By
Prerafaelite ã June 2001.
The rain beat
down on the panes of glass. Rachel looked outside the lingerie boutique through
the glass of the shop door at the raindrops bouncing up off the pavement and
high up into the air. She glanced at the clock again, fifteen minutes to go.
Lunchtime. Her lunchtime, her escape, her salvation, her ruin. The clock ticked
slowly as she tidied the shelving in the shop, the rain beating down in a
steady rhythm against the glass, her nerves were shot. Her anticipation was
intense, stretching her nerves and making her unconsciously fold and refold the
garments in her hands. She looked up as the bell above the door chimed and her
assistant returned from her break. Rachel sighed and relaxed a little; she
could go now.
She fled to
the back room and grabbed her umbrella. She cast herself a quick glance in the
mirror as she passed and straightened her hair, although she failed to notice
the slight flush to her cheeks or the overbrightness in her eyes. Escaping out
the back of the shop, she strode purposefully down the laneway and into the
main street. Tropical downpours like this were not uncommon; the rain was warm
as it splashed her legs, her head and shoulders remaining dry under the canopy
of her umbrella. Looking down the street she saw it, the municipal library, her
destination.
It was an old
building, federation style with the ornate keystones and iron fretwork typical
of early Australian architecture. Red bricks and limestone set the building off
against the tropical foliage, the large timber front door was dark and imposing
on the visitor’s eye. Stepping into the foyer, Rachel closed her umbrella and
propped it up against the wall. The heels of her shoes taped on the wooden floor
as she moved into the main part of the building. The place was deathly quiet,
there were a couple of old men sat reading the newspapers in companionable
silence in the reception area, but the library was essentially empty.
Rachel
quietly moved over to the poetry section. She knew the way to the book now; in
fact, she could have laid her hands straight on it in the dark, its position
imprinted in her mind. Four weeks…was that all it was since the first note? It
felt like forever. The pent up excitement and anticipation had begun to make
every day stretch into infinity. She had been coming to the library to read for
months now, ever since she moved into town. The poems she read relaxed her and
made her fantasize of romance and lovers and sometimes sex, steamy sex now that
the letters were arriving. She picked up the well-worn copy of Omar Khayyam and
turned to her favourite page…and there was another letter, the same flowing
script handwriting scrawled across the front of the envelope as the others. Her
hand shaking, she removed the envelope from the book, slid it into her bag, and
replaced the book on the shelf. Steadily she walked to the reading tables and
took a seat over by the window facing into the room. Pulling out the letter
from her bag, she lifted it to her nose and sniffed it, she sighed, the same
sandal wood fragrance as the others. She slid her fingers into the envelope and
removed the letter. The rich vellum rasped in her fingers as she looked at the
black ink of the script. It started the same as all the others, the same way as
the envelope was labelled.
“Omne ignotum
pro magnifico.”
Everything
unknown is supposed to be something magnificent.
*
* *
The first
letter she had found by chance. She had been working her way systematically along
the shelf, book by book, until she came to the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. It was
in this book that she had found the first letter. After the Latin quotation
there was written the first verse of a poem,
I wake to the
first light of dawn filtering across the sky
The birds are
singing, greeting the new day
As the
fingers of light spread through the trees, I think of you
The feel of
your hands running through my hair
The texture
of your lips against mine
The heat of
your body lying next to me
My heartaches
for you
Will it ever
be?
That was it.
Nothing more, just those few words. She had kept the letter out of shear
pleasure. It was beautiful. Somehow, she knew it was for her; she now had a
small bundle of them tied up in a blue ribbon and hidden in her dresser drawer
in her bedroom to be read and reread at her leisure whenever the whim took her.
That first
note had stirred her imagination. Who had written it? Why had she found it and not
someone else? She had gone back to the library the day after to look again but
she had found nothing. A couple of days later she had picked up the same book
and was overjoyed when she had found another envelope with the same heading,
”Omne ignotum pro magnifico.” This time there was no poem but a note, which
read; “Imagine your long silken hair spread out over my pillow like a halo as
my hands wander all over your magnificent body, worshiping you.” No names
written, just the thought penned by a strangers hand. It fired her imagination,
she could feel the adrenaline building in her body as she thought of someone
thinking about her that way and writing such things to her.
She had gone
home that night and excitedly reread the words, imprinting them on her brain.
