At and behind the counter, Jade’s lovely little hands with their perfectly manicured curved-corner-square-ended long fingernails, held the book she had seized from the shelf, up at a thirty degree angle from the counter top, to display to Emily, the gaudily coloured illustration of a girl, that could have been Jade herself, undergoing sexual torture on its front cover.

“It’s slightly foxed I’m afraid. And, as we haven’t catalogued that corner yet madam: should we say: twenty dollars? Jade’s inspiring lips enquired, kissing every lucky word.

From the internet, where she had seen that cover depicted, and read and re-read the contents of the novel itself: countless times, Emily knew she was looking at a first prize apprising her of first prize.

In microseconds she saw the 48 point heading over the illustration, trumpeting the book’s contents as the work of authoress Penny Traitor and, below the illustration, in smaller print, scarlet red gothic and distorted to appear as if it were blood flowing, the title of this, the very first and therefore rarest of Ms Traitor’s oeuvre: Bella Donna’s Deflowering’. And her heart jumped as its pumping raced. The erect logo of the Phallus Press in an oval on the bottom right-hand corner confirmed the McCoy of joy was real and ready to be reeled in, and for only twenty dollars!

This was a miracle discovery. To mere mortals it was crass trash, but to a selective elect few, it was El Dorado’s gold.

Emily prided herself that she was among the select elect of connoisseurs of one-handed literature. This was the Everest of sadomasochistic novels. This was a palpable hit. Her pulse raced as she fought not to show in her face, that she had scored a bulls-eye, and for only twenty dollars!

“I’ll take it”, Emily whisper-croaked, and then cleared her throat, acting indifference to the best of her limited ability, as she handed over her Amex to answer the ringing up of the antiquated till, as its drawer shot open at Jade’s button press request, and its bell’s ting echoed still.

Was Jade more shy than even Emily?

A slide of a delectable forefinger, that should have been teasing a penis, over the embossed green rectangle, preceded: I’ve always loved the name Emily , and an enquiring look at Emily that said that she, Jade, had noticed how she, Emily, came into the shop every Saturday without fail, and always ensured that she, Jade, served her.

Jade knew she was spice. She knew she was sugar for lust. She knew she enticed. She knew where men and women wanted their fingers thrust. She knew she had longed-for lips twice twice: indeed, her lower pair enfolded her guiding light.

Jade knew too true too that she bewitched Emily. The leg display had been no accident. Jade loved to please with tease. She loved to be desired and to inspire want for her. Emily was obviously hooked.

To Jade this older woman was intriguing. Jade had no girlfriend at the moment. The notion of a little adventure with Emily had been a seed sown, when Jade had first registered Emily’s eyes compelled to ogle her legs: that is, from the very first time, ten weekends since, that Jade had stepped from behind the shop’s counter, and been made to blush deep scarlet by Emily’s evident desire.

Now Jade’s pretty fingers pulled lengths of transparent adhesive tape from the machine on the counter, leaving her fingerprints, even these erotic, on it, to aid her wrapping the bought book, skilfully neatly in plain brown paper.

And, as she pushed the parcelled book, and disguised prize, over the counter, her sweet face looked Emily eye-to-eye. And the absolute of absolute miracles for the reticent shy reclusive Emily was heard, unbelieved by her for seconds that seemed like hours as they flashed by, when she heard Jade say coaxingly brightly: I’m free on Sundays Emily. Why don’t you ask me for a date?”

.

At two the following afternoon, the next day, and therefore a Sunday, Emily paced by the lions cage of the Fordbridge Zoological Gardens, her heart pulsing madly as she waited and prayed for Jade to turn up.

The jeans were a disappointment. Not the way they hugged Jade’s swinging rear, but for the fact that her legs, the two highways to the seat and heart of her fire, were hidden.

But the smile was genuine gold, and the promise of a kiss from lips so lovely and lively and divine, if she was truly lucky, sent rapturous shivers down Emily’s spine.

What could two girls so contrasting have in common? The one a frump past her sell-by date in her teens, and now a middle-aged lonely loner; the other an angelic heavenly deeply beautiful vivacious walking talking giggling smiling laughing loving girl, sitting now sipping tea, with her pretty wonderful pretty legs in jeans: sitting her delicate whole, on the wholly holy hole of her irresistible deep down devilishly desirable florally-fragrant cunt?

Well: just as some girls love father figures, so this lovely loved older women. Shy too, Jade looked at Emily and saw the maturity and imagined accompanying accomplishments and bedroom confidence she initially looked for in her would-be lovers.

League and legion were Emily’s predecessors, but none was legendary. Jade was young, just twenty-three in fact, and needed not to worry or hurry about finding her dreamed of lifelong partner yet.

To the adorable Jade, all of Emily’s shortcomings were plusses. A splendid illustration of the mysteries of a young woman’s psyche, was that the more Jade found disappointment in the real, over her initially imagined Emily, the more she liked her, and the more that liking grew to love.

Jade’s foremind never acknowledged it, but there was much of the bridesmaid compared to the bride in her personality.

To be the really pretty one when they were out together, a role Jade could hardly help but fulfil, made her heart soften for Emily’s lost looks and youth. To be taken for a daughter, appealed to Jade’s secret desire for a mother she had, as an orphan, never known. And what more compact combination could there be than mother and lover in the same person?

Although too, Jade told herself constantly that she sought competence and confidence in bed. Truth said, she loved to be fumbled and felt clumsily. And to be left frustrated at every turn, turned her on tremendously.

To be left in bed awake and tossing and turning and burning for a cum, whilst her sated lover snored contentedly, having left Jade as frustrated as if she had been frigid, was the truth of the state of Jade’s desires that she had not yet had the damascene awaking to realise.

True too, was that Jade wanted the humiliation of being taken by unattractive women. She wanted to be despoiled and soiled by clumsy tumblings that would leave her in a furious fire of unfulfilled desire, by a woman whose very fact of being her lover, to be brutal to the likes of Emily, degraded her.

Yet all this masqueraded as sweet charity on the surface. And so too it was. Jade was loving and wanting to please, and to give pleasure by being the treasure of women such as Emily. And she would never hurt them by admitting that they did not complete her physical needs.

The surface was real and so too the subterranean psychology. Jade was a brightly intelligent girl. She had long known the meaning of the word masochist’, and was certain sure that she was not one of those. She therefore did not know that she was one of those, and that it made her fling her beauty, to cling out of duty, to those whose fruit she could plainly see, was weathered, withered, and sometimes even wizened on the vine.

.

“Hold your head right back my darling!”

The friendship grew from dream to reality, and almost made Emily forget her scheme. The meetings grew from weekly to nightly and all-day on Sundays. The two fizzed the email and text waves too: Emily from the hand-built sports car factory, at which she was the chief design engineer, and Jade, when she could spare the time, from the bookshop, which she in fact owned, as Emily had subsequently discovered.

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