In the Stacks
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In The Stacks Ch. 02 free porn video
Marilyn’s eyes flickered as the summer dawn broke. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, slowly waking up. A quick glance over to the nightstand to her old wind-up clock showed the time at just after seven.
She was surprised that she had slept in so long, and then began to remember the events of yesterday. She took deep breaths and looked to the other side of the bed, half-expecting to see Penny there, but she was not.
What was she doing, anyway? Fooling around with this girl. Swatting her on the bare bottom and fingering her silly right there on the couch like a fucking teenager! Outrageous! She must be getting senile in her old age.
It was Saturday, and she had a normal routine. She would open the bookstore at ten, after making her weekly trek to see her husband.
She swallowed and took a deep breath. What would Thomas say? How could she deal with her shame when she saw him? Could she even talk to him? She knew in her passing conversations, she had mentioned Penny, but nothing, ever like this. She had kept her desires regarding other women locked down pretty tight, but now, with this, she had no idea what to do.
She sat up in the bed, the thin camisole draping across her body, following her petite breasts and curves as she moved. She took deep breaths and grabbed for a Shambala Edition of Lao Tzu’s the Tao Te Ching. She read a few passages from it and found calmness in them. She looked on the dresser and saw a picture of her and her husband on their wedding day, back in nineteen-forty. She was sixteen, a Wac, he, seventeen, an Army Ranger.
She put her hand on the filing cabinet that served as a nightstand and pushed herself up, wavering a bit. She grabbed for her crook handled cane. Like her silver-capped one, it was made of rattan, but unlike it, was a spanking cane. Softly, using it she balanced herself. Slowly, she ambulated, balancing carefully, moving smoothly. In the house, she rarely used the cane, but this morning, her bones felt weak, and she needed it to stand.
The bedroom had its own shower with toilet, and she turned on the hot water and sat on the commode. She watched the steam billow out, and thought of Penny again. The young girl was so alive, so vibrant. Like a beacon over the ocean, she illuminated a path, a way through the darkness. She thought of Penny’s small, tender butt when her hands ran across it, the jiggle from the hips, and then that warm, soft cleft that sucked on her fingers.
Stepping into the shower, she took the handheld shower massager off its’ hook and ran it across her weathered, tanned back, then lower, using it to pleasure herself. She felt so alive as the jets reached deeply into her and imagined Penny on her knees licking and sucking at her.
She staggered, her body off balance, and then her mind refocused itself, and went to the task of cleaning her body. Shampoo, body wash, rinse. Conditioner, shave, rinse again, all in her neat, tidy, little-old-lady manner.
Idly she pondered and then decided that perhaps she needed to soak. Flipping the bathtub’s drain, it quickly filled with the nearly scalding-hot water. She slowly slipped to her knees and felt the water bake at her bones. Her fantasies took her hands over and she worked her body, playing it like a classical instrument.
Before long, she shook softly, a small climax came. Nothing particularly spectacular, it was a rather prefunctionary orgasm at best, but it did the job. In the hot water, it made her drowse ever so softly, and she soaked for quite a while, a luxury she did not often allow.
At last, seeing the wrinkles on her hands, she admonished herself yet once again, and struggled out of the tub. Carefully wiping her feet, she used countertops to balance herself, and looked critically in the full-length mirror.
She allowed herself some pride, as close to seventy, she had the body of a fifty year old. She lifted weights to combat osteoporosis, and had given up smoking in the nineteen-seventies. Her vices she limited to a small shot of Irish Whisky a few nights a week, writing bondage stories, and apparently now, Penny.
She toweled dry her hair, and styled it with a dab of mousse and the flick of a wide-toothed comb. A bra and garter belt, stockings, and panties layered with a camisole, and then followed by her nice black skirt with the wide belt and shiny buckle, followed by a loose, white turtleneck.
She re-looked over herself in the mirror, again, critically. A stray gray hair she picked off the skirt, and discarded in the trash. After the second inspection came a very light application of makeup, not much more than a lip-gloss and translucent powder. Her mother believed that one should wear so little makeup it wasn’t visible, yet enough to refine her appearance. She agreed with this philosophy.
Down the hall, she made herself a quick breakfast of a grapefruit half with some toast with butter, jam, and hot Earl Grey tea. The warmth of the tea warmed her from the inside, just as the bath had warmed her from the outside, and between the two of them, put her in a very good mood.
