, wondering if I'd done the right thing.

We saw the ballet and, being comfortably well off for a student thanks to my grandfather's timely legacy, I took her for dinner at one of the smarter Cambridge restaurants. Our conversation was a bit stop-start punctuated at times with periods of mutually embarrassed silence as we were still a little unsure of each other and we didn't gel naturally together, but I thought it went OK in spite of that and she said she enjoyed my company and wanted to see me again.

So we went out several more times, to art exhibitions and classical music concerts and other arty stuff. We would usually meet somewhere in the town for a drink beforehand, that was until the time when we were arranging a date and she suggested I came to her flat instead.

If I'd been as knowledgeable about things then as I am now, I would known straight away that something new was in the air, but I was eighteen and I knew fuck all so I turned up on her doorstep like a complete numbskull and didn't get what was going on even when I knocked on her door and I heard her call out,

"The door's open, come on in!"

I stepped inside, feeling a bit nervous, closed the front door and went from the entrance hall into the lounge.

"I'll be ready in just a moment, get yourself a drink," she called to me from beyond a closed door at the opposite end of the lounge, which I guessed led to her bedroom. I knew enough about women even then to know that 'just a moment' in this particular context could mean any length of time, so I thought I'd sit it out in an armchair with a choice of one of many books lining the walls -- she was a librarian after all -- and at least be comfortable. But first I turned my attention to a collection of bottles and glasses arranged artfully on a small table.

"What can I get you?" I called back to her as I concentrated on uncorking a bottle of expertly chilled and expensive looking white wine.

"I'm alright for now thanks." I was startled by the unexpected closeness of her voice behind me. I turned around and what I saw made me almost drop both the bottle and the wine glass in my amazement.

She stood magnificently framed within the entrance to her bedroom, one leg slightly bent with her foot in suggestive demi-pointe, one arm raised in subtle challenge to rest her hand on the door frame, her head alluringly tilted slightly to one shoulder, her breasts rising and falling steadily as she smiled straight at me, her gaze candid and yet with a hint of appeal. Whatever she was ready for, it certainly was not going out to a restaurant for dinner; unless, that is, it had a very relaxed dress and behaviour code.

She was dressed from head to toe in black satin, silk and lace. She wore a black satin push up and plunge bra, with lace trim on the cups and shoulder straps; that seemed to double the size of her assets. She wore black satin and lace panties with the narrowest of waistbands joining the front and the back over her trim thighs. Suspender belt and suspenders trimmed with lace held up stockings of sheer black silk and lycra that celebrated her long, sleek legs that tapered down to her long, slender feet that looked very sexy in black satin ballet slippers -- real ballet slippers this time -- with a thin strap of elastic across the top of each to keep them securely on her feet.

She had brushed her hair so that it floated in a soft dark cloud around her head and on her bare shoulders. Her eyes were rendered mesmeric by perfectly applied mascara and eye lining. Her face was exquisitely softened and hued by expert use of foundation and blusher and her mouth was a ruby mine of desire. A thin black silk ribbon choker tied in a bow behind her neck drew attention to her graceful neck, while earrings and bracelets of beautifully classic design in silver and pearl did the same for her pretty ears and her delicately feminine arms, hands and wrists. Perfectly manicured nails painted to match her lips completed the wonderful symphony of her body. She was totally stunning and I looked at her in slack-jawed amazement mixed with more than a little primordial male terror, as the crotch of my trousers began to fill with my erection summoned by the siren call of her gorgeousness.

She looked directly at me, smiling expectantly, waiting for me to make the next move. I was totally clueless as to what to do or say. My first attempt to find my bearings in the maelstrom inside me was a feeble attempt at humour as a diffusive strategy.

"I don't think they'll let you into the restaurant looking like that, Claire," I smiled weakly.

"Would you rather go to the restaurant?"

Her reply was a perfectly executed rapier thrust to my vitals, savagely cutting down my pathetic initial advance and rendering all further resistance futile. She changed nothing in her pose or her expression. Her voice sounded like she was expecting me to give her the answer we both knew I was bound to give her. I did so in best bumbling Hugh Grant fashion.

"Well, er, as it happens, I wasn't exactly thinking that we had to absolutely, so to speak, go to the restaurant at this precise moment in time but that we could, quite reasonably and happily, if we both thought it to be expedient, er, to, go later." The last two words were pitched as if I was suggesting to her that we spend the evening at a naked mud wrestling competition; a suggestion which, in the circumstances, might well have been considered entirely appropriate.

