Trapper and Emmeline (13 page)

Mike had no idea she was giving him the Emmeline equivalent of a completely free pass. His left hand, gripping low on her bared bel y, was mere inches from sliding between her legs—and it would probably not have been rejected.

I was glad I walked up when I did.

I couldn’t let this get out of hand.

I eased her away from the guys—not before she kissed them good-bye—and we got on the elevator. We were packed in tightly with other people, so I limited myself to wrapping my hand around her waist. The fabric of her blouse did nothing to hide her curves from my palm. The silk was skin-warm to the touch. I could imagine what her breasts must have felt like to Mike when they pressed against him. I could imagine how it must have felt to have Emmeline in a ful -body clinch, while she strained against him, and gasped in his ear, and surged in his embrace.

It must have felt like sex.

Prickles of angry jealousy. What else was she doing when I wasn’t around?

I told myself to calm down.

I gave her a friendly squeeze, but it was a little hard. She jumped in my grip. Heads turned. She bore with me until we got off on the sixth floor, and then she peeled my hand off her waist.

“That’s enough, Superman. What are we doing today? Just studying?”

“Studying,” I said, feeling a little spiteful.

“Boring. I want you to whore me out to strangers.”

A few heads whipped around at that. Strangers’ eyes took her in, toes to face, and watched her whole-body shimmy as she walked next to me.

“I was kidding, boys!” she said, pretending to be offended. She said to me in a theatrical whisper, “They’re
all
cute!

Can you whore me to
them?
I can pul a train if it moves fast enough.”

“Shit, Emmy!”

I moved her quickly out of their view. But as I did, we entered the view of other male students studying. They glanced up at the sound of Emmeline’s shoes, and stared at the sexy vision she presented.

This was Emmeline’s regular day, now. While she was walking around, she never left a zone where men watched her every movement.
Of course she had stopped noticing them,
I told myself. After being next to her for five minutes, I was already overloaded and blocking out the attention too. And I was merely the schmuck next to her that nobody saw.

Emmeline watched me with eyes askance, a crooked grin on her lips. When I was awkward enough for her to notice it, and she could trace it back to some episode that had turned me on, she liked to give me shit about it. She enjoyed seeing me react to the men who reacted to her.

She whispered, “They have eye-lock on me. They al want me to stop and sit in their eye-line. They’re begging me. But you’re a dick boyfriend; you’re dragging me away from them. Don’t drag me away from al these boys, Trapper. Whore me, whore me, whore me.”

“Stop, dammit,” I groaned.

“Whore me,” she said, louder.

“You’l get us in trouble.”

“I’m a library whore. Come check me out.”

We both cracked up.

“Are you in a better mood, now?” she asked. “Did you squeeze me in the elevator because you were jealous? Of little Mike? Who waits an hour in the foyer for me to walk by, and then squeaks at me so I wil go over and talk?”

“Yes.”

“Do you real y think you can’t measure up against a mousey guy like Mike?”

“It’s not that. I don’t compare myself to other men, not anymore. I think about how you’re having adventures without me.

You were real y turned on down there.”

“I was turned on by the idea of you catching us like that,” she said simply. I waited for more explanation, but she didn’t give any. I slowly realized I had implied, however indirectly, that I thought she was being unfaithful.

I could see a real spark of anger in her eyes. It shook me. She looked at me as if I needed to be reevaluated. That shook me more.

“I’m dealing with it, Emmy. It’s my issue and I’m dealing with it.”

She shrugged, and tried to recapture her mood.

“So now that I’m turned on, and you’re properly chastised—I have to study?”

“Emmy, we’re going to study, but not together. We’l go into the study lounge separately, and pretend we don’t know each other.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“I want to see how guys react to you when you’re alone.”

Her eyes flickered over and she searched me for more clues: insecurity, jealousy, distrust, anything. I hated it. I wasn’t that way. She final y decided I was being sincere.

“When I’m alone? Lots of kissing and hugging. You’d think I’d get tired of it.”

“Go take your panties off. We’l talk again in two hours.”