When she was in the bathroom about to have her shower, she had looked at the
reflexion of her body in the mirror, wondering if this was what her mystery
lover had imagined of her. She saw long lithe legs, a shapely bottom and smooth
hips, small waist and beautifully shaped firm high breasts. Her skin was pale
and unblemished, her eyes the deepest of sea green, but it was her magnificent
mane of golden hair that hung down to her waist that really caught the eye. It
shimmered in the light like shot silk would, an explosion of deep gold and
burnished copper. Exquisite. Her body had tingled as she washed herself, her
fingers playing over her skin as if her mystery lover had touched her with his
own hands. Her dark pink nipples had stood out from her breasts, tight and
aching, waiting to be sucked. She had orgasmed like that with her back against
the stall wall and the water streaming down over her breasts and down between
her thighs washing away her tension with the soap as she thought of him and his
fingers caressing her.
The next note
had again been in an envelope with the same scrawled heading. This time it had
read, “ Imagine my lips caressing yours, my tongue gaining entry to you mouth
as I taste the sweetness of you, the passion building between us ‘till we can
bear it no longer, the ache more than we can endure.” That, and the other
writings she had received kept her going over the endless weekend. She longed
for Monday to come and the library to open again. It was so exciting.
On the Monday
of the second week the second verse of the poem arrived. It read,
As the sun
hits its
zenith high in the sky
The insects
are humming, seizing the day
The sunlight
reflects off the water as I think of you
The taste of
your skin as I lick you
The scent of
your skin as I inhale you
The feel of
your body lying next to mine
My heart
yearns for you
When will it
be?
She closed
her eyes after she read it, her fingers folding over the paper that he had
touched, the scent of his cologne wafting up to her nostrils, the delicious
feelings of anticipation and want filling her body, making her tremble. Her
whole body felt alive and on fire, her palms where damp and her mouth was dry,
she could imagine the feel of this man holding her close and touching her, the
sensation of his rough tongue roving over her silken skin. She shivered. Oh my
god, it was so incredibly real. Later, she had added the note to her
collection.
In the
mornings that she was going to the library, the anticipation was acute. Her
stomach felt like it was in knots, her palms sweated, her heart raced with the
adrenalin. Would she find another letter today? Would she see who was
delivering them? Would he show himself to her? She felt like a nervous teenager
in the throes of a first crush, it was incredible.
Rachel’s days
were filled with work at the boutique, work she loved but not the full
realisation of a young woman’s dreams. Her evenings were very quiet; she had
barely set foot outside her house since moving in and before that she had lived
with her sick father who had only recently died after a long illness. Now she
sat by the window and poured over her precious letters every evening,
fantasising about the man writing them and wondering who he was and what he
looked like and would they ever meet. She lay in her bed at night and imagined
this man touching her, caressing her, making love to her. She explored her own
body with renewed enthusiasm every night as she thought of him, her resultant
orgasms getting stronger each time.
She started
going to the library every lunchtime in the hope that there would be another
letter. She had begun to look for her mystery writer every time she came into
the library, but so far had not seen anyone remotely like who she thought it
could be.
The next note
arrived. It said, “Imagine the swollen head of my shaft rubbing against the
hardened nub of your beautiful rock hard nipple, leaving precum all over it,
sliding my swollen length along your nipple until my balls press into your full
firm and quivering breasts. Lover, go out to your car and touch your hot moist
cleft and think about our moments together.”
That note had
made her feel faint. The excitement was indescribable as she looked around the
library to see if anyone was watching her. She had hurried out of the door and
had practically run back towards the boutique and the relative safety of her
parked car. She had sat inside her car and stared out of the window for a few
minutes, incredulous at what was happening to her body and mind. She reread the
note and slid her hands into her panties. She felt how obviously aroused she
was. She was indeed hot and wet and trembling with desire. She ran her fingers
across her wet folds again and again and she imagined her lover touching her
and doing to her what he had suggested in his note. She could smell him. She
could taste him. She came with a force that shocked her. She cried.
The third
verse of the poem arrived,
The sun
begins to set deep in the western sky
The colours reflect
like jewels across the land as the birds grow silent
I look across
the ocean to a place far away and think of you
The feel of
your lips brushing against mine
The flexing
of your muscles as you hold me tight
The comfort
of your body next to mine
My heart
longs for you
I need it to
be
Oh how these
letters where getting to her. She was wandering around the town with
butterflies in her stomach, she could remember nothing of what she was supposed
to be doing, she was so distracted. It was all encompassing. Her job was a
place to go to when she could no longer think of him. He enthralled her. His
writings where captivating, they had her feeling such intense emotions that she
had never experienced before. She was frightened and exhilarated all at the same
time. Where was it going? How would it end? Would he be hers?