"Oh shut up, Charles," she laughed, glided up to me and, with a practiced dexterity that was almost magical, undid my trouser belt and my flies, pushed my trousers down -- followed in quick succession by my underpants -- to my knees, curled her long fingers exquisitely around my balls and began to kiss me, presumably having decided to cut off the possibility of me wasting any more time with totally inane attempts at conversation.

Keeping my mouth under the enchantment of her lips she completed my undressing, her hands gliding across and over my submissive frame as she pushed off my jacket, undid my shirt and peeled it off me, and then got down on her knees to remove my white Converse plimsolls and socks and finish relieving me of my trousers and briefs. Then, with a firmness and deftness of touch that made me shiver and moan with delight, she stroked my erection until I was rock hard before putting me into her mouth and giving me my first blow job.

During all the years I'd been masturbating until then, I'd longed to experience having oral sex performed on me. I even did extra gym at school to try and give my body sufficient extra flexibility so I could suck myself, but to no avail. Now it was finally happening to me and I couldn't help crying out with the exquisite feeling in my prick as she feasted on it and in my balls as she squeezed and caressed them.

She was getting more excited too, making deep grunts of pleasure as my head rubbed against the entrance to her throat, until she felt me on the edge of coming and suddenly broke off in order to stand up and lead me hurriedly into her bedroom. She quickly whipped of her panties and I goggled at my first living sight of fully aroused female organs luscious in their rosy glory between her thighs. Instead of lying on her back on the bed, like I thought she would do, she knelt on the bed on her hands and knees, her bottom raised up and pointed towards me, her woman's parts open and inviting between her splayed out legs.

"I want you to do me from behind, I like it best that way," she panted, looking back at me in anticipation.

"I don't know what to do," I exclaimed weakly. All the knowledge I had gleaned from pornographic magazines had deserted me in the sudden onset of my panic-ridden state.

"Just get up on the bed close behind me and I'll do the rest, but for fuck's sake hurry up," she urged me.

My surprise at her vehement use of the f-word galvanised me to action. I still remember thinking as I mounted the bed and came up to her from behind how cute and sexy the soles of her feet looked in her ballet slippers as they faced towards me; the way the curvy hourglass shapes of the grey leather soles were outlined in black by the leather uppers curling inwards around the edges of her feet to tuck in underneath the soles. I knelt behind her and pressed myself against her bottom. Without wasting a second she reached a long slender arm back between her legs to take hold of my manhood and, as I shuffled awkwardly into the best position, guided me into her entrance. I slipped inside her as easily as could be as she took me into her and I pushed my groin up against her bottom as close as I could before my instinct to thrust her kicked in.

"Oh you're a big bastard alright!" she gasped as I found my rhythm and began to give it to her hard. "Get my bra off and feel my tits, they're throbbing like fury!"

Inflamed by the earthiness of her encouragements I managed to fumble her bra off her and I rested from banging her for a moment to reach down and cup her breasts hanging down like ripe fruit ready for harvesting.

"Oh that's lovely," she wept as I let her nipples, swollen to hardness in her excitement, grind against the palms of my hands before I slowly smoothed the soft undersides of her breasts. "Please finish me off now, I can't wait any more," she choked after a moment.

I resumed my thrusting and then I felt her whole body tense and clench before she let out a deep, long cry from deep in her guts. As she closed in tighter on me and I felt my own climax approaching me a deep urge of another kind took hold of me. She cried out again as I pulled out of her. I looked down at the pucker of her anus nestling between her buttocks. She gasped in surprise as she felt my head pressing in the entrance to her back passage and she relaxed herself as much as she could to let me in. She made another deep belly groan as she felt me penetrate deeper and deeper into her fundament until the fantastic sensation I was getting tipped me over the edge and I came deep inside her arse.

After feeling the convulsive quiver of several ejaculations radiate from my member through my whole body, we both groaned together as I came out of her again and simultaneously we sank exhausted to lie alongside each other on our backs.

We lay gasping and panting for a few minutes and then we both lay very quiet and very still, both of us fixing our gaze on the ceiling. A change came over both us and a sudden chill in the atmosphere seemed suddenly to descend around us. Neither of us dared to look at the other. She made no attempt to reach out me and I had no thought to touch her. Not even the knowledge that she was lying next to me only a couple of inches away, naked in her stockings, suspenders and ballet slippers, could induce me to take even a quick sideways glance at her. It took a while for the storm of disjointed impressions whirling around in my head to coalesce into rational thought, but when they did the result was bleakly, unavoidably stark:

'This is all there is.'

