The Library ~ an Erotic Short Story by Anita Bush

The Library ~ an Erotic Short Story by Anita Bush © 2013

(Also available as an Issuu publication)

The Library An Erotic Short Story by Anita Bush 2013

Of all the places you dream of finding a lover, the local library is surely nowhere in the top ten. It’s probably not even in the top fifty.

When you want to meet a guy where do you normally go?

A bar? Maybe.

A nightclub? If you’re kind of desperate.

Perhaps you shop online for men nowadays. It’s all the rage, apparently.

Talking of shopping for men, even the supermarket is probably way up there in the finding a date stakes. Spotting hot guys buying meals for one, then accidentally bumping trolleys before bumping hips. It’s almost a sport. Not that I’m into sport; well maybe if it involves sex.

But the library? Who in their right mind goes there to pick up guys?

I’ll tell you who. Me. That’s who.

Now let me tell you why.

*

It was Saturday, and I was wandering around town doing a bit of window shopping. The weather was warm and the sun was just the right temperature for my delicate skin; I was happily meandering in a short skirt and a thin top, my pretty bra just visible through the material. Catching guys staring always gave me a little thrill and I often deliberately passed men just to get a reaction.

I’d bought an ice cream from the local Thornton’s and was planning on a spot of lunch, then maybe buying a new skirt or some shoes before heading home. That was one of the advantages of being single; I didn’t have any demands on my time.

I was absentmindedly finishing my cone and eyeing up some guy parking his bicycle next to the bank when my mobile rang. It was in my bag, and as I got it out I remembered I had a book to take back to the library for mum. She’d asked me to do it for her as she was away for a few days and had dropped it off at mine before she left.

“Hello,” I said, taking the call.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Oh, hi mum. How was the journey? Did you manage to get there ok?” As I spoke to her I continued watching the guy with his bike. He crouched down to chain it to a bollard and I could see a bit if his back and the top of his underwear where his t-shirt had ridden up. His skin was nicely tanned and he had a seriously nice butt.

“Yes it was fine,” said mum’s voice in my ear. “I was lucky. I managed to get a double seat all to myself the entire journey.” She’d gone whizzing off across the country on a National Express coach to see her sister, and she’d been worried about it being an uncomfortable ride. She normally caught the train when she went away, but the price was getting too much for her these days so she’d opted for a cheaper alternative.

I’d been on one of those coaches before, and there was never quite enough leg room. They were also especially uncomfortable if you tried to sleep. I was in my mid twenties and it was bad enough for me; I couldn’t imagine mum, who was in her late fifties, enjoying it very much at all. I could almost feel my back aching in sympathy.

“How’s Aunty Barbara?” She was mum’s sister. They were close, speaking on the phone several times a week for as long as I could remember, but they only saw each other a few times a year. More since my Uncle had passed away, but still not enough for mum’s liking.

Bicycle guy had stood up and turned towards the bank entrance. As he entered he caught me staring at him. He did a double take and smiled at me, before awkwardly going inside.

“She’s good. She sends her love. She said you should come and visit her sometime.”

“Tell her I will as soon as I can.” I loved visiting my Aunt’s house. It was in the beautiful Norfolk countryside and so peaceful, but I was always so busy with work or caught up with friends that I never quite got around to going.

“Did you remember to take my book back for me?” Mum was a stickler for never letting things become overdue.

“I’m in town now,” I said. “I’ve got it right here.”

“Don’t forget will you?” she said. I could hear the nervousness in her voice. The thought of a fifty pence fine would be gnawing away at her until I reported back with the news the book had been safely returned.

“I won’t,” I said. “I’ll go there now and drop it in.”

“Thank you,” she said.

We spoke for a little longer; I heard all about Aunty Barbara’s bunion, what they’d eaten for lunch, and what they were planning for dinner. Somewhere amongst it all I think mum took a breath. She could talk for England, my mum. I loved her dearly, though. As we spoke, bicycle guy reappeared. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking at me shyly and perhaps wondering if he should, or even could, ask me out for lunch. He was kind of cute, and I pictured us laughing over a Panini. A little bit of cheese pinged back and stuck to my lip as I took a bite, and he reached out his hand and dabbed it with a napkin. Our eyes met and I blushed, hoping the next thing to touch my lips would be his…

“…are you listening to me?” said mum.

“Sorry, yes. Give my love to Aunty Barb.” Bicycle guy was gone. He’d unchained his bike and ridden away from me and my Panini.

