by Zoe Blake
I braced a hand against the stone threshold as my knees almost buckled with relief.
The outer door always had a broken lock, so I swung it open and stepped inside the dimly lit corridor. The dingy grey cracked tile floor, smoke-stained walls, and flickering yellowed dome ceiling light felt like Buckingham Palace to me.
Making my way to my first-floor apartment, my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the key in the lock. Thankfully, after a few tries, it swung open wide.
“Thank God! Where the hell have you been, Emma?”
Shoving Mary aside, I slammed the door shut.
Turning, I slid the bolt lock in place, then put on the chain that we rarely used. And just for good measure, I turned the little button lock on the doorknob.
“Emma? What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
Tossing my backpack onto our worn sofa, I ran over to the two small windows on the other side of our tiny living room, which overlooked the front yard. Putting my thumb and forefinger between the metal slats, I peered through the blinds. The only signs of life outside on the street were the occasional lights in the apartment buildings across the way.
“Emma! What the fuck? I was going out of my mind with worry! I even called the cops! Where have you been? Why is your hair wet?”
Despite the late hour, Mary still had her glossy black hair done up in her signature rockabilly victory rolls with a bright red bandana, and matching matte lipstick. Although she had changed into one of her favorite Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirts and a pair of leopard print tights.
Stumbling over a pile of books haphazardly stacked near our secondhand coffee table, I walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her waist, laying my head on her shoulder. “I could really use a whiskey tea.”
A half hour later, my hair wrapped in a towel and wearing my Pride & Prejudice Limited Edition t-shirt, I was curled up on the sofa with a pot of tea generously spiked with whiskey and sweetened with orange marmalade. Mary sat across from me. Our feet shared the same brightly colored pink and green crocheted afghan.
Mary waved her hands in the air as she shook her head. “Wait! Wait! I’m confused. Dodgy old Mr. Fitzgerald’s son kissed you?”
She knew about my current predicament. That if I didn’t come up with tuition by the end of next week, I’d be kicked out of the Librarian Sciences Master’s program.
I couldn’t imagine a better job than being a librarian. Spending every day surrounded by the thoughts and imaginings of the greatest minds of civilization. Reverently running the tips of my fingers along the smooth gilded lettering on the bindings, the words coming alive in my mind as I pictured each story.
Books had been the only constant companions in my life. My only genuine friends. Through their pages, I had lived a thousand lives and had had countless adventures.
I had faced down marauding armies, braved thunderous storms on the high seas, sliced an opponent to ribbons with my rapier wit, and dared to kiss the dangerous man who crept out of the shadows to steal a forbidden embrace.
Through books I was beautiful, confident, and brash. Between these pages, I had filled my life with color, music, laughter, and passion.
I dared.
I risked it all.
I lived!
Why would anyone settle for the dull drudgery of reality?
In books, the handsome guy saw through the reserve of the shy, unpopular girl and intuitively knew the person she was within. He looked past what others saw and realized she was smart and funny and charming. In books, the wallflower got the guy.
Too bad that didn’t happen in reality… well… at least not until tonight!
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I put my teacup down and hugged my ‘I’d Rather Be Reading’ throw pillow to my chest. “No! Just listen…”
I then told her the whole sordid, wanton story, leaving nothing out.
About halfway through, after I had described how he’d spanked me, she stopped me to go into our tiny kitchen and grab a bottle of tequila from under the sink and two shot glasses emblazoned with the Loyola University logo. She poured us both a shot. We clinked glasses and belted them down.
After pouring herself a second shot, she nodded to me. “Okay, I’m ready… continue.”
After I had finished, she said nothing at first. Then her red painted lips opened in a big smile as she leaned forward. “You slut!” she teased.
I threw my pillow at her. “This isn’t funny, Mary!”
Grabbing the pillow and tossing it back at me, she countered, “Who said anything about it being funny? That is the most fucking amazing sex story I’ve ever heard! I’m jealous!”
“He mistook me for a… for a… lady of the night!” I huffed.
Pouring us both another shot, she handed my glass to me. It was slightly overfilled and dripped tequila onto my blanket. Carefully raising it to my lips, I sipped a small amount so it no longer dripped, then clinked glasses with Mary and tossed it back.
“First of all, we are not in nineteenth century London. They’re called hookers. He thought you were a hooker!”
Peeved, I snapped back, “Actually, he thought I was an escort. They are way more glamorous and high-end than a hooker.”
Mary raised one perfectly penciled eyebrow. “Still…”
“What? You don’t think a man could mistake me for someone sexy?”
“I’ve been telling you for years that men dig that whole innocent schoolgirl vibe you’ve got going on but your nose is too buried in a book to notice. That’s why you’re a virgin at twenty-three.” She stuck her tongue out at me with her last statement.
Once more throwing the pillow at her, I fired back, “Not anymore!” Then stuck my tongue out at her.
“You slut!” she cried out again, laughing.
Curling my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my bent legs. “Do you really think it makes me a slut?”
“Are you serious?”