She flashed a grin and charged into the women’s bathroom. I went ahead to the lounge. It was a big sitting room, with large windows looking onto Washington Square Park. There was a scattering of tables and low shelves with reference books. The comfy love seats were only half ful . People didn’t usual y study this early in the day.

I circled the room until Emmeline came in. She was eye-catching, in her filmy top and short jeans skirt. Her shoes made heavy clunking noises that caused people to look up at her as she passed. Every step caused her chest to sway back and forth. For me, she was extra exciting, because I knew that under those two or three inches of coverage from her skirt, she was completely bare.

Her eyes flicked over me without pausing, and then she picked out a chair beside the main path through the room. I wondered if this was natural for her too, to pick the most prominent location. In the past, I’d had to remind her about that, but now it seemed second nature. There were several other empty chairs around her, and I took one about seven or eight feet away.

Emmeline slid off her shoes, arranged herself with a book and hi-lighter, and settled down to read. Her chest rose and fel as she breathed, and the silk hung away from her breasts in al the right places. I noticed another thing about her top—

she had to constantly pul the straps back up her shoulder. I wondered how many times today she had replaced the straps, and if she ever just let them hang down her arm, too busy or distracted to correct it.

As she read and chewed her hi-lighter, my eyes drifted down. Her smooth legs gleamed in the light. The hem of her skirt, which had pul ed up as she sat, was at the very top of her thighs. If she was concerned, bothered, or even aware that she was now half an inch from completely exposing herself to passers-by, she didn’t let on.

So there I was, staring at Emmeline, and I didn’t have to worry about a thing. She wouldn’t get angry with me for staring—or at anybody, I supposed. I was horn-dogging the hot girl a few seats over, and for once it was okay, because she was
mine!
I wasn’t the only one drooling. It never took Emmeline long to gather a crowd when she stopped moving.

She had six men nearby, not counting me. Some of them were studying, others were pretending to study and actual y watching her. Anybody walking into the lounge, seeing us males ringed around the sole girl, immediately knew that something was going on. Female students skittered past us, male students snapped to attention, saw Emmeline, and looked for a seat.

After a while, Emmeline glanced up from her book and tapped her mouth with her pen. I wasn’t sure she registered me at first. Then she raised an eyebrow:
how am I doing?

I gave her an infinitesimal smile, which she returned. She was so blanketed in the gazes of her admirers that we felt like we had to be secretive. We made subtle gestures so people wouldn’t know we were in cahoots. We were like undercover spies. It took a few minutes but I established that Emmeline was having fun and was waiting for the next phase.

Very subtly, I tapped my shoulder. I mimed sliding a strap off my shoulder and down my arm. Then I returned to my book.

By the time I looked up again, a few minutes later, the strap had “fal en” off her left shoulder.

The V of light silk over her breast was stil propped up, by a fold, but the strap itself—heavy and shiny—rested in a U

shape down by her elbow. The whole, smooth tan expanse of her upper chest was gloriously uncovered in the library lights, from her chin, to her col arbone, to her shoulder, to the delta of wrinkles at her underarm. Her breast curved out into the fabric. The silk was apparently held up by nothing but static cling.

She was mesmerizing. Even to me she looked amazing, and I saw her breasts every day. She was completely,
sexily
oblivious to how uncovered she was. I could only imagine the hypertension she was eliciting among the otherwise healthy young men around her.

Emmeline rocked in her seat to get more comfortable. She put one leg sideways across the other, and nestled one foot under her ass. It was a prim pose, especial y considering how her skirt was riding up. Nothing was visible, but her extended leg was now uncovered to her hip.

She tilted her head back, stil mouthing the pen, and read her book holding it sideways. She didn’t fix the strap. With every move she made, we could see the delicious volume of her breast shifting on her ribs. It was almost magic how that damned silk stayed over her nipple. It rested, soft as a feather, always just about to fal away and show everything, but never quite moving.

