11 - Cuckqueaned by the Bookstore Owner
FMF / Cuckquean / Femdom / Dom/sub / Voyeurism / Cuckquean Cleanup
The Hemingway went to Regina. Again.
I found out at Tuesday’s meeting—the Collectors’ Circle, twelve of us crowded into the back room of the library, drinking bad coffee and pretending we weren’t all keeping score.
Regina walked in with a first edition of The Sun Also Rises in a custom slipcase and set it on the table like she was laying down a winning hand.
“Charlotte called me the moment it came in,” Regina said. “She knows what I’m looking for.”
She looked at me when she said it. That little smile.
I’d been chasing that book for two years. I’d told Charlotte about it myself, months ago. I’d described the specific dust jacket condition I wanted, the printing points I’d accept. And somehow, when it had finally surfaced, Regina’s phone rang first.
This was the third time. The Hemingway, a near-fine Sound and the Fury last spring, and before that, a Grapes of Wrath that I’m still not over. Every time, Charlotte called Regina. Every time, I heard about it after it was already sold.
I knew what the difference was. Regina went into that shop every week. Brought Charlotte coffee. Chatted about her kids, her garden, whatever Southern women chat about. Built a relationship. Meanwhile, I sent emails. Left voicemails. Conducted business like a professional.
Professionals lost to people who showed up.
Sam turned off the engine and looked at Charlotte’s shop through the windshield. “You want me to go in there and … make friends with her?”
“I want you to build a relationship.” I adjusted the visor mirror, checked my lipstick. “She responds to personal connection. I’m not good at that.”
“You’re good at plenty of things.”
“I’m good at business. I’m good at research. I’m good at knowing exactly which printing of For Whom the Bell Tolls has the photographer’s name on the dust jacket and which one doesn’t.” I flipped the visor back up. “I’m not good at chitchat. You are.”
The shop glowed through the evening dark.
Warm light, books stacked in the window display, a hand-lettered sign that read “Rare & Antiquarian.” Charlotte’s domain.
I’d been in there maybe four times in the past year, each visit brisk and purposeful.
I came in knowing what I wanted, asked if she had it, and left when she didn’t.
Regina probably sat in the armchair by the window and talked about her hydrangeas for an hour.
“So I go in and talk to her,” Sam said. “About what?”
“Books. The shop. Whatever she wants to talk about. Ask her questions. Be interested.” I looked at him—his dark hair falling over his forehead, his glasses slightly crooked.
Professor-handsome, my mother had called him when we’d first started dating.
The kind of man who looked like he’d read everything and remembered all of it. “Flirt a little bit.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Flirt?”
“Just be charming. You’re good at charming.”
He was quiet for a moment, his hands still on the steering wheel. “And you’re okay with this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re asking your husband to flirt with another woman.”
“I’m asking my husband to help me beat Regina to the next first edition.” I unbuckled my seat belt, gathered my purse. “There’s a difference.”
Sam shook his head, but he was smiling. That bemused look he got when I was being, in his words, “Very Molly about something.” He’d married me knowing I was competitive.
He’d watched me spend three hours researching the provenance of a book before buying it.
This wasn’t even in the top ten of my obsessive behaviors.
“What does she look like?” he asked. “Charlotte.”
“Blonde. Lean—she does yoga, or Pilates, or something—you can tell.” I paused, trying to remember the details. “Pretty, in that soft Southern way. The accent’s been in Chicago for years, but you’d never know it. Cardigans. Pearl earrings. The whole thing.”
“And you want me to charm her.”
“I want you to be yourself. Yourself is charming.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Don’t oversell it. Just be natural. I’ll come in separately, browse in the back, give you space to work.”
Sam opened his door. The evening air rushed in, cool and smelling faintly of the pizza place down the block. He looked at the shop one more time then back at me.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Go get me my books,” I said.
He laughed, shook his head again, and walked toward the shop. I watched him through the windshield—the easy way he moved, the slight slouch to his shoulders that made him look approachable. He pushed open the door, and a bell chimed. Warm light spilled out. Then he was inside.
I waited two minutes. Checked my phone. Then I followed.
The bell chimed as I pushed through the door. The shop smelled like old paper and coffee—Charlotte had an espresso machine in a small café area near the back, two mismatched tables with chairs that looked salvaged from an estate sale.
