11 - Cuckqueaned by the Bookstore Owner #2
“She’s so lucky,” Charlotte continued. Her fingers didn’t move, just rested there on his leg, warm and certain. “Having someone who pays attention to what she wants.”
Sam glanced down at her hand. He didn’t move away.
“How does she thank you,” Charlotte asked, “for doing things like this?”
The espresso machine dripped in the silence. Someone walked past on the sidewalk outside, their shadow crossing the window. I stood frozen in poetry, watching my husband sit perfectly still while another woman’s hand rested on his thigh and asked how I thanked him.
I had asked for this. I had told him to flirt. And now I couldn’t figure out how to walk over there and stop it without looking insane.
“Well, Molly is around here somewhere,” Sam said. “She picks up a book and loses track of all—”
“No, I don’t.” I stepped out from behind the poetry shelf, a volume of Yeats still clutched in my hand. “I’m here. I’m the wife. I was just … browsing. Over there.”
They both looked at me. Sam with mild surprise. Charlotte with something warmer—delight, maybe, like I’d just given her a gift she’d been hoping for.
“Oh, wonderful,” Charlotte said. “Sam was just telling me all about you. Come sit with us.”
I approached the table. Charlotte’s hand was still on Sam’s thigh.
She didn’t move it. Didn’t shift her chair to make room.
I had to grab a third chair from the other table and drag it over, the legs scraping against the floor.
By the time I sat down, they were already a unit, and I was the addition.
“Sam says you’re quite the collector,” Charlotte said. “Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck. The holy trinity.”
“I have broad interests.” I set the Yeats down on the table, realized it made no sense, picked it back up. “American literature is just the focus right now.”
“She’s being modest,” Sam said. “She knows more about first edition points than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I believe it.” Charlotte smiled at me, but her fingers moved slightly on Sam’s leg—a small adjustment, a reminder of where her hand was. “You seem like someone who pays very close attention to details.”
I looked at Sam. Tried to catch his eye. Do you see this? Do you see her hand on your leg?
He was watching Charlotte talk about a recent estate sale, nodding along, completely at ease. Either he didn’t notice my look or he was choosing not to.
“You two seem very friendly,” I said. “For just meeting.”
Sam glanced at me. “She’s friendly. That’s her whole thing.” He gestured around the shop. “Customer service.”
“Your husband is just so easy to talk to,” Charlotte said. She squeezed his thigh lightly. “And so touchable. You’re lucky, Molly. How do you ever stop touching this man?”
“I manage.”
“Honey.” Sam’s voice dropped, quiet enough that Charlotte could pretend not to hear. “You’re acting a little jealous right now. We’re making friends with the owner. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
The words landed in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. My own husband. Correcting me. In front of her.
Charlotte stood, smoothing down her cardigan.
“I was actually about to close up for the night. But you two are welcome to stay a while longer—I’m enjoying the company.
” She looked at me, her smile unchanged.
“Molly, would you mind flipping the sign to closed and locking the front door so we’re not interrupted? ”
I hesitated. Refusing would confirm everything Sam had just accused me of. Jealous. Irrational. Making something out of nothing.
“Sure,” I said and walked to the front of the shop.
The lock clicked into place. Through the glass, I could see the street outside—normal people walking past, heading home, living their normal lives. I turned the sign to “CLOSED” and stood there for a moment, my hand still on the door.
What was I doing? This was my plan. I’d sent Sam in here to charm her. It was working. So why did my hands feel unsteady? Why was my pulse loud in my ears?
I walked back toward the café area.
Charlotte wasn’t at the table anymore. She’d moved to a more open space between the shelves, where the floor was clear.
One leg was propped up on a low wooden chair, her body folded forward over it in a deep stretch.
Her back was to Sam, her ass presented toward him in her fitted slacks.
The cardigan had ridden up, revealing a strip of skin at her lower back.
“What—”
“Honey, come sit down.” Sam patted the chair next to him. “Charlotte’s showing me one of the positions from that tantra book. It’s actually fascinating.”
“The Padma Uttanasana,” Charlotte said, not breaking the stretch. “It opens the hips and creates space for deeper connection.” She looked back over her shoulder at Sam. “You can really get your face right in there with this one. That’s the whole point.”
I stood frozen. My husband was watching another woman stretch her ass toward him and explain how he could get his face in there, and I was supposed to sit down and be polite about it?
