“I first spotted her in the Self-Help section.”

She’d arrived on a Monday and smiled shyly when I checked her out, but he kept her eyes on me as she walked toward the exit. The moment she disappeared, I headed to that section, found the book she’d purchased and skimmed some of the highlights: Moving forward, getting over being a dumpee, embracing adventure and change. However, the chapter heading that caught my eye was “Sex with a Stranger.”

I could be that stranger. I was more than willing to fill that role. I remembered how her eyes had stayed on me well past the point where I’d handed her a receipt, and how they’d stayed on me from outside the store. She’d stared through the glass of the front window until she lost her nerve and finally looked away, hurrying down the sidewalk.

The only problem with being the stranger was this: I didn’t know her name. She’d paid cash. I had no idea how to get in touch with her. The only thing I could do was wait. If she wanted me to be her stranger, she’d come back.

Wednesday, just after my shift started, the front door’s bell jingled. I was alone, as I always was on weekdays. Sales didn’t warrant more than one employee on shift any days but Saturday and Sunday. It’s a small indie bookstore and struggling as most are.

I looked up to see her waltzing in. She had on a flowy tie-dyed black-and-gray skirt, an artsy, draped tank the color of cabernet and silver sandals. She smiled at me, her cheeks heating. I could see the color there. I gave her a nod and managed to say, “Nice to see you again.”

“I forgot to look for another book I was interested in.”

“Can I tempt you with a cup of coffee? Local. Strong. Fantastic. It’s on the house.”

I got a very coy incline of her head as an answer. Her curtain of yellow-blonde hair slipped to hide one of her big blue eyes.

I handed over a cup of coffee, let her doctor it to her taste, and then I retreated behind the counter. She’d have to let me know if I was reading her right.

I watched her drift down the aisle like a ghost and then did my best to focus on the music playing over the speaker system. I gave her a few minutes to browse, and when I went back she was bent at the waist, searching the lower shelves. Her coffee cup was resting on the floor. The front of her wine-colored tank gaped open, and I could see the sway of her breasts, unbound by any bra, and the flat of her belly. I could see so far down the thing, I spotted the waistband of her skirt below.

“Can I…” I cleared my throat. “Need any help?”

She looked up and flashed me a smile along with her tits. “Just looking while I’m here. Seeing if anything jumps out.”

Like the tight pink buds of her nipples? But I didn’t say that. I just watched. She made no move to hide the show she was giving me.

I moved in, and she didn’t straighten. She was, in fact, bent so far over that when I moved closer, her mouth was almost level with my zipper. My cock twitched, and my pulse thumped wildly with excitement.

She raised her eyes to me, but that was all. She still stayed bent over at the waist that way. When I smiled at her, she drew a thin finger along the length of my zipper. “But if you’d really like to help me. I have an item to scratch off my to-do list.”

I nodded dumbly. “Sure.” My cock was coming to life beneath that single-fingered stroke.

“Can you lock the front door? Are we alone?”

“I can, and we are.”

She nodded, stood, and took my hand. She placed it on her breast, and when I reflexively squeezed, she let her eyes drift shut, moaning. “Door…”

I moved on feet that didn’t feel quite present. I turned the lock and flipped the sign to “Back in 10.” We used it often for breaks when a sole person was on-shift.

I found her where I’d left her — long hippie skirt lifted, sans panties, and waiting. “Hurry,” she said. Then she laughed. “Before I lose my nerve.”

I moved in, already working my zipper and then the button of my jeans. When I got close enough, she dropped to her knees, knocked my hand away, got me free and sucked my cock into her hot, wet mouth. I put my hands in her corn-silk hair and thrust between her lips until she was breathless. My dick wet with her spit, she took it in hand and stroked me until I had to start doing math in my head. I didn’t want to come too soon and ruin her fantasy. Her adventure.

She stood and leaned her ass against the wall-mounted shelving and drew me in by my dick. She kissed me in a desperately needy way, and then she took me, running my cockhead along her soaking-wet slit. She arched and mewled, making noises that shut down all of my rational thought.

I finally grabbed her hips and entered her, just a few inches. When she stilled, looking me right in the eye like a challenge, I took a deep breath and jammed my dick into her. The root of my cock kissed her damp pussy, the soft skin a torturously good sensation.

“That’s what I needed,” she said, letting her eyes drift shut.

I started to move in and out of her. Her drenched cunt gripped me. I didn’t even know her name. Didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. But none of it mattered. I was the stranger. It was an honor to be the fulfillment of a fantasy.

I held her hips, kissing her neck and then contorting myself to reach her nipples with my mouth while keeping my cock buried inside her. I bit the exposed halo of flesh, tugged it with my teeth, and when I felt her go tight and ripple around my dick, I began fucking her in earnest. I pinned her to the hard wood, books tumbling around us as I bucked. She raised her hips to greet me thrust for thrust. She squeezed her pussy tight around me on purpose; I could tell by the serious look on her face.

She moved like a wave, and her damp heat invaded my senses. I could feel her, see her, smell her. Her head tipped back, and she let out a short but shocked “Oh!”

I felt her coming, milking my cock. Her hands strayed to her nipples, exposed by her disheveled tank. I gave her a few more hard thrusts, and then let go, crying out against her shoulder.

She straightened herself and smiled. Then thrust a book at me. “Can I pay for this?” “Sure. Sure…” I was barely able to string words together.

I rang her up, gave her a receipt and handed her the bag. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” she said. Then she was gone. I watched her disappear into the pedestrian traffic, realizing I never had gotten her name and hoping against hope that one of her self-help books had a chapter titled “Revisiting the Stranger.”