The silence continued seemingly interminably until I felt I had to say something. I could summon no feeling for my words.

"I think I'd better be going now." I continued to stare at the ceiling.

"I think that would be best." Her reply was bled dry of emotion.

I got up and, still without looking at her or speaking to her and only partly conscious of what I was doing, stumbled back into the lounge to gather up my haphazardly strewn clothes and get dressed. My initial numbness was beginning to give way to a dumb feeling of anger at being used, even as I struggled with the inescapable fact that I had been willingly complicit in the act. As I began to pull on my trousers she finally broke the silence.

"I'm sorry."

"It's OK, it doesn't matter," I replied flatly, not looking up from my task. If she had registered my reply she gave no sign of it as she continued, the matter-of-factness of her speech somehow seeming to support a superstructure of grief.

"My husband left me for his secretary. She wasn't much older than you are now. Today's the fifth anniversary of my divorce. It's been nearly six years since I last..."

Embarrassment and unspeakable sadness choked off the last words of her sentence. I didn't need to hear them to know. My anger melted instantly into compassion. I got up and stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at her now with gentler eyes. Self-consciousness had returned to her in a renewed tyranny of shyness that had induced her to pull the bed cover over her until her breasts were concealed and only a hint of her shoulders could be seen.

"I understand," I smiled gently, "and I'm glad and I'm proud that you chose me to," I chose my next words with care, "help you experience those feelings again."

She didn't speak but her eyes brightened. They were full of emotion but she didn't give way to tears. Somehow I understood that she wanted my sympathy rather than for me to feel sorry for her, and I admired her for her emotional courage in such a hugely hurtful moment.

"I'll tell you something else," I spoke with true feeling. "Anyone who could leave you for someone else should have had his head examined."

Now her smile matched her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered. "That makes me feel much better"

"I'm glad," I smiled and looked at her again, in a new way this time. My heart almost shifted sideways as I contemplated just how beautiful she looked at that moment. Then I knew it was time for me to leave, and that I really did have to leave.

"See you," I whispered.

"Sure," she whispered back.

As I reached the front door I noticed for the first time her shoe rack on the floor close by. There was a sudden catch in my throat. Tucked away on the lower shelf of the rack was a yellowing and well worn pair of, what had started life as, white Marbot plimsolls. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. What would have happened if I had seen her wearing them and had found the courage to seize the moment and be candid with her about my fetish for white plimsolls? How would things then have been different between us?

My head was reeling as I meandered home, not knowing what else to do with myself, suddenly and unexpectedly alone on a Saturday night. As well having rooms in College I also kept a flat in the town so that Bryony would have somewhere to stay when she visited me, and it was there that I sought refuge in my confusion. Feeling dazed, I stripped off and had a shower. Then I went into Bryony's room and rooted in her underwear drawers for a black bra, panties, stockings and suspenders that were most like the ones that Claire had worn.

As I sat on Bryony's bed and put on her underwear I tried to imagine what Claire had been feeling while she had been preparing herself for me. Had she felt guilty about what she was planning to do; had she struggled with the urge to think again and call it all off; did her excitement at the imminent prospect of sex after so many years of celibacy so unjustly forced upon her overwhelm all other considerations?

I got no nearer to any answers as I put on a dark haired wig and brushed the hair until it was soft and cloudy about my head as hers had been. I made up and painted my nails in similar colours to hers as I sat before Bryony's dressing table mirror. I picked out some suitable items from Bryony's jewellery collection and used one of her spare black ballet shoe ribbons as a choker. Finally, my erection tightened to the maximum inside her panties as I slipped onto my black nylon and lycra stockinged feet a pair of her black leather ballet slippers. I had a pair of my own but at times like these it felt much more sensuous and illicit to put on hers.

I forgot all about the questions in my mind as I fondled myself through and inside the gorgeously soft and comforting cling of Bryony's panties before sliding them down my stockinged legs and off over my ballet slippers. I gave myself up to share in Claire's pleasure as I rolled on a condom, got up on my hands and knees, inserted a butt plug up my backside and stroked myself to ecstasy. As the first wave of my orgasm swept through me I collapsed down on the bed and my emotions burst out from me in deep sobs of release.

Of course, I never saw Claire again. I made greater use of my College's Library for my research and only ventured into the University Library when I knew she was off shift. If any of her colleagues had known about anything that had gone on between us then none of them ever said or did anything to me to betray the fact. Even so, I felt awkward about entering the University Library for a long time afterwards.