Kleavin pulled the door to the coffee shop open, the heavy wood passed under the metal bell, causing a series of motions which lead to the clapper striking the outter bell and making the sweetest ting ting sound he had ever heard. He wished he had his guitaar with him so that he could strum a note and harmonize with the bell, enhancing its sound with one of his own. The auroma of he varied coffee blends struck his nose, causing him to wish for the umteen millionth time that coffee tasted as good as it smelled. It didn't though, even when you heaped spoonfuls of sugar and poured it white with milk or cream it still had that aweful taste, one he truely hated. He didn't come here for the coffee, he came for the books. In fact he had not been in here since his junior year, almost two years ago now. Back then he didn't have his grant or his job as a teacher's assistant. Back then he lived on loans and whatever money he could scrape together playing gigs around town. Money had been really tight back then, but now...now he was buying his own place, a townhouse off campus, and considering leasing one of the spare bedrooms to a friend. Every little bit helped after all.<br/><br/>Inside the place was a bustle of activity, people coming and going, study groups meeting, kids just hanging out and having fun. The energy of the place screamed concert, but Kleavin wasn't really here to give one, an besides, no guitaar. Instead he was here today to find a certain book of poetry. He needed it for his thesis. As an undergraduate he had studied music, but learned that the real money was in writing songs, and for that you needed to be a poet. Poetry wasn't something that exactly came easy to him, so he decided to make it his goal to learn to be a poet. If he could make words match his music, he would be set!<br/><br/>He entered and gave nods to those whom he recognized. One stood out that he did not recognize, a waifish redhead with the prietest freckles. He wondered if she had freckles everywhere. He smiled at her, the smile that just barely didn't hide what he was thinking as he caught her eyes with his own, captured them and then released them the way one releases a dove or some other bird that was to pretty to keep captive. She was exquisite but not what he was here for. No he was here for poetry, for his future! He wandered the isles, scanning rows of leather bound books, paper bound books, rows of books period - so many your head swam just looking at them. He shook his head, demanding focus from his brain which just wanted to picture the redhead, naked, on all fours, up on a table where he could lick her asshole and shove his fingers into her dripping little pussy.<em>Focus!</em>he screamed inside, but his brain made fun of him picturing her hips rolling back onto his fingers, her voice begging for cock. He took a deep breath and made himself push the images aside, to focus on a book of poetry that he needed.<br/><br/>Just then he caught wiff of a new scent as his brain became used to the sweet auroma of coffee it was replaced with flowers: lilacs, jazmen, sandlwood and hint of roseoil. A woman's scent. He turned and saw another one, this one a brunette.<em>Surely God smiles on this dog's ass today,</em>he thought as he saw her shape in that cute yellow sundress. Where the other one had been waifish and almost girlish, this one was hourglass shaped, her waist tucked in allowing her hips to flare out, and her dark hair to dangle just at her neckline. He caught himself staring at the backs of her creamy white calves, the bend of her knees, the bottoms of her thighs, and then skin gave way to yellow paslee sundress, but she stood just right and the dress with just light enough, and the sun was in just the right place that he could see her silouette beneath. His jaw dropped open. He felt like that cartoon wolf in the zuite suite, ogling the redheaded singer, his eyes popping out of his skull. Now his brain produced another image, this one even more perverted than the last. Now he saw both of the them on there knees looking up at him as they traded his cock back and forth between them. His mind conjured her face though he had not seen it and her voice though he had not heard it. In his mind she asked which of them he wanted first in a coy teasing kind of way while the other one made vulger slurping sounds on his cock.<em>Good fucking grief I gotta get laid soon or I am going to go crazy,</em>he though. Then she turned her head on her slender neck and he saw her profile, her lips so red they looked like pomegranite, the cutest little button nose, and half of one pale blue eye searching. His breath caught in his throate. He couldn't speak. His feet became lead, they wouldn't move. He just stood there, drinking her in, falling for her as he watched her breath. Again his mind wandered to the waif, his cock was a raging staff in his pants, and his brain just refused to do anything but think about these two unblelieveably gorgouse young women, what their soft flesh would taste like in his mouth, woud feel like in his hands, would smell like under his nose...