Shared Library

Chapter One

Ella's apartment still smelled like her. Three weeks after the call, I kept finding long dark hairs on the couch cushions, and I kept leaving them where they were.

The lease had her name on top. Mine sat below, added in March when I moved in with two duffel bags and a Telecaster. She wasn't due back from Kenya until April. Doctors Without Borders gave her a year. She gave me a ten-minute call from a clinic outside Lodwar and a name. Julien.

So I stayed. Rent was paid through February. Her fiddle-leaf fig needed water every Sunday. Inertia wins a lot of arguments.

Thursday morning I was answering emails at the kitchen table when my phone buzzed.

Liz: hi

I stared at the screen. Liz. Freshman bio, third row, the girl who copied my lab notes and then corrected my spelling in the margins. I hadn't seen her in five years.

Me: Hi right back. Long time, stranger.

Liz: I know, right. I was thinking about you.

Me: Good thoughts or bad thoughts?

Liz: Lab partner thoughts. You still owe me for the fetal pig.

Me: You named him Kevin. You were emotionally compromised.

Liz: Kevin deserved better than your scalpel work.

We went back and forth for twenty minutes. Her job at the hospital system in Pittsburgh. My job, "spreadsheets with a view of a parking garage." She asked about Ella. I told her the short version. She sent knife emojis and the word French? I said yes. She said ew.

Then I asked about Greg.

The dots appeared and vanished twice.

Liz: truth?

Me: Always.

Liz: Not great. I miss you. Any chance you're up for a visit?

Me: Name the weekend.

Liz: How about today?

I looked at the clock. 11:14 a. m. Pittsburgh to Philly was five hours if she left right now.

Me: You're serious.

Liz: Keys are already in my hand. Yes or no.

I thought about Ella's hair on the cushions. I thought about the fig. I'd never cheat on anyone. I'd been on the wrong end of that three weeks ago and I knew the taste. But she was a grown woman who had decided to drive three hundred miles, and her choices were hers to make.

Me: Yes.

Liz: Send me the address. Have something brown and expensive waiting. I'll be there by three.

I sent the address. Then I cleaned the apartment like a man expecting a health inspector. Dishes, bathroom, the pile of Ella's mail shoved into a drawer. I found the bottle of Lagavulin 16 her father had given us as an engagement gift and set two glasses beside it.

She texted from the Breezewood exit at 1:40. Then from a Sheetz outside Harrisburg with a photo of a hot dog and the caption dinner of champions. Under it she had written, told my boss I had a family thing.

At 2:58 the buzzer went. I opened the door and forgot what I planned to say. Five years had been good to her. She was tiny, a hundred pounds at most, with red hair falling past her shoulders in loose waves. A black miniskirt. A tight red top under a faded denim jacket. Black boots to the knee. Her lips were the same, full, a little crooked when she smiled, painted a red close to her hair.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi right back."

She stepped in and hugged me hard. Her arms went around my neck and she pulled herself up onto her toes. I felt every inch of her pressed against me, warm from the car, smelling like vanilla and cold October air mixed with the faint clean scent of her skin. I held on longer than a friend would. She didn't let go first.

When she stepped back she looked around the apartment. Ella's framed prints. Ella's throw pillows. Ella's ring light still in the corner.

"Wow," Liz said. "She decorated like a dentist's office."

"She'd say minimalist."

"She'd be wrong." She shrugged off the jacket and dropped it on a chair. "You promised me something brown."

I poured. We drank standing in the kitchen, then drifted to the couch. She kicked off her boots and tucked her legs under her. I sat at the other end. That lasted about ten minutes.

We talked about everything, the Delta Gamma formal, the bio final we both failed, Ella in more detail than I meant to give, the ring I bought with eight months of savings, my friends telling me not to propose.

"I would have told you too," Liz said. "If you'd asked."

"Why didn't you?"

"You didn't ask. And I was married. Felt hypocritical."