I don’t know how long she preened for us, but she turned the page of her book four times. She was actual y getting homework done! Her eyes never flicked towards her audience—eight guys now, and me. It was like we didn’t exist to her, as if she was unaware that she was the lead role in a show with a rapt audience. Many of the men stared with blatant interest. She was so uncovered, and close by, and
watchable,
that
it took an act of wil to look another direction.

I waited and caught her gaze again. I pretended to fal asleep, nodding my head and resting my chin on my chest. She understood immediately.

First, her head tilted forward, and she caught it. Then it tilted again. Her eyelids lowered. Her head eased gently back into the arm of the chair. Her mouth drifted open. Her book drifted down and settled in her lap.

Two minutes after I suggested it to her, she was pretending to be asleep. The only way this could have been cooler was if I had a tiny speaker implanted in her ear, to give her instructions.

It was a good half hour before she stirred. When people passed through the lounge, the males did double takes, the women sneered—though not al of them. Some were interested and positioned themselves in watching distance too. Al of us watching felt shamed and exposed to each other by our blatant voyeurism, even me. But we had to see how this scene turned out. We couldn’t leave.

I listened to Emmeline’s breathing, which was deep and uneven, the way she gets during sex. I knew she was listening to the guys whispering back and forth. They were talking about her and what she looked like. I heard the words “sexy,”

“hot,” and “nipple.” She didn’t react to any of her watchers’ nasty words specifical y, but when we talked about it later, she told me she was incredibly turned on. She liked what they thought; she was indifferent to how they expressed it.

Every now and then she would stir a bit, as if she were shifting in her sleep. She would stretch a little and open her eyes to glance around. That always brought me to the verge of laughter. Any normal woman would have cracked her eyes, seen a dozen men staring unblinkingly at her from under ten feet away, and bolted upright. Emmeline only gave me a quick glance, and pretended to doze off again.

It only took three repetitions of this for me to realize she was awaiting more instructions. I real y needed that microphone in her ear! The next time she glanced over, I slowly slid my legs apart. She glanced around, pretending to be bleary-eyed, and then looked back at me. She wanted to be sure she understood properly. I knew she understood. I smirked at her and waited.

She was already precariously arranged on the loveseat—straps sliding off her shoulder, her silk blouse barely covering her nipples, her legs crossed and curled and the miniskirt pul ed up to her hips. Any move in any direction could be disastrous for her. To even contemplate uncrossing her legs, like I’d suggested, she would have to unkink her whole body and risk putting it on display.

In her restless “sleep,” she dropped her textbook and it “woke” her up. She groped for it with her eyes half-closed—

and
there it was.
Her blouse had final y slid off her left breast and exposed it to the light. This was met with a gasp from the men. They’d been hoping for it, awaiting it—but for it to suddenly reveal itself right where it was expected to appear, somehow this was a piece of modern magic. Magic which only the right situation, the right build-up, and a sexy girl with spectacular breasts could engineer.

Emmeline picked up the book without noticing her disarray, and shifted to a more comfortable position on her back.

Her breast now pointed to the ceiling, her knees pointed at the men. Her skirt was up at her hips, and only her ankles, which were crossed just below her ass, preserved her modesty.

Then the poor, tired girl fel asleep yet again! She was a natural. I couldn’t stop smiling.

She dozed off, and her book slid off her bel y. Her head tilted back, and then her knees—
moved.
Her audience froze like ice. We waited. Emmeline’s knees slowly folded apart, like butterfly wings. We stared breathlessly as her inner thighs came into view. Into ful view.

This wasn’t a flickering glimpse off a woman running up the stairs. This was a let-your-eyes-linger, note every detail, lean-forward-to-see-more kind of view. Everything about a sleeping girl makes her seem softer, more inviting, and more touchable than an equal y naked woman shel acked in tanning oil on a beach. I half expected one of us to reach out and place a hand flat on her inner thigh. In my mind I begged someone to do it, so I could live vicariously through him and discover Emmeline al over again.

A sigh and a shift of her body later, Emmeline was ful y on her back. Both nipples now peeked into the light. The library air felt congested and stil , as if a crowd of people had stopped together to listen for a faint sound, and then found itself forgetting to breathe. That was us.