Shutter-Buggered: Women Shattered Under the Lens – ebook

Excerpt

Mr. Harcroff was considering her legs.

Becky squirmed in her chair but did nothing to cover up. He wasn’t leering; more like a timid assessment.

She figured there was nothing wrong with that, unless the fact that he could have been her grandfather mattered. It didn’t seem to matter; the way her body responded!

Mr. Harcroff stood at the counter; his eyes focused below the table. At five-foot nothin’, she was little. But Becky was nicely proportioned and she had pretty legs. All her dresses were cut six inches above the knee.

Becky’s skirt had ridden up a little; she had thought she was alone, after all, but she resisted the temptation to reach under the table and pull her hemline down. It felt childish somehow. And anyway, it was kind of exciting to attract the interest of an older gentleman and she felt a stir between her thighs; like a small furry creature with long fingernails was reaching upwards.

“Mr. Harrr… croff!” She dragged it out and felt a big embarrassed smile spread across her face. “It’s not polite to look up a young girl’s skirt.”

His eyes had locked on hers and she saw the flush deepen. His lips humped and he cocked a shoulder. She laughed.

“Mr. Harcroff?” she repeated, more sympathetic now. “How can I help?”

Still smiling, Becky rolled back on her office chair and swiveled her knees toward him. The poor man couldn’t help himself and she watched his eyes drift down again. The creature in her groin reached up and grasped the base of her spine causing a shudder that compressed the muscles in her lower back. She stifled a gasp, squeezed the pucker in her buttocks and gave Mr. Harcroff a moment to figure out just how far up her skirt he could see before unfurling her ankles and standing.

“A… a card,” he managed, eyes locking on her’s once again. “I’ve been coming in a fair amount. I guess I need a library card.”

“Of course. I’ll make one up and bring it in to you.”

He nodded and turned, walking away. His step was light but precise and he carried a black walking stick but didn’t seem to really need it.

Becky sat back at her desk and wrapping her arms around her torso, rocked to and fro, trying to get her hormones under control. Mr. Harcroff had certainly jump-started her little ‘girl-girl’ engine. She was surprised.

She took card stock and printed a sign: “Back in 5 minutes” and taped it to the front door then twisted the lock.

Becky pushed her cart of books along the end wall to where the restroom was located; went in and checked the mirror. She looked pretty. Becky had brushed her blonde hair until it glistened radiantly and had used a touch of pale lipstick. She was wearing her favorite sweater: Soft pink angora that was tight along her torso and without a bra, it cupped her breasts giving her a soft sleekness. It hugged her tummy, ending above the navel, leaving an expanse of pale skin above the waistline of her fitted skirt. If I was being photographed, she thought, it would be a soft focus, making me cuddly, like a kitten.

Satisfied, she pried off her high heels and took off her skirt and underpants. Then pulling open her bag, she found her hair brush. Becky back-brushed her pubic hair, checked the mirror again and returned the brush with quaking fingers. She pulled on her shoes. Turning, Becky studied herself carefully from the waist down. The soft angora ended three inches above the elongated belly button, which, like a beauty mark, highlighted her tight tummy. And below, like a milk-pod hung between her hip bones, the curve of her belly accentuated the proud rise of her pubis. Pubic hair, glistening like a golden mantle, barely hid the protruding lips of her sex. Swallowing hard she opened the door and stepped out into the chill of the library.

He couldn’t see her right away; there were five rows of bookcases between them. She rolled the cart along the first row, replacing books and thrilling to the feel of the cool air swirling in and around her thighs and bum. Then she heard him sputter. He had caught sight of her legs as she moved past an open spot in the shelving.

Becky came out in full view and coiled up into the chair beside him; like a pussycat coming to the heat. He closed his eyes, as if pondering a decision. Becky slid forward, thrusting her knees to touch his. His eyes remained closed but a small frown creased his brow like he trying to suppress his emotions. Becky slowly got to her feet, stood over him. He almost seemed asleep but his breathing was staggered; his chest expanding, contracting. She leaned over him and he offered no resistance when she lifted his hands from his lap. His penis raised the soft material of his woolen trousers; a long ridge along the top of his leg. Becky steadied herself, her thighs started to quiver as she slipped a knee between his. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably and she had to steady herself with a hand on the back of his chair as she swung a leg over.

Shamelessly, straddling his crotch, she lowered herself down, crushing her sex onto his. She heard him suck in and his hands flexed as she slide forward, grinding into him, pausing, then pulling back, relinquishing, rocking her hips, moving forward again, once more on the attack, enjoying the sensations that were lifting up into her belly. She hungered for him; wanted him to take her deep in.    What are the chances? She rolled her hips forward again.

His hands moved quickly, gripping her by the waist. “Becky. No. We mustn’t.” And he stilled her, causing her to cry out in anguish. She threw her head back in exasperation and it was just then that she caught the movement off to her left. Her insides turned to fractured glass: Danny Miller stood six feet away framed in one of the tall, floor-to-ceiling windows with his cheek pressed against the glass. He had a shit-eating grin on his face and waved to her, cheekily; with his other hand, he worked the cell phone. He was taking pictures.