After eating, she put her dishes in a dishpan in the sink, filled it with hot water, and let it soak. She turned and then went over to the shelf that held her purse and keys. On it were some books with classical authors, and she selected some Tennyson, Dickens, and on an impulse, Melville. On top of this pile, she laid a very well worn copy of a collection of Rudyard Kipling’s work.
These she put into a homemade bag made of cut-up old pieces of jeans she had bought at yard sales. It was patchwork and wholly eclectic and she had taken great pride in making it. It was not often she had these craft-making impulses, but when she did have them, she honored them.
She backed the black Cadillac out of the garage, and sped to Visa Rose Nursing Center. When she arrived, it was shortly after eight-thirty.
The Saturday morning charge nurse watched her approach, and always admired her, the classic lines of a lady, in a long-forgotten world. Always polite, always civil, and utterly devoted.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Marshall,’ Kathy, the lead floor nurse said.
‘Good morning, Kathy.’ Marilyn replied.
Before she even opened her mouth to inquire, Kathy presented Marilyn with the plastic flip-open chart that had become her husband’s life.
‘Thank you, Kathy.’ Marilyn replied. She flipped directly to the chart notes and looked over the last few days. She noted that the bedsores he once had been healed. Her only displayed emotion was a flare of her nose as a horrific smell permeated through the nurse’s station.
Kathy of course, was used to such things, but Marilyn, no matter how many Saturdays she came here, was not. She held her breath as the bin passed by, its contents were two laundry bags full of soiled materials and one garbage bag full of biological waste.
Kathy had turned and was talking to someone when Marilyn closed the chart and laid it quietly on the nurse’s station, she waited patiently for a break in the conversation and then said, ‘anything new?’ to her.
Kathy looked at her and replied, ‘No. Thomas is stable, outside of that minor infection.’
‘Thank you, Kathy.’
Kathy’s head popped to the left for the moment and then turned back toward Marilyn.
‘Violet and Trinity are working on him now, if you want to give him a moment,’ she said.
Marilyn merely nodded.
Soon, an enormous woman waddled out of the room with a huge bag full of sheeting in one hand, and a smaller, bag in the other. She dumped both bags into her bin, and stripped off her disposable purple nitrate gloves into the garbage bin. She stuck her hands into a large thigh-mounted exterior pocket, pulled out another pair, snapped them on with a flourish, and went back in.
A smaller woman came out, with a sheaf of paperwork in one hand, and glass vials of blood in the other. She, too, bore the purple nitrate gl
oves, and took a moment to peel them from her hands. Her name badge read, ‘Violet, RN’.
Marilyn walked toward her.
‘Mrs. Marshall,’ Violet said warmly, ‘how are you?’
‘I am well, thank you, Violet,’ Marilyn replied.
‘I’m hoping these will show your husband’s antibiotics have run their course.’ Violet said, holding them up.
Marilyn nodded, ‘of this I have no doubt.’
They both heard the sink run from the room, and Trinity’s voice echo, speaking to Thomas, ‘Well big guy, you’re all taken care of. Nice fresh sheets, clean comforter, you’re going to do all right today, Tom. Vi and I won’t be on tonight, but you know the weekend crew, they’re as right as rain.’ Marilyn could hear the joviality in Trinity’s voice, and then she came bursting through his door, using an inside-out glove to hold yet another trash bag.
‘Hey Mrs. Marshall, he’s all ready for you,’ Trinity said with a smile.
‘Thank you, Trinity,’ Marilyn said, somewhat coolly.
Trinity was oblivious of the older woman, and pushed her cart away, heading down the hall, where the other laundry cart had gone.
Violet took that excuse to leave as well, and Marilyn Marshall knocked first out of habit, and then opened the door to the room that had been her husband’s home for the last twenty years.
Thomas Marshall’s eye was closed, he was lying on his back. The left two inches of his face was a singular mass of scar tissue, with small peaks and valleys where pieces of bone protruded out. He had no left eye, and had a glass prosthesis that barely fit into the skull, but rarely was it inserted. Most of his nose had been sheared completely off, in fact, his once noble, almost Roman visage was now more reminiscent of a pig prior to slaughter. Without muscle tone, the facial flesh merely hung from him.