The next
letter arrived. The same style envelope, the same heading. Hidden in the same
book…
“Imagine me
making love to you, my tongue sliding over your silken folds as I caress you,
your body responding to mine. Your breasts swelling in my hands, your belly
contracting as the sensations spread over you body, electric charges rushing up
and down your spine. You, shivering in delight as you convulse under my hands.
Think of me as you dream in your bed lover.”
Rachel was
feeling like a teenager again. The elation she was feeling with this man and
his notes to her was indescribable. He filled her thoughts constantly. He was
like a drug, intoxicating, intense and extremely addictive. When the library
was closed over the weekends she wanted to weep with frustration, she longed
for her notes to arrive, to touch what he had touched, to smell how he smelled,
to feel what he was feeling. Agony and elation, terror and joy, such a
confusing mixture yet wonderful.
Then the
fourth verse of the poem arrived.
The darkness
spreads like a velvet cloak across the ground
All is silent
except for the sound of the breeze in the trees
The silver
light of the moon washes over me as I think of you
The strength
of your heart leaning towards me
The look of
desire for me in your eyes
The sounds of
your body next to mine
My heart
beats for you
It will be
Because I
love you.
Oh my god.
She couldn’t believe what she was reading. He had filled her mind with such
wonderful things and now…Her heart skipped a beat. She looked around the
library, no one in here remotely like him she thought. How much more could she
stand without knowing? Yet it was too good to just walk away. Maybe soon she
would know.
*
* *
Entering the
library, Rachel quietly moved over to the poetry section. She knew the way to
the book now; in fact, she could have laid her hands straight on it in the
dark, its position imprinted in her mind. Four weeks…was that all it was since
the first note? It felt like forever. The pent up excitement and anticipation
had begun to make every day stretch into infinity. She had been coming to the
library to read for months now, ever since she moved into town. The poems she
read relaxed her and made her fantasize of romance and lovers and sometimes
sex, steamy sex now that the letters were arriving. She picked up the well-worn
copy of Omar Khayyam and turned to her favourite page…and there was another
letter, the same flowing script handwriting scrawled across the front of the
envelope as the others. Her hand shaking, she removed the envelope from the
book, slid it into her bag, and replaced the book on the shelf. Steadily she
walked to the reading tables and took a seat over by the window facing into the
room. Pulling out the letter from her bag, she lifted it to her nose and
sniffed it, the same sandal wood fragrance as the others. She slid her fingers
into the envelope and removed the letter. The rich vellum rasped in her fingers
as she looked at the black ink of the script. It started the same as all the
others, the same way as the envelope was labelled.
“Omne ignotum
pro magnifico.”
Everything
unknown is supposed to be something magnificent.
The new note
followed on,
“Imagine me
taking you in my arms as we embrace for the first time. Feel my desire for you
in the evidence of my arousal. Feel my body pressed closely to yours as we kiss
for the first time. Imagine the taste of me as I lick your lips and caress your
tongue with mine. Listen to me as I express my love for you with my body. We
shall meet lover. Next time I shall tell you.”
Robert had
not been in the country long. His assignment in this small town would be of
short duration. The library was a source of comfort and relaxation, of home
away from home. The letters were awesome. He picked up the latest note out of
the same trade journal as the others, was it only four weeks since the first
note? It felt like forever, the suspense was acute. Each note had the same
heading on the envelope,
”Omne ignotum
pro magnifico”
He picked up
the new note and sniffed it, Hmmmm… jasmine, the same as the others. He slid it
into his jacket pocket to read in the privacy of his room and walked to the
exit. On the way out, he noticed a young woman with beautiful golden hair sat avidly
reading a letter. She has lovely hands he thought idly as he picked up his
library card, turned, and headed towards his hotel.
Rachel
carefully placed the note back in its envelope and returned it to her bag. She
stood and walked shakily to the library exit. The man in front of her paused
briefly to pick up his library card off the reception desk. He has nice hands
she thought distractedly as she watched him leave.
The old
librarian watched with interest. Soon my dears, soon, she thought and smiled as
she folded the two freshly written notes and placed them in their respective
envelopes and scrawled…
“Omne ignotum
pro magnifico,” across the front of each.
*
* *