“I slept with a guy I don’t even know!”
“Yeah? So? It happens all the time! At least you have a fabulous story! I lost my virginity in the back of a beat-up Dodge in an empty parking lot behind a movie theater to a guy who got his balls stuck in his jeans zipper. You lost yours to some sexy-as-fuck Russian dude with a pirate scar.”
I shrugged as I twisted a frayed edge of the afghan around my finger. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I wasn’t sure what to think. Everything was just a confused jumble.
Mary pulled the blanket out of my hands. “Hey! Don’t you start feeling any bullshit Catholic guilt over this. Seriously, you were long past due. There might be a double standard about girls who sleep around too much, but let’s face it. No guy wants a girlfriend who’s in her mid-twenties and still a freaking virgin. They’ll think you were raised in some cult in the middle of the woods.”
I kept my gaze averted. “It’s just…”
“What?”
My cheeks burned as I inhaled a deep breath before blurting out, “He was kind of… rough and, well… forceful. There were… parts… that were painful. Not just the virginity part but other times and I… I kind of… well… liked it.”
Mary curled her fingers into a claw. “Meow! Who knew you were into the kinky shit?”
“You don’t think it’s wrong or twisted or something?”
“Hell, no! In fact, I’m relieved. I figured you for a pretty boring missionary girl when you finally got around to it. Who knew you were so sassy and audacious!”
I placed my forehead on my knees, burying my face to hide a smile. It was a rather outrageous story, straight out of a romance book. Maybe I had the moxie to be one of the heroines I admired after all?
“Oh, my God! This is just like ‘Smashed,’ season six, episode nine of Buffy the Vampire Slayer! The one where Buffy finally fucks Spike and they tear the house down around them!” observed Mary excitably.
I remembered the episode. You couldn’t be best friends with Mary and not have seen every episode of Buffy
the Vampire Slayer at least three times. I always rooted for the bad boy Spike. Angel was just too nice… and gentle. The ‘Smashed’ episode was hot as hell. The way Spike threw Buffy against the wall and just started fucking her. I bit my lip as similar memories of tonight and the time in the shower came crashing back.
“So are you going to see him again?” asked Mary, breaking into my sensual reverie.
“Are you crazy? Did you miss the part about the shaved head and tattoos with blood?”
“Don’t judge. For all you know, he’s a proper businessman who owns a string of furniture stores across the Midwest.”
Mary pulled out her laptop and flipped it open. The light from the monitor cast a bluish light over her face, making her lipstick look a dark, gothic purple. “What’s his name? I’ll Google him.”
Both my hands flew to my mouth. My eyes stretched wide open.
“What?” asked Mary.
I shook my head, too horrified to speak.
“Tell me! You told me everything else.”
I muffled my response behind my hands.
Mary leaned over and grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands down. “Say that again?”
The heat of a humiliating blush crept over my chest and up my cheeks. “I don’t know his name.”
For a moment, the apartment was silent. Then Mary threw her head back and laughed.
“You slut!”
Later that night, I was tucked in under a mountain of blankets on my twin bed, staring at the ceiling. With a frustrated sigh, I curled onto my side and winced as a bruising soreness settled between my legs. It wasn’t just there. Everything felt sore. There was no way I wouldn’t have bruises tomorrow. Yet, I couldn’t regret tonight.
It was crazy and wrong and completely out of character for me… and that was what I liked about it. It was like I had stepped out of the pages of a book and finally lived, if only for a few hours. Years from now, when I worked at some quaint little suburban library, I’d feast on the memories of tonight and know that at least for one night, I had been the heroine of my story.
Reaching for my phone, I brought up Google Translate. It was a long shot, but I knew you could type in the phonetic spelling of a word and sometimes Google would recognize it. It took several tries and versions, but I finally typed in Ty moy moy malen’kiy.
The actual phrase glowed on the screen in Russian Cyrillic. Ты мой, мой маленький.
I stared at the English translation, unable to suppress the fluttering in my stomach.
You are mine, my little one.
Chapter 6
Yes, there is something uncanny, demonic and fascinating in her. - Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Dimitri
I pressed rewind for the fifth time. Reaching for my glass of vodka, I watched the grey-scale footage of her entering the house. Even though I had only just purchased this place a few weeks ago, the first thing I had done was have a top-of-the-line security system installed.
A man in my line of work couldn’t be too careful.
Pressing the zoom button, I focused in on her face.
She looked so fresh and innocent with her cute bangs and in her pink sweater and plaid skirt. Her face had only the barest bit of makeup. Even though the video was grey, I pictured the pale shade of pink on her lips. Seeing the part where we kissed, I reached down, adjusting my jeans as my cock swelled. The silky feel of her hair was still on my fingertips as I watched it fall over her shoulders and down her back. Such a crime to hide such beautiful locks in a tight little bun.
There was no explaining why such a small slip of a girl fascinated me.
She was nothing like the women I was accustomed to bedding.