Thomas had no left arm, his legs amputated at the thigh. He used a tracheal tube to breathe, and had a bag that held a chocolate-looking substance that dripped constantly into his system.
When she pulled back the covers, she found a newly placed ostomey bag attached to his abdomen, and a fresh catheter coming out of his uncircumcised penis. She had seen both of those enough times to not let them bother her, and so, inspected their placement for infections.
Satisfied that the plumbing was intact, she addressed him.
‘Good Morning, Thomas. Today is Saturday the Twentieth of August, in the year two-thousand and five. I have brought with me some of your favorites.’ She kissed him on the forehead.
She sat to his right, where his only ear was, and pulled out the Tennyson. She read to him from that book for fifteen minutes, then switched to Dickens knowing that, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ was one of his favorites. She concluded the story, and put a stick mark in the back of the book. It was the seventy-third time she had read the story to him.
From there, she told the story of ‘Bartelby the Scrivener’ a short story by Melville which they were both partial of, and then cracked open his supreme favorite, Kipling. It was from this book, she read the most. This book had traveled with him when he joined the Army, this book went with him when he went over to France, and was with him through the tour in Italy.
In the bottom left hand part of the book was a chunk taken out where it had stopped a bullet from a German soldier.
The book was a gift to him, from her, the first thing she had ever given him. She had saved money up from her babysitting jobs to buy it. Thomas had longed to be an English teacher, always claimed he felt naked if he did not know where his Kipling was.
After the second great world war, he stayed in France, and sent for her. It was here she learned to speak French and German fluently, and eventually he became part of the Diplomatic Corps, and they transferred to Thailand, where they spent ten years of their lives, and she bore him their only child, William in nineteen fifty-seven.
It was there that she lived his dream, to be a proper, British schoolteacher, and it was there that she learned how to wield the rattan cane as a punitive device. She had lost track how many bottoms she had blistered, first as a teacher, then as a disciplinarian. She never admitted to anyone, even Thomas what it meant to her, to use the cane in that manner.
She finished, ‘The Jungle Book’ for the umpteenth time, and closed it.
She waited for him to say something, as she usually did, as if she were speaking to someone who was conversant. Gave him a few minutes to digest the story, and then spoke.
‘The store is going very nicely, thank you for asking. Remember I was telling you about that fellow that keeps hitting on me? Well it seems that he got drunk after I threw him out of the store and wrapped his car around a phone pole. I suppose I should visit him or something, but I never really did like him. Oh, yes. I, um, I’m having an affair.’
She waited for his judgmental tone. It never came.
‘I know, I know, it’s a shock, but it’s not with the pizza boy, give me some credit. No, this is different, Thomas. It’s with a woman, well barely a woman, a girl. Her name is Penny, you might recall me talking about her. She’s a regular at the store.’
Marilyn started to weep.
‘It’s been so long, and I wouldn’t let her touch me, no, not unless I’d spoken with you. I’m so sorry. Please, please, Thomas, forgive me.’
Marilyn sobbed, long, choking gasps of tear-filled anguish, her face in her hands. The shame of her feelings poured from her eyes, and dripped through her fingers. Her salty tears ran down her arm.
A part of Marilyn then lost hope. She began to understand that her husband was never coming back. Quickly, she smothered those feelings as best she could. She had to hold her head up high.
She kissed him on the forehead.
‘I’m sorry, Thomas. I truly am. Please accept my apologies.’
She walked into his bathroom, used only by the adjoining rooms and looked herself over. Smeared mascara, foundation powder all in globs around her eyes. No this would not do at all. She had a business to run.
She wet down a paper towel, wiped off her makeup, and slowly reapplied it, trying desperately to re-plan her day.
***
When Penny awoke in the morning, she, too, felt around for the person that wasn’t there. She had a tiny bit of a hangover, but Marilyn had kept her late, until most of the alcohol was out of her system, and had made Penny promise to call her on Saturday to let her know she had made it home.
Penny squirmed a bit on the cheap futon of her room, and then remembered the spanking. Her butt was still a bit sore, and when she reached around to touch it, she could feel just a slight hint of heat.
She closed her eyes and remembered, Marilyn showing her all those stories she had written, and then asking her if she wanted a spanking.