Then Greg. Actuarial software. Bed by 9:30. Spreadsheet of grocery spending reviewed every Sunday. He hadn't touched her in four months. When she brought up counseling he asked how much it cost.

"I married the safest guy at the party," she said. "Turns out safe is a lot of silence."

Somewhere in there she slid closer. Her thigh was against mine, bare skin warm through my jeans. I put my arm along the back of the couch. A minute later she leaned into my side and stayed there, head on my shoulder, red hair against my jaw. She smelled like vanilla.

The conversation slowed. Then stopped. She tilted her face up. I looked down. Neither of us said anything for a long second. We both knew why she'd come. She kissed me first. Soft, then less soft. She tasted like cherries and bubble gum lip balm and under that, smoke and peat from the scotch. Her mouth was warm and wet. One moment she was beside me. The next she had swung a knee over and was in my lap, facing me, skirt riding up, both hands in my hair. The kiss turned hungry. My hands found her waist, then her hips, and pulled her down against me. She made a small sound into my mouth and rocked forward. I could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of my jeans.

She was so light. I kept thinking of that, how little of her there was and how all of her was in motion.

She broke the kiss and put her lips against my ear. Her breath was hot.

"I've always wanted to do this," she whispered. "Tonight's going to be amazing."

Her fingers went to the top button of my shirt.

Chapter Two

She unbuttoned my shirt the rest of the way without looking at it, eyes locked on mine, then slid off my lap onto her knees between my legs. The miniskirt rode high. She worked my belt open with small, sure hands, dragged the zipper down, and freed my cock. It was already hard and heavy, the head flushed dark and shiny. She wrapped both hands around it, squeezed once, and looked up at me.

"Bigger than I pictured," she said, voice low, and took me into her mouth. The heat of her mouth was immediate and wet. She sucked hard from the start, no teasing. Her tongue pressed flat along the underside while her cheeks hollowed. One hand stroked the shaft she couldn't fit. The other cupped my balls and tugged gently. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth and ran down my cock in thin, clear strings. She made soft wet sounds with every bob of her head. I threaded my fingers into her red hair and held her there. She gagged once, eyes watering, a thick strand of spit connecting her lower lip to the head when she pulled back for air, then she went deeper again, nose almost touching my stomach.

"Can I take pictures?" I asked, voice already rough. She pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen. "Yes. Take as many as you want. Film it. I don't care." I grabbed the phone. She went back down, sucking noisily now, the wet sounds louder. I took photos of her stretched lips, the red hair fanned across my thighs, the way her skirt had ridden up to show the bottom curve of her ass. Then I switched to video and filmed her working me, spit shining on my shaft, her eyes watering, the wet click of her throat when she took me deeper. My hips started to jerk. The smell of sex was already in the air, sharp under the scotch.

I warned her with a tight "Liz..." and she only hummed around me and stayed. I came hard down her throat in thick pulses. She swallowed every one, throat working, then kept sucking gently until I twitched from sensitivity. When she finally pulled off, a thin string of spit and cum connected her lower lip to the head of my cock. She sat back on her heels, opened her mouth to show me the last white streak on her tongue, then closed her lips and swallowed with a deliberate sound.

"Your turn."

I pulled her up, kissed her hard (tasting the bitter-salt of my own cum on her tongue), and shoved her onto her back on the couch. I yanked the miniskirt up around her waist and dragged the black lace panties down her legs. Her pussy was completely bare, smooth, pink, already wet enough that her outer lips were glossy and slightly parted. The smell of her was stronger up close, warm and clean and faintly sweet. I spread her open with my thumbs and put my mouth on her.

I licked her from the bottom of her slit all the way up to her clit in one long, slow stroke, tasting the thin, slick wetness of her. Then I focused on her clit, flat tongue first, then pointed, sucking the little bud between my lips until it swelled against my tongue. Two fingers slid into her easily. She was tight and hot and slick, the walls of her gripping me. I curled them and kept licking while my other hand reached under her and found the tight little hole of her ass. I rubbed it with a spit-slick fingertip while I ate her. The skin there was softer, hotter.