Russian women were glamorous and stylish, always with the heavy perfume and makeup. Draped in designer clothes and fuck-me heels. They were confident and knew what they wanted from a man. And, more important, how to get it.
A high-end escort embodied the same unapologetic sexual confidence.
It was why I preferred them to the… entanglement… of a more traditional arrangement. Girlfriends asked inconvenient questions. They didn’t appreciate when you disappeared out of the country for weeks at a time to some godforsaken war zone to meet with a vicious dictator. They were a liability. There was no telling when they would suddenly turn on you like a viper and go to the authorities with all the little pieces of information they had learned after months in your bed.
No, it was safer… for all involved… if I kept my fucking as a purely commercial exchange.
An escort knew the score. They also knew that no one would miss them if they suddenly disappeared, so they understood how to keep their mouths shut… unless otherwise dictated.
So why was this woman fascinating me now?
A timid little virgin.
Christ, she’d probably never even given a man a proper blowjob.
With a frustrated growl, I shifted in my seat at the thought of her untutored lips wrapped around my cock as I guided her head down the shaft. Of watching those mesmerizing brown eyes tear up as it hit the back of her throat. At knowing that just like her sweet, tight cunt, I was the first.
I paused the video on an image of her face. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted back as I kissed her neck. This was right before I lifted her into my arms and up to my bed.
I might not be sure why she fascinated me, but I was damn sure I wasn’t done with her.
Deep down, I knew it was dangerous to pursue an innocent such as her.
I would bring nothing but misery and darkness to her life.
She would have been better off if she had never crossed my path.
Now it was too late. She was in my sights.
The scent of her was on my skin. I could still taste her sweetness on my tongue. There was a hunger growing inside of me. Despite only just having her, I needed to fuck her again, and again. I craved it, and now I was on the hunt to find her.
Playing the video, I paused and zoomed in on her discarded backpack in the hallway. It was covered in embroidered patches: Book Nerd, I Read Banned Books, Carpe Librum. Leaning forward in my seat, I set aside my glass and zoomed in even closer on one particular maroon and gold patch: Loyola University. She had mentioned she needed money for tuition.
Found you, моя крошка.
I sat back in the shade, lit a Gurkha Black Dragon cigar… and waited.
I knew the University registrar’s office would be highly unlikely to provide me with the information I required. People tended to look at a six-foot-two Russian with a shaved head and visible tattoos with a little skepticism and plenty of fear, even if he was wearing a five thousand dollar bespoke Brioni suit. After they learned I was hunting down a young female student, they’d be far more likely to call the police than give me her name.
No. This would take a little finesse.
After close to an hour, I spotted my perfect target.
An older woman in an oversized cardigan and an official-looking lanyard around her neck exited the office and wandered a few steps around the corner, pulling a smooshed packet of cigarettes from a deep pocket as she walked.
Picking up the textbook I had just purchased in the college store, I approached her.
As she raised the smoke to her lips, I reached out my arm with an already lit lighter.
“May I?” I asked with a wink.
The woman blushed. “Oh, my! I mean, yes! Thank you.” She leaned in and lit her cigarette as she sized me up.
“I was wondering if you might help me.”
“Anything,” she blurted out before casting her eyes down and fussing with the ash end of her cigarette as she stuttered, “I mean, possibly. What do you… need?”
I held up the textbook. “I need to find the owner of this book.”
I then spun a romantic tale of meeting a shy female student on the train and making a connection before we were separated at a crowded stop, but not before I noticed she had left her textbook behind.
I told her I assumed the girl was a graduate student, given her age.
“I might help you but if you don’t know her name that would mean we would have to go through the student IDs, and that could take over an hour,” she responded as she snubbed out her cigarette against the cement building’s wall.
Placing a hand on the wall, I leaned in close. “An hour by your side sounds like a pleasant way to spend an afternoon to me,” I said, making my accent deliberately thick.
The woman clasped the sides of her sweater over her chest. Motioning with her head, she indicated a small side door.
“Wait over there. I’ll sneak you into my office through the back.”
I gave her another wink. “Hurry.”
She tittered again before rushing off.
Less than an hour later, I was staring at the face of my pretty prey.
Emma Katherine Doyle
Graduate Student in Library and Information Science
According to the displayed schedule, she was at this moment on work study at the Cudahy Library.
Reaching for my money clip, I flicked off a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to the woman with my thanks before asking for directions to the library.
As I walked away, she called after me, “Wait! You forgot the textbook!”
Without turning around, I said, “Keep it,” before pushing the door open and stepping back into the sunshine.
“You’re looking for Mouse?”
Someone had directed me to the Reading Room floor information desk. Despite the massive two-story open hall that was currently filled with students occupying the long community tables, there was only the stilted murmur of hushed voices and the occasional ripple of paper.
Standing before me was a young, bottle-dyed blonde who played with her tightly curled hair as she looked at me through a heavy fan of fake eyelashes.
“Mouse?” I repeated with a raised eyebrow.
She waved a manicured hand in the air. “Sorry, that’s just our nickname for Emma.”
I stood there silently, so she continued.