Sam was near the front, browsing awkwardly. He hadn’t made contact yet. He looked up when I came in, and I gave him a small nod. Go.
I positioned myself in American History, pulled out a biography of Lincoln, and pretended to read the jacket copy.
Through the gaps between the shelves, I could see Charlotte near the back of the shop, sorting through a stack of new arrivals.
Blonde hair twisted up in a loose knot, yoga-lean in a cream cardigan.
Pearl studs in her ears. She moved through her space with the ease of ownership, touching book spines as she passed like she was greeting old friends.
Sam started toward her. On the way, he grabbed a book from a shelf without looking—something to hold, to justify his approach. He stopped a few feet from where she was working and opened it, studying the pages like he’d meant to pick it up all along.
Charlotte looked up. Noticed him. Smiled.
“Well, hey there.” That voice. Warm honey poured over river stones. “Are you interested in tantric sex?”
I almost dropped the Lincoln biography.
Sam looked down at the book in his hands. I watched his face change as he registered the cover—The Art of Tantric Ecstasy: A Modern Guide to Sacred Sexuality. His ears went red.
“Oh—I didn’t realize—” He fumbled with it, almost dropped it, caught it again. “I mean, I guess I’m interested? In general? As a concept?”
Charlotte laughed. It was a good laugh—unguarded and warm. She reached out and touched his arm, just below the elbow. “Most people don’t admit that so easily. I like your honesty.”
“I was just browsing. Grabbed the first thing I saw.” Sam set the book back on the shelf then seemed to think better of it and picked it up again. “It’s actually—I mean, it’s a legitimate field of study. The spiritual traditions of—”
“Oh, I know.” Charlotte was still smiling. She hadn’t moved her hand from his arm. “I’ve read that one. It’s surprisingly practical.”
From my position in American History, I watched them through the gap between Grant and The Civil War: A Narrative. My plan was working. Sam was talking to her. She was laughing, touching him. This was exactly what I’d asked for.
So, why were my hands gripping the Lincoln biography so hard my knuckles had gone white?
“Are you looking for anything specific tonight?” Charlotte asked. She’d let go of his arm but hadn’t stepped back. They were standing close, closer than strangers usually stood.
“Actually, yes.” Sam seemed to find his footing. “My wife collects first editions. American literature, mostly. Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck. I was hoping to surprise her.”
“Your wife.” Charlotte’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it warmed. “How sweet. What’s she like?”
Sam laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Molly? She’s … intense. About books, I mean. She knows more about first edition points than most dealers. She’d probably correct me if I got any of this wrong.”
“I think I’ve met her.” Charlotte tilted her head, remembering. “Dark hair? Comes in, knows exactly what she wants, doesn’t stay long?”
“That’s her.”
“She’s very efficient.” The way Charlotte said it made efficient sound like a limitation. “But you’re different. You like to browse.”
“I like to take my time with things.”
Charlotte held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then she touched his arm again—that same spot, just below the elbow, like she’d claimed it.
“Come sit with me. Let me make you an espresso, and we can talk about what you’re really looking for.”
She walked toward the café area, her hand sliding to his lower back as she guided him. Sam went with her. He didn’t look back toward where I was standing.
I moved to another aisle—poetry, closer to the café but still hidden.
Through the shelves, I could see them settling into chairs at one of the small tables.
Charlotte’s chair was angled toward his, close enough that their knees almost touched.
The espresso machine hissed and gurgled as she worked it.
“Milk?” she asked.
“Just black.”
“A purist.” She set the cup in front of him then sat down with her own. “I like that.”
They talked about books for a few minutes. Sam relaxed into it—this was territory he knew. He mentioned a signed Kerouac he’d found for me at an estate sale, the way I’d screamed when I opened the package. Charlotte laughed at the right moments, asked follow-up questions, leaned in when he spoke.
She was good at this. Making someone feel like the most interesting person in the room. I’d watched her do it with Regina, probably. With everyone who walked through her door.
But she wasn’t touching Regina’s arm. She wasn’t sitting this close to Regina.
“So these books you’re looking for,” Charlotte said, setting down her espresso, “they’re for your wife.”
“The first editions, yes. She’s the collector. I just enable the habit.”
“That’s very generous of you.” Charlotte’s hand moved to his thigh. Casual, like it belonged there. “I love a man who does favors for his wife.”
My face went hot. I gripped a volume of Yeats so hard the spine creaked.