She tensed, then exhaled hard. "That's new. Greg never, fuck. Strange. But I like it. Don't stop."

I pushed the tip of my finger inside while I sucked her clit harder. Her hips lifted off the couch. The wet sounds of my mouth on her were loud in the quiet apartment. When she came it was with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around my head, her whole body shaking. I kept licking through it, tasting the fresh rush of her, until she pushed me away, oversensitive and breathing hard.

We lay tangled afterward, her head on my chest. The smell of sex hung between us, her wetness, my cum on her breath, the faint vanilla of her skin. I reached for my phone to check the time. 4:12. The screen showed a thumbnail strip at the bottom, Google Photos asking whether I wanted to make a collage. My stomach dropped.

"Oh no."

"What?"

"The shared album." I sat up so fast she nearly slid off me. "Ella set up a shared library when she left. Everything on my phone backs up to her account automatically. So she wouldn't miss anything, she said."

Liz looked at the phone. Then at me. "Everything?"

"Everything."

"Including the last twenty minutes."

"Including the last twenty minutes." I was already opening the app. "Kenya's seven hours ahead. She's asleep. If I delete them now..."

Liz put her hand over the screen.

"Don't," she said.

"Liz."

"She cheated on you. Over the phone. From another continent. With a guy named Julien." She took the phone from my hand and set it face down on the coffee table. "She wanted to see everything? Let her see everything."

"You're out of your mind."

"I'm consenting to every picture on there. I'm a grown adult. And I'd love for her to know exactly what she gave up." She smiled slowly. "Also, I have an idea."

"I'm scared."

"Good. Book us somewhere fancy for tonight. The fanciest place in this city. Then give me an hour in her closet."

"Her closet."

"You said she left half her stuff here. We're the same size. I checked her boots by the door." She stood up, wrapped in the throw blanket. "Trust me."

She padded toward the bedroom, then stopped in the doorway and looked back.

"You coming?"

I followed. On the bed Ella had picked out from West Elm I fucked her once, her on her back, legs spread wide so I could watch my cock disappear into her, the wet pink of her stretched around me, the shine of her on my shaft every time I pulled back. My mouth was on her small tits, sucking and biting hard enough to make her gasp. She came with my teeth on her nipple, walls fluttering around me. I finished inside her in long pulses, grinding deep.

I pulled out slowly. A rope of cum followed my cock and spilled onto the sheets. Liz reached down, scooped some with two fingers, brought it to her mouth, and sucked them clean. The smell of it was sharp.

"I like the way you taste," she said. "Save the rest for later."

I went to the living room to book Barclay Prime for 7:30. She kissed me and shut the bedroom door.

A few minutes later she came out still wrapped in the throw blanket, holding a small black silicone plug and a bottle of lube.

"Surprise one," she said. "I found these in her bottom drawer. Still in the box. I want it in for the rest of the night. Secretly."

She turned around, braced her hands on the kitchen counter, and looked back at me over her shoulder. I slicked the plug with cool lube, pressed the tapered tip against her, and watched her take it slowly. The black silicone disappeared inch by inch until the base sat flush between her cheeks. She straightened, adjusted the blanket, and gave me a small, wicked smile. I could already see the way it changed the way she stood, a slight, careful shift of her hips.

I poured two fingers of Lagavulin and sat by the window while she disappeared back into the bedroom. Pine Street was busy with people heading out for the evening. A guy walked a corgi in a Flyers jersey. At 6:12 the bedroom door opened. I stood up and nearly dropped the glass. Liz was wearing the black dress. I knew the dress. Ella bought it for a hospital gala in 2024 and wore it exactly twice, both times with a wrap she never took off. Floor length, but the slit ran up the left leg almost to the hip. The neckline plunged nearly to the navel, and the sides were cut so deep I saw the full curve of her breasts on both sides. No bra. On Ella the dress had looked like a dare she backed out of. On Liz the dress looked like the point.

