LITMIR.BIZ

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in Random Point. Marguerite Alexander’s was the one worth visiting. A spiral staircase invited the browser to climb to three galleries lined with scholarly and esoteric tomes. The loftiest tier was crammed with erotica from every era and all corners of the globe. Marguerite prided her shop on offering the most complete collection of connoisseur’s literature in New England.

      But even more of an attraction of the shop was Marguerite herself. Certain male denizens, who had never read literature more sophisticated than Stephen King, could attest that it was worth the price of a coffee table glossy just to be able to watch her undulate up and down the spiral staircase in a tight mohair skirt and a snug sweater.

      A lustrous mane of light red hair gorgeously offset Marguerite’s flawless bisque complexion. She was 30 years of age, wasp-waisted, provocatively tall, interestingly educated and completely uninhibited. She looked especially tantalizing when she kept her glasses on, for they gave her a shy expression, which was piquant in contrast to her showgirl silhouette.

      Marguerite was Hugo’s favorite submissive. He had brought her out 5 years before and she was still realizing her potential under his management. Some of her exercises involved her playing the dominant role over others. Handsome tokens were always tendered to Marguerite after such efforts. Thus, for the good of her bank account, Hugo had turned her out.

      Marguerite also published B&D stories in Hugo Sands’ journal, writing under the pseudonym “Alma”. Laura Random, whom Marguerite had first met at Bennington, always illustrated her fiction.

      Marguerite Alexander was late in arriving at Hugo’s that evening, but thought she had a very good excuse. There was New Talent in town.

      It was raining and she’d walked the two miles from her shop to Hugo’s house, to revel in the inconvenience, while mulling over what had happened at the stop just before closing time.

      The couple came in at 5:30. They were strangers to Random Point and the man was very attractive. Marguerite noted that he was possibly 6’3”, broad shouldered, fair complected, blue eyed and about her own age. He was dressed in a suit of gray Donegal tweed, the cut of which she could not help but openly admire.

      A young woman whom Marguerite found instantly disagreeable accompanied the excitingly tall and nattily dressed young man. The companion was content to remain on the lower level, perusing works by politically correct female authors, whereas the interesting gentleman immediately noticed the plan of the shop, which clearly stated one could find erotica on the third level. He ascended to the loft at once and there remained engrossed until his woman finally sought him out just before 6:00.

      Marguerite, who had been covertly watching him all the while he browsed alone in the gallery, now was able to observe them in conversation from her excellent vantage point below.

      They were standing together in front of the stacks that held all of Marguerite’s favorite books. He had never stirred from these stacks all the while he was above. Now Marguerite could hear the girl pronouncing judgment.

      “All these books share the same vile theme!” the girl loudly declared: “Women being Abused by Men!” Then she flung aside in disgust the offensive volume she had rudely dislodged from her friend’s large, capable hand to shallowly skim. Marguerite later went up to the gallery to search for the book the girl had thrown down. It was on the floor and the cover had become soiled. Marguerite lamented the ruin of the copy of the novel Frank and I.

      “Oh, how I’d like to fix that one,” mused Marguerite, as the unpleasant young woman began to descend the gallery stairs. An instant later, the resounding thump, thump, thump of the young woman’s bottom sliding down the steps, after a freakish slip, gratified Marguerite.

      The tall man rushed down to the landing to help his friend to her feet, but the girl was cranky and pushed him away.

      “Oh, leave me alone. I’m all right. She must wax those steps! I should sue Reebok. Who ever heard of skidding with cleated shoes on? Come on, Michael, let’s get out of here.”

      “I’ll meet you downstairs. I’m going back for a book I wanted,” he told her, going back upstairs before waiting for a reply. Marguerite observed this conspicuous absence of gallantry and was amused.

      The girl continued downstairs by herself, but stopped at the counter to rate Marguerite for the slippery steps. The redhead could not apologize enough, and even pressed the volume of feminist poetry the girl had been fondling a few minutes before upon the sore fall victim, as a gift.

      “Please take it. It will make me feel so much better!” Marguerite insisted, unable to resist peeking up at the loft in the midst of wrapping the thin volume in tissue and handing it to the girl. He was back in the spanking novels again!

      “Well, all right. Thanks. I guess it’s fair compensation for a black and blue butt,” the girl said, rubbing the seat of her sweat pants gingerly. For an instant then, she seemed quite likeable, but quickly ruined this impression by suddenly demanding, “Why do you stock so many books that promote violence against women?”

      Marguerite replied, “It isn’t violence, it’s merely C.P.. Ask your companion to explain.” The girl followed the redhead’s upward gaze to the gallery where her escort was still browsing.

      “C.P.?” The girl was becoming annoyed. “What’s that?”

      “Ask him,” Marguerite reiterated, smiling with evil satisfaction at her customer’s innocence. “I’m sure he’d be only too happy to demonstrate the rudiments of corporal punishment to you.”

      The girl now sensed that she was being toyed with. There was something in the lush-lipped, ripe-bosomed, expensive smelling woman that was at once offensive and alarming to the Boston social worker.

      “Michael, I’ll be outside!” she announced, as he joined them at the counter. She let the door slam behind her, not bothering to disguise the irritation she felt for this stranger who apparently knew her man’s likes and dislikes so intimately.

      Michael handed a copy of O Wicked Country to her along with some cash.

      “I think you’ll find this oddly compelling,” she said.

      “I’ll be back,” said Michael, pocketing the book and the change.

      “I’ll be here.”

      Marguerite perched upon a low, 3-legged stool, in front of the open hearth in Hugo Sands’ kitchen, to dry her rain-soaked hair. She was wearing only Hugo’s flannel robe, with her splendid body naked under it.

      “You still haven’t told me why you were late,” Hugo said, handing her a glass of wine.

      “A man came in today, just before closing...” Marguerite sipped from the glass, set it down on the floor beside her, then commenced combing out her wildly tangled hair. Hugo waited, but Marguerite drifted.

      “And?” he prompted.

      “And nothing. I just want him. I walked over here in the rain, because I wanted to luxuriate in fantasies about my new lover.”

      “You’re confident. Who is this paragon anyway?”

      “His name is Michael. He’s even taller than you. And much younger.”

      “Thanks!”

      “He was up in the loft the whole time. He read one of our favorite books from cover to cover, then bought it.”

      “Haven’t you left something out, Marguerite?”

      “Yes, he was dressed in a handsome tweed suit. The drape was magnificent.”

      “Aren’t you forgetting something else, Marguerite?” Hugo interrupted, impatiently.

      “Something more important than the cut of this man’s suit?” Marguerite pondered deeply.

      “Wasn’t our natty out-of-towner accompanied by a pretty girl in an ugly jogging suit?”

      “Yes, how did you know?”

      “Detective

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