“Sit,” Sam said again. Gentle but firm. Like I was the one being strange.
I sat.
Charlotte straightened, rolled her shoulders. “The problem is, I haven’t been keeping up with my practice lately. This position really requires a partner to get the full extension.” She looked at me. “Molly, would you mind helping me? Just for a moment.”
“I don’t—”
“It’s easy. You just hold my leg steady while I deepen the stretch. Like a spotter.” She was already moving toward me, her hand extended. “Here, stand up. I’ll show you.”
I stood. I don’t know why. Because Sam was watching. Because refusing would make me the difficult one, the jealous wife who couldn’t handle her husband talking to an attractive woman. Because Charlotte’s voice made everything sound reasonable.
She guided me into position behind her, took my hands, and placed them on her raised calf. Her skin was warm through the thin fabric of her pants. “Just hold here. Steady pressure. That’s perfect.”
Charlotte folded forward again, deeper this time, her hips pressing back. I was holding her leg, standing close enough to feel the heat coming off her body. Sam watched from his chair, his expression somewhere between curious and captivated.
“Sam, come here,” Charlotte said. “I want to show you the partner variation.”
He got up and walked over. Charlotte guided him to kneel in front of her, his face level with her hips.
“In the tantric tradition, the breath is everything,” she said. “You want to breathe together. Get close. Feel the energy.”
Sam’s face was inches from her crotch. I was holding her leg. This was happening.
“Breathe with me,” Charlotte murmured to Sam. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Feel the warmth.”
I watched my husband breathe against another woman’s body. His eyes were half-closed. His hands had come up to rest on her hips—steadying her, or himself, I couldn’t tell. Charlotte made a small sound of approval.
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “You’re a natural.”
She straightened slowly, Sam rising with her. Then she turned to look at me, still holding her leg, still frozen in place.
“Now, let’s let your wife take a turn.”
“I don’t think—”
“Molly.” Charlotte’s voice was gentle, patient. “This is easy. You just have to open yourself up to possibilities.” She looked at Sam. “Honey, can you hold my leg?”
Sam was already moving, taking the calf from my hands. I was being rearranged. Passed between them like a prop.
“Kneel,” Charlotte said. Soft as a suggestion. Heavy as a command.
My knees hit the floor before I’d decided to move.
The wood was hard beneath me. I was eye level with her hips now, her thighs parted slightly where she stood.
Through the thin fabric of her slacks, I could smell her—something warm, faintly musky, unmistakably human beneath the lavender of her soap.
“There you go,” Charlotte said. “Just breathe. Feel the energy.”
I breathed. The scent of her filled my head. My face was inches from her, close enough that I could see the subtle shift of fabric when she moved, the faint outline of lace beneath. My mouth had gone dry.
“Oh, honey.” Charlotte’s voice came from above me, warm with something like tenderness. “You look so beautiful like that.”
“You do,” Sam said. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “You look so beautiful on your knees for Charlotte.”
I should have stood up. Should have said something. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. My thighs were pressed together, slick with arousal I hadn’t asked for. My knees stayed planted on the hard floor like they’d grown roots.
Charlotte lowered her leg from Sam’s grip and settled into the wooden chair behind her. She leaned back, let her knees fall open, and I was suddenly between them. Her thighs framed my face. The scent of her was stronger now—warm, musky, undeniable.
“There,” she said. “That’s better.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. My breath came shallow and fast, filling the air between us.
“Do you like this, Molly?” Charlotte asked.
The answer came out before I could stop it. “Yes.”
Charlotte smiled. “That’s wonderful. You know, some women are just wired this way. To be submissive. To service others.” She reached down and stroked my hair, gentle as a mother. “I think that’s probably you.”
“As for me,” Charlotte said, her thumb tracing along my cheekbone, “I tend to be in control. Getting what I want.” Her eyes held mine. I couldn’t look away. “Sam, come here.”
Sam moved from wherever he’d been standing—I’d lost track of him—and kneeled beside Charlotte’s chair. Eye level with her now. She turned her head and kissed him, slow and deliberate, her mouth opening against his. One hand stayed in my hair, holding me in place.
As the kiss deepened, she pressed gently, guiding my face forward until my nose was against the warm fabric between her thighs.
I breathed her in. The scent was overwhelming—soap, and skin, and something unmistakably her. My eyes closed without permission.