She'd pinned her red hair up loose, with a few strands falling at her neck. Ella's diamond studs in her ears. Ella's black heels. And under the dress, invisible to anyone else, the plug was still seated inside her. I could see the faint, careful way she moved when she walked. She crossed the room without a word, draped her arms around my neck, and kissed me deep. I grabbed her backside through the silk and pulled her against me hard. My palm pressed against the base of the plug. She laughed into my mouth, the sound warm and low.

"This night is all about you," she whispered. "There's one more thing under here you haven't seen. I can't wait to show you. You get to do anything you want to me tonight. I'm all yours."

"Liz."

"Dinner first." She stepped back and held her arms out. "But first. Pictures."

I took six. Her by the window. Her on the arm of the couch with the slit falling open. Her blowing a kiss at the camera. One she took herself, holding my phone up high, her other hand on my chest.

Every one went to the shared library.

Chapter Three

Barclay Prime sits on Rittenhouse Square in an old hotel lobby, all dark wood and leather and low gold light. The host looked at Liz in the dress for a full second longer than his job required, then led us to a corner booth in the back. The booth had a long white tablecloth. Liz noticed before I did.

"Perfect," she said, and slid in next to me instead of across. Our server was a guy named Marcus. Liz asked him what the best bottle on the list was. He named a 2016 Opus One. She said yes before I opened my mouth.

"You're paying?" I asked.

"Greg's paying." She smiled. "Joint account. He'll see the charge Sunday when he reviews the groceries."

We ordered the wagyu carpaccio and a dozen oysters, then the 24-ounce bone-in ribeye to share with truffle mac and cheese and creamed spinach. Under the table her foot found my ankle. She had kicked off one of Ella's heels. Her toes slid up the inside of my calf, slowly, then back down. She kept talking the whole time about her sister's wedding, face showing nothing. Every time she shifted I knew the plug was moving inside her, a small, private adjustment that only the two of us could feel.

The oysters came. She ate one, then fed me the next off the shell with her fingers. The brine of the oyster mixed with the faint taste of her skin. Her hand settled on my thigh under the tablecloth. Stayed there through the carpaccio. Moved higher during the steak, palm warm through the fabric of my pants.

"You're terrible," I said quietly.

"I'm wonderful." She took my phone off the table. "I want a souvenir."

"Liz, we're in a restaurant."

"We're in a corner booth with a tablecloth to the floor." She glanced around. Marcus was across the room. "Sit still and look at the menu."

She unlocked the phone, opened the camera, and set it to video. Then her hand slid under the tablecloth, found the front of my pants, and worked the zipper down with practiced quiet. Her fingers wrapped around me, already half-hard from the foot play, and stroked slowly. The dry friction of her palm, then the smoother slide as a bead of precum wet the head. I stared at the dessert list and read the soufflé description four times. She filmed the motion of her hand under the cloth for a few seconds, then angled the phone so it caught my face while she kept stroking, thumb sliding over the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness. I got close fast. The smell of my own precum was faint but sharp under the table. She felt it, slowed, squeezed the base hard enough to stop me, and held me there, throbbing, while she kept the phone steady.

She leaned in, pressed her lips to my ear, and whispered, "Save that for later. I want to play with it."

Then she sat back, picked up her wine, and asked Marcus about the dessert menu like nothing had happened. He recommended the chocolate soufflé. She ordered two.

The bill came to $1,140 before the tip. Liz signed the slip with a flourish and wrote a thirty percent tip. She showed me the signature. Greg Kowalski, in loopy handwriting.

"He'll live," she said.

Outside, the square was cold and full of people. Liz hooked her arm through mine and pressed close against the wind. I could feel the careful way she walked.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Dancing," she said. "Somewhere loud."