Her eyes glazed over with these thoughts, they burned into her memory. She slept in the nude, but still could feel Marilyn softly peeling up the skirt, and then the stern tone of disapproval.
Penny quivered with the voice, it excited her, to have her butt exposed to the open air, and then when Marilyn chastised her, it only furthered to embarrass and shame her. She struggled with these feelings in a logical manner, but then was lost, when she remembered Marilyn softly peeling the thong down, her nakedness and shame complete.
Then those short, powerful strokes, oh she remembered those.
Penny scrambled to her tummy, and moved her hand back as far as it could go.
She spanked herself, with a hard, resounding thump. It made her squeal, made her bleat. She didn’t realize how much she hurt until she did it again, and again.
She tried hard to spank herself like Marilyn did, but after the third or fourth time, her arm wouldn’t go back as much, and despite the sting, just didn’t have the sharpness, the power of Marilyn’s weathered palm.
She flipped back over on her stomach and stuffed fingers into her snatch, working them in and out, pulling hard on a nipple. She gritted her teeth, sneering, twisting the nipple hard, and causing greater pain. Her body writhed, and she grunted on the cheap, flimsy mattress as her thumb ground into her clit, her knuckled rubbing her labia in a crude attempt at fisting herself.
She gasped, feeling the pucker of her ass clench and then her back arced back, and she climaxed hard, rubbing herself even harder with her fist during the orgasm. Her fluids lubricated her knuckles and she rode herself to a second, more powerful climax.
She panted.
She raised her fist to her face, and extended out her fingers, covered in goo.
‘If Marilyn can do it, I can do it.’ She told herself.
Softly she licked her fist, and fingers clean, tasting the juices of her womanhood for the first time.
Penny remembered the look on Marilyn’s face. That cool exterior, the power of her. She remembered softly as Marilyn held her, and stroked her face.
What she remembered most was Marilyn telling her she always wanted a daughter, especially someone as bright as Penny was. She told her it was a shame that she dropped out of college. She told her that her writing was getting much better, and that with a little more spit-and-polish she would help Penny to craft a well-constructed query letter to the right people.
Marilyn said she could not promise Penny anything, that editors were fickle creatures, like the Unicorn of old, and they had to be tempted with only the very best writing if they were to come out in the light of day.
On top of all this, Marilyn told her one single thing, one thing that Penny had never heard in her life. She whispered into Penny’s ear the following sentence:
‘I believe in you. I believe in the work that you do, and I believe in the person that you are now, and the person that you will become.’
Penny cried softly as she recalled this.
When she told her mother and father she was going to drop out of College, they berated her, told her she would never amount to anything. Penny was their third child and only daughter, the only child that had not graduated from college. She hastily packed her belongings from their house, and fled to Orchards, a small community that she had an assignment to write a report about in junior high school. She had no idea where else to go.
Orchards was on the I-205 corridor just before Portland, Oregon, to the East of Vancouver, Washington. It was a sleepy little unincorporated town, and Penny actually found it a very interesting place when she did her report on it. It was every bit the cross between rural and urban that she had hoped for, and if she ever wanted nightlife, she could always cross the bridge.
Not that she needed any kind of nightlife now, with Marilyn.
Penny wondered what the older woman tasted like. She longed to bury her face into Marilyn’s thighs, and softly nuzzle her pubic hair. She wanted to be dominated by Marilyn, to be used by her.
The logical side of Penny stopped these mechanizations for a moment.
Why? She had led an uncomplicated life, with the usual insignificant looser men. It’s not like she wasn’t an unattractive woman, by any stretch of the manner. How did she end up being a lesbian and more so attracted to older women? Hell, how old was Marilyn anyway? She had to be in her forties. Hell, maybe even into her fifties.
What was it about Marilyn that was so damned attractive anyway? She certainly wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, she reminded her a bit of one of her English professors.
That thought made Penny drift back a bit
Yes, what was that old woman’s name? Newman. That was it, Mrs. Newman. Lit two-oh-two. Dickens and all those other old guys that bored her to tears. Why couldn’t they at least read something contemporary like Piers Anthony or James F. David?
She thought about it some, and remembered Newman as a short, muscular lesbian. She always wore these tight, taunt black pants and a shiny black belt that made her look like she was going on safari or something. She spoke in these lower, sorts of nasty tones and had an edge in her voice.
Latisha
- 27.02.2021
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