I said goodbye to mum and hung up, then took her book out of my bag and headed for the library as I’d promised. It was in the shopping centre, and I needed to consciously stop myself from getting sidetracked by several shops that were enticing me in. Shoes were calling me, but I was strong.

*

It was a while since I’d been in the library. The last time I came was with mum. We’d been in town together, and she wanted to get a new book.

“You should join,” she said as we stood waiting to check out her books. “Reading’s good for you, and it’s cheaper to borrow than to buy.”

“I don’t get time to read,” I said. That wasn’t really true. I did have time to read if I gave up a bit of television, or even read a chapter in bed each night. I could also read on the train to and from work, instead of staring out of the window or playing with my phone. Anything to take my mind of the monotony of my day job.

“Everyone has time to read,” she said. She sounded cross. Or perhaps just disappointed. Either way she wasn’t impressed. She did that thing she always did when she was upset. It was like she was chewing something. Her jaw moved up and down but her mouth remained closed. You’re mother’s chewing the cud again, dad always used to say, which meant keep out of her way or rue the day.

“You’re annoyed with me.” I touched her arm, trying to placate her. It always calmed her down when I did that, and I felt her relax, saw her shoulders loosen and her tightened jaw unclench.

“I just don’t understand why you young people don’t read more? What’s so important you can’t spare even half an hour a day to read? It stops you going doolally.” She whispered the last bit, looking around to make sure no-one could hear her.

“I’m not going to go doolally.” I laughed, but she wasn’t joking.

“It’s not funny. It’s a well known fact people who don’t read are more prone to going senile. Look at your Uncle Alf.” Uncle Alf had suffered from early onset dementia, and mum always blamed it on whatever her latest bee in the bonnet happened to be. Last week it had been curly kale; I’d been over for dinner and asked not to have any.

“Is that even true?” I hadn’t heard anything about it, though in fairness to mum it kind of made sense. Reading was a mental work out of sorts, maybe not like doing a crossword or Sudoku, but it made you think, made you use your mind, and it had to help in some way I supposed. It was more believable than a diet lacking in curly kale at any rate.

She didn’t answer. She’d said her piece; now it was time for me to reflect upon her words of wisdom.

“I suppose I could join,” I said, looking down at my shoes and twisting one of them on the ball of my foot like I was five years old. I knew resistance was futile.

So I did join. That day. Mum stood with me as proud as anything as I filled in a quick form and got my library card. It had a picture of a red squirrel on it. I had no idea why, and still don’t even now. Maybe storing information, like squirrels store nuts? Or maybe they thought I was five years old too?

Anyway, the thing was I’d had the library card in my purse ever since, and never used it. It just sat there, surrounded by train tickets and mini statements from the atm.

“Can I help you?” said a voice. I realised I was standing in the library, daydreaming. I focused and handed the book to a young girl in a beige jumper and thick bottle bottom glasses, who was staring at me from behind the counter. Her huge lenses made her eyes look enormous and it made me jump slightly. She took the book, looking at me for a clue as to whether it was coming or going.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s a return. For my mum.” I felt silly adding that last bit. What did she care who it was from? The library probably didn’t care if it was from some tramp or the Queen, as long as they got the book back.

The girl swiped the book under a barcode reader and popped it on a pile to her left.

“Was there anything else?” she said.

“No, that’s it.” I said. I fought the urge to ask her why her glasses were so big.

I headed for the door, thinking I should call mum to put her mind at rest, when I stopped. I turned around and looked back into the library. There were actually quite a lot of people in the place, and not just old people. Maybe I ought to have a look? Maybe I should find out what all the fuss was about? Choose a book, have a read, make mum proud. I hesitated, but decided against it. Who was I trying to kid? I wasn’t a reader. Sorry mum.

I was half way out the door when someone coming in caught my eye. It was a man. He was maybe a few years older than me? He was quite well dressed, and there was something about him that made me stop dead in my tracks. He wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but he was incredibly charismatic. The doors to the library jarred, clattering as they tried to close but were jolted open again when the sensor registered me standing still in the doorway.

I walked back into the library, letting the doors close behind me.

*

He was in fiction. Classic Literature according to the sign above his head. I was in Horror, peeking at him through the shelf after having pulled out a couple of books to aid my view. I had to bend down slightly to see him, but I figured if I was going to stand like the proverbial Hunchback I was at least in the right section.

He was quite tall, maybe six foot? He was wearing grey trousers and a pink shirt, with proper shoes. He had on a pair of fashionable glasses, and his hair was slightly dishevelled but it looked like it was on purpose, like he’d ruffled it and used some hair product so it had that ‘just got out of bed’ look. Kind of how you imagine a writer’s hair to be, or maybe a Frenchman. Maybe a French writer. Perhaps he was called Pascal, or Gérard, and he owned a vineyard and possibly a château? He was in England on business, to see his agent or his publisher, and he’d just popped into the library to do some last minute research.

