Women Seeking Women #93

They called her the Librarian when she walked into the room, hair pulled tight, skirt begging to split. May 24th, 2013—she had it all lined up for one night, the museum closed to everyone but the dangerous ones. The exhibit cases stayed locked, glass whispering back every stolen breath. He pressed her against the marble table that night, hard enough the cold bit through her blouse while his hand shoved past fabric. His mouth dragged down her neck, leaving bruises like wet ink. She moaned low, not ladylike, not quiet. Her legs kicked open on command as he slid inside her—nothing gentle about it, just greedy force and the slick sound of skin meeting skin. Her fingers clawed into his back, nails drawing blood, each thrust knocking one of her heels to the marble. The silence broke only when she gasped, ragged, filthy, for more. He gave it to her—harder, rougher, until her legs shook and the table legs scraped tile. He finished with a grunt against her mouth, everything hot and spilling between them. After, she straightened her skirt with shaking hands, picked up the dropped shoe, and never looked back. The month was May. The night was done. She left the exhibit humming like nothing ever happened.