Even over the noise of the hard house music and screeching dodgems, which race and bump nearby, her mother can be heard calling her plaintively, "Darling?" She stands tiptoe and peeps over his shoulder, through the dodgems, as her right hand struggles with his wiry right arm, but there's doubt in her resistance. He delights in this illicit snatched liaison, in her willing, but nervous, participation.
He's just loosened the chord of her curve hugging white slacks. His right hand now inside them. He's moving his fingers down into her dainty little lacy panties: his probing digits find her curly hair. His left hand, caressing her neck and shoulder, holds her there.
She doesn't usually date and she doesn't usually kiss on the first date either. She doesn't want to appear too easy. Her struggle finds renewed vigor as he begins to tease the lid of her pussy. Her nails pierce the flesh of his arm. Her left hand starts to grapple at his wrist, but right away they're kissing passionately. Her eyes closed, his not, now she's playing with his thick collar length hair.
Her mother's nervous voice again, calling her name. Ah, the oppressiveness of her dull suburban world! He's stroking her clit now.
The crackle of electricity from the dodgems nearby.
She breaks the kiss. "I must go to them," she says, faithless, frantic and breathless. He laughs quietly and says nothing. He moves, as if he might be about to release her, she looks up at him in confusion, his finger still dancing. Without letting her go, he's behind her now, pressing against her, he can feel her beautiful little behind on his thighs and the small of her back, through his trousers, as his arms press her against him. She can feel his hard cock rubbing against her.
His left hand holds her to him and strokes her right breast, the long index finger of his right hand is now deep inside her moist pussy. He strokes his cheek against hers and uses his eyelashes to caress her face with a butterfly kiss.
Her breathing is heavy as he begins to kiss and gently bite her neck again, and again.
And again, she seeks the will to escape, calling out to them isn't an option anymore, but she knows she could scrape her heel against his shin and stamp on his foot, but now, now it's a stark choice between the carnival inside her pussy or the band of trite old ladies that oppress her with renewed calls. Does she really want to spend another lonely night among them and their chatter?
Hear the old ladies wonder, "Where can she be?" They're just the other side of the tarpaulin now, mere yards away.
She writhes and tries to kid herself it's resistance, she's no longer scratching, the left hand now resting on his forearm, it anchors her to the spot. Her inside-out embrace of the one eyed gap-toothed gypsy. This Nile boatman of the night. His fractured tooth scratches sharply at her neck. His left hand moves down her belly as a second finger slides into her, arcing back up inside.
An intruder into her vagina and into her village, a grinning, groping interloper in the world of this thirty something, cosetted and kept chaste by the social pressures and presence of the matriarchs, a moment of pleasure and freedom in his capture, in his embrace: a sweet release.
A kid's balloon escapes his clasp, the kid wails. She moans, the gypsy, "mmmms," his delight. He takes narcissistic pleasure at the illogical works of his magician's fortune-telling fingers, as they dabble with her biological fate.
She can hear her mother calling again, "Darling?" He can hear them discussing her whereabouts too. He bites and scratches with his teeth again. Silencing her doubts, which he imagines. He leans back gradually against the wall and uses the fingers inside her and his arm to lever her up. She's on tiptoe, and then, just off the ground. His right hand holds her there by her lid. Her weight pressing up against her insides, where his fingers still linger, hooked at the knuckles. She can feel his cock pressing into her behind. His other hand, taking some of her weight, with his thighs, now rolling up her top and her bra. Her breast exposed as he toys with her nipple, squeezing it between his fingers.
He feels like a diabolic puppeteer.
She moans in delight. Stamping on his feet no longer an option, even if she wanted to, she scrapes the heels of her sensible shoes gently against his shins. Gasping and writhing in his grasp.
He puts her back down on her feet. He takes his wet fingers out of her and puts them to her mouth, "Nice girls don't do this, I don't do this," she thinks, but she begins to suck them anyway. The gypsy takes this act as a promise, which he'll expect her to honour. She sucks his fingers noisily and licks them with her tongue. He begins to pull down her white cotton slacks.
She wants this badly, and, after all, the gypsy will soon disappear from her village, never to be seen again. He continues to kiss and bite her neck. He brings his foot round behind, between her thighs, finds her slacks at her knees and he pulls them down her slender legs.
She gasps as the consequences of her reckless abandon reach new vistas of magnitude. There's the call again, "Darling?" She knows she cannot answer that call.
Both his hands on her waist now, his trainer rests on her slacks. No doubt it will leave a conspicuous print she won't be able to conceal or satisfactorily explain, she has no time to worry about that now and he certainly doesn't care. He lifts her out of her discarded slacks then sets her down briefly, admires her cute ass, then spins her round to face him. So he can see her from the front too, exposed in her opaque panties. She cannot properly meet the look of the one eyed gypsy as she gazes dreamily up into his lightly scarred, tanned face. He picks her up by her waist again.
She feels like an erotic ballerina.
Instinctively she wraps her legs round his waist so she can feel his cock against her. She feels ample, soft and ripe. They kiss passionately as one, their tongues begin to dance and evade. He wants to taste her juices in there, where his wet fingers were. Wants to invade her.
He kneels, and, before she knows it, she's on her back on the grass. He's on all fours above, pulling up her top and bra, kissing her again, biting at her nipples and stroking her clit. She fumbles with his button and zip. He's not wearing underwear and she can see a dew drop of cum dawning on the tip of his penis. She writhes between his legs and sucks at it. She's pulling his trousers to his knees. He loosens her freshly shampooed hair and it seems to run like mercury through his fingers.
He wants to taste his cum on her lips and pulls her up to him: they kiss. His kisses move down her neck, and, by way of her nipples, which he also bites softly, sending ripples of pleasure through her body, he glides his tongue down her belly. He reaches the top of her bush. He can smell her beautiful sweaty scent. Her hands grasp at the back of his head in anticipation. he begins kissing her thighs and licking, tracing the line of her panties. He rises again, a thin ironic smile on his face: he's teasing her mercilessly.
Before long he's inside, her warmth seems to nourish his rock solid cock as her soft flesh envelops the totality of he. Her damp lacy panties increase his pleasure as they rub against him. She feels like a whore committing a crime of passion. He's biting her neck again, stroking all over her thighs and breasts as he fucks her. He bows his head so he can watch his cock thrusting into her, she raises hers to do the same. She kisses and sucks his neck, as if in self-justification for her stare. The carnival has come to her village. The gypsy has invaded her world, has invaded her completely.
The child's lost balloon sails over the colliding dodgems, the house music keeps banging and rattling away. The surreal whistles and bells of the carnival shriek around them. "Darling? Where can she be?" She can feel the gypsy pumping his sperm into her and she orgasms as the lost balloon explodes in a frenzy of electric sparks, above in the mechanism of the dodgems.
I come out of my reverie at the terminal in the library. The cute librarian squats to my left, filling the lowest shelf with books, her little panties, peeking delicately through her white cotton trousers, hugging her cute round bottom. I grin deliciously at the carnival in my head.
Then, packing away the carnival for another day, I turn self-consciously towards the older ladies behind the counter, returning and issuing books, they seem to be watching us. It's eerie: almost as if some sixth sense tells them I didn't come here just to read. That I also want to take her off, behind the non-fiction, and pump her full of my seed.