I was babbling. In my head. A bad sign. Perhaps mum was right? I didn’t read. I was going senile. It was Uncle Alf all over again.

He put the book he’d been looking at back on the shelf and moved to another section. I followed, making sure I kept out of his line of sight.

He walked with confidence, like he was at home in his surroundings. Not like me, skulking from book aisle to book aisle, crouching down one minute then dashing around the next. If they had cctv in the place I imagined someone was almost falling off their chair watching my antics. I suspected I might end up on YouTube before the day was out.

The man looked at a few more books and then he turned, heading in my direction. He walked straight past me without even registering my presence, but then turned back and stood next to me, reaching for a book above my head. As he leant in I could smell him. He smelt of sandalwood, and something else, perhaps pine? It was light, subtle, and alluring. Manly. Masculine. Sexy. It made me feel slightly intoxicated. His arm moved incredibly close to my bare shoulder and I could feel the air between us, dancing with static electricity. Part of me thought I perhaps ought to move away so we wouldn’t touch, but another part of me wanted to move closer, wanted to brush against him and make a connection. I closed my eyes, imagining what it would feel like, his arm making contact with my bare flesh. His shirt was long sleeved, but I couldn’t help fantasising about our skin touching. I had to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from whimpering with the sheer anticipation of it.

“He’s good,” he said. His voice was everything I imagined it would be; deep and strong. I felt goose bumps as he spoke so close to my ear.

I looked around expecting to see someone else, but there was just me and the man.

“Who?” I replied. My voice wavered as I spoke, making me cough slightly in an effort to clear my throat.

“Steven King,” he said, indicating the books I held in my hand. I’d forgotten to put them back on the shelf from when I’d been spying on him from Horror.

“Oh, these aren’t mine,” I said. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt embarrassed. Now I knew how Frances felt in Dirty Dancing when she carried a watermelon.

“Are you carrying them around for someone else?” he said, looking around to see if I was with anyone. He seemed slightly disappointed.

“No, I’m here alone.” I’d never felt so relieved to be on my own before. Now I was up close to him he really was much better looking than I’d first thought.

“Oh, good,” he said. He seemed pleased.

I put the books down. “I’m just…actually I don’t know why I’ve got them.” I laughed as I spoke, running my fingers across one of the book covers before looking up into his eyes. We maintained eye contact for just a moment too long for it to be just a friendly encounter. I sensed he liked me as much as I liked him.

He laughed gently, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. He had an attractive face. His skin was completely smooth and unblemished, with not a scratch from shaving or any sign of stubble. His eyes were clear, intense, but kind. I felt safe talking to him.

He reached out and picked up the books I’d been carrying. His hands were large, and I noted his nails looked manicured. There was no ring on his wedding finger.

“We should put these back,” he said. Not in an accusing way, just in a let’s be helpful to the librarian way. “Unless you want to follow me around some more?”

I blushed. He’d obviously seen me, when I thought I was being so covert. My application to MI6 as their next Spymaster General was clearly a waste of time.

“Yes, let’s put them back,” I said. I felt utterly enthralled by him. He could have said anything to me then, suggested anything, and I’d probably have entertained it.

Let’s go and have coffee.

Let’s strip naked and run through the library, pulling books off the shelves.

Let’s run away together and make babies.

That escalated quickly. I was in trouble.

“I’m Mark, by the way.” He held out his hand and I took it. His grip was firm but also gentle, like he possessed the power to crush me if he wanted to but he didn’t want to hurt me.

“Rebecca,” I said. My hand felt lost in his, tiny and submissive. As we touched, skin on skin, I felt something stirring deep within. A kind of longing, for his hand to touch more than my hand. I wanted him to touch me, to touch my body, to feel me all over, both outside and in. I felt like I was spellbound. I felt like I was his.

*

We went to the second floor of the library. Mark led me by the hand, past rows of shelves that held many books. I glanced at a few signs as we walked briskly past but nothing really registered. My mind was on other things. My mind was on him.

He took me to the far end of the floor, to a section filled with music scores and cassette tapes. The material here was laid out differently, lying down flat in piles rather than upright, making it much more difficult for anyone to see what we were up to from the adjoining aisle. It was almost completely private, and totally secluded. The only way anyone could see us would be to join us in our aisle, or to look down on us from a walkway above that appeared to be staff access only.