Chapter Four

The Uber dropped us on Spring Garden outside a club called Voltage. The bouncer looked at Liz in the dress, looked at the line, and unhooked the rope. Inside, the bass hit my chest before my eyes adjusted. Ceiling three stories up, exposed steel, hanging cages of LED bars pulsing blue then magenta then white strobe. Fog drifted at knee height. The air smelled like sweat, perfume, and spilled liquor. We got drinks at the bar, tequila sodas, eighteen dollars each. Liz finished hers in four swallows and pulled me onto the floor.

She danced like she did at every party in college, all hips and hands and total commitment. She turned her back to me and pressed herself against me. I put my hands on her waist. The slit in the dress fell open every time she moved. Every time she ground back against me I felt the base of the plug through the silk. The heat of her body came through the thin fabric. She smelled like the club now, sweat and someone else's perfume layered over the vanilla of her skin.

She reached back and hooked a hand around my neck and pulled my mouth down to hers. Her mouth tasted like tequila and the chocolate soufflé from earlier. We stayed like that for three songs. Then four.

She took my phone on the floor and shot a video of us, her face against my neck, the lights going crazy behind us. Then a photo, her tongue in my mouth, the flash blowing out the frame.

Around 11:40 I had my hands all over her and the dress was doing nothing to stop me. She was soaked with sweat, hair coming loose, lipstick gone. I put my mouth to her ear. "I want to go home." She grabbed my hand and towed me toward the exit.

In the Uber she climbed into the back and was on me before the door shut. Her mouth was open and wet against mine. Between kisses she said, quiet enough that the driver couldn't hear, "When we get there, if you want to put a hand on my throat, you can. I like it. Don't cut off everything. I want to feel it."

I nodded against her mouth. Pine Street. The stairs. Three tries with the key. Inside the apartment she backed me against the door and kissed me hard, then propped the phone on the bookshelf, camera facing the room.

"Keep recording," she said, glancing at the lens. "She'll want the full show." I turned her around, found the zipper, and pulled it down slowly. The dress slid off her shoulders and puddled at her feet in a black silk heap.

Underneath was the black lace bodysuit, sheer everywhere, structured cups pushing her small breasts up and together, thin straps crossing her back, thong cut high on the hips. The base of the plug was still visible between her cheeks. Her skin smelled like sweat and the club and the faint clean scent underneath.

"Surprise two," she said.

I dropped to my knees, dragged the crotch of the bodysuit aside, and put my mouth on her, rougher this time. The taste of her was stronger now, saltier from the dancing, the wetness thicker. I sucked her clit hard, tongue fucking into her, the wet sounds loud against the quiet of the apartment. My hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave red marks. She braced against the door and moaned, the sound raw.

I stood, spun her, and walked her backward into the bedroom while I tore the straps of the bodysuit down her arms so her breasts spilled free. They were small, firm, pale, with tight pink nipples already hard. I sucked and bit them hard enough to make her gasp and arch, leaving them wet and marked.

I shoved her onto the bed, yanked the bodysuit down to her waist, and fucked her mouth while I kept one hand on her breast, pinching and pulling the nipple. She took it, eyes watering, spit running down her chin. When I pulled out I flipped her onto her hands and knees, dragged the lace aside again, and buried my face in her from behind, licking her pussy in long strokes, then around the base of the plug. My fingers spread her open so I could get deeper.

She came on my tongue, shaking.

I lined up and slammed into her in one hard thrust. The heat of her was immediate, tight and slick around me. She cried out. I fucked her deep, one hand in her red hair pulling her head back, the other reaching under to squeeze her nipples. Every thrust made the plug shift inside her. I could feel the extra tightness.

"Greg never fucked me like he meant it," she said, voice rough, half laughing. "You can do better than that."

I did. Harder. Deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. When I was close I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and pushed back into her while I sucked hard on her tits. I came inside her in long pulses, grinding deep.

I pulled out slowly. Cum leaked from her in a slow drip. Liz reached down, scooped some with three fingers, brought it to her mouth, and sucked them clean, eyes on me.

"Still good," she said. "Now take the plug out. I want the real thing."

