it was all in the turn of her calf

 The Bronte, the Austen the Eliot collections...he could never understand them.

Classics of fantastical minds. 

And then the The Mills and Boons scattered all over the place...he marvelled at the millions of dollars that must be made on these...what would one call it...paperback silliness. 

To him, it was the same old same old romantic nonsense  and, he wondered who the  readers would be. 

Desperately lost romantics?  Bored pesky widows...women only? Or, did men indulge too?

Stumbling over one of those books, left laying on the floor in the reading room, nearly landing on all fours, the irritation was surpassed by the curiosity to eventually peek between the covers and see what the fascination may be.

The first few minutes were more a scan of the words written, and then, he found himself placing his frame firmly into the comfort of his reading chair as Emily Bronte began to capture his attention ...leading with every word written, weaving the magic of Wuthering Heights . 

He became fascinated with Heathcliff and his torture...the sensuality, the sensuous desire of a woman, the debilitating responsibility he had placed on himself.

All of a sudden, he decided, the book required a reading from page one...his heart pounding, amazed at the desire to read more. 

He looked around and with a hungry grab , picked up a Mills and Boons...the cover of a buxom vixen, cleavage spilling, coyly revealing a turn of her shapely calf. 

He opened the detested paperback, searched hungrily for words that would feed his desire to know how words of luscious velvety seduction would be captured by pen and paper.

He found it...

The pirate, lifting the heavy skirts of a maiden, to reveal milky soft firm thighs....he could could not contain the hardness that began to push against his levi's.

And there she stood, at the door, smiling, watching him...beginning to unbutton her loose shift that was a sheer tease of a frame naked, willing and yearning....she would show him her curves...the turn of her shapely calf ...she would lead him down the many corridors of eroticism that inspired her writing and reads...he would understand her fascination of writers that knew to brew a magic most intimate between writer and reader...it was time to make him a believer of the strength of pen and paper of her collection that he thought was a waste of reading time....escapism delicious, a delicious balance for the harsh reality of a society forced, confused and influential in the bedroom, making it callously cold and unfeeling....RB.