Chapter Five

I pulled the plug out slowly. It came free with a soft, wet sound. She whimpered at the loss. I slicked myself with more cool lube, pressed the head of my cock against her ass, and pushed in. The heat and tightness were extreme, denser than her pussy, the ring of muscle gripping me hard. I went inch by inch until I was fully seated. She breathed hard, eyes closed, then nodded. I started moving, shallow at first, then deeper. One of my hands reached around to rub her clit. The other rested lightly on her throat. She covered my hand with hers and pressed, showing me the pressure she wanted. I tightened my grip carefully, watching her face the whole time. Her eyes stayed open. Her breath stayed controlled. The pulse under my palm was fast and strong. I fucked her harder, still holding her throat, the wet sound of my cock in her ass loud and filthy. She came first, clenching around me in tight pulses that pulled me over with her.

I buried myself deep and filled her.

I pulled out slowly. Cum started to leak from her, white mixed with the clear shine of lube. I pushed her face-down into the pillows, spread her open with both hands, and put my mouth on her. The taste was intense, my cum, the chemical sweetness of the lube, the deeper musk of her. I licked and sucked every bit of it I could get, tongue pushing inside her. She moaned into the pillow, pushing back against my face. When I had a mouthful I crawled up, turned her head, and fed it to her in a deep, messy kiss. She took it eagerly, sucking on my tongue, swallowing, then opening her mouth for more.

I went back down once more, ate what was left, and fed it to her again until her face and mine were both shiny.

She climbed on top after that and rode me, still messy. Her small tits bounced. I sat up and sucked on them while she ground down. She came with my teeth on her nipple. I finished inside her, holding her hips down.

When I pulled out she stayed straddling me, reached down, and scooped the fresh cum out of herself. This time she didn't only taste it. She smeared it across my mouth and chin, then leaned down and licked it off me in slow strokes, kissing me deep so we both tasted it.

"Filthy," she whispered against my lips. "That's the one she gets to see."

On the bookshelf the phone screen lit up with a single notification, then went dark again. I glanced at it, then at her. She was already looking at the lens.

Sometime after two we lay in the wreck of the bed. The comforter was on the floor. Ella's decorative pillows were scattered. The bodysuit hung off one of Liz's shoulders, a strap broken. I got up, stopped the recording, and carried the phone to the nightstand.

"She's going to want that back," I said, meaning the bodysuit.

"She can have it." Liz stretched. "I'm keeping the dress."

Chapter Six

Liz got up around 2:40 and went through Ella's dresser naked. She came back with the pale pink teddy, still tagged, and pulled it on. The silk barely covered anything. She dropped her phone on the nightstand, climbed back into bed, and lay on top of me.

We slept.

I woke at 8:50 with sun in my eyes. Liz was still asleep, back against my chest, the teddy bunched around her waist.

I kissed the back of her neck. She made a sleepy sound and pressed back against me.

"Morning."

"Morning."

I was already hard. I reached down, guided myself into her from behind, and fucked her slow while she was still half-asleep. One hand on her breast, the other steadying her hip. She came quiet and shaking. I followed, grinding deep.

I stayed inside her for a long minute. When I pulled out, cum leaked down her thigh. Liz reached back without opening her eyes, gathered a little on her fingers, and brought it to her mouth, quiet this time, no performance.

My phone buzzed again on the nightstand. Forty-one notifications from Ella.

Ella: what the fuck

Ella: WHAT THE FUCK

Ella: is that my DRESS

Ella: who is she

Ella: are you in MY BED

Ella: call me right now

Ella: I'm serious call me

Missed call. Missed call. Missed call.

Ella: that bodysuit was $400

Ella: I know you can see these

Ella: please

The last one came in eleven minutes ago.

Beside it, Liz's phone lit up once. A single text from Greg, timestamped 6:02 a. m.: Where are you? I turned my phone face-down next to Ella's diamond studs. Liz reached over, read the message, and turned hers over too.

She was watching me now, that slow smile spreading.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, and pulled her back against me. "Everything's fine."

The fig needed water. Sunday. I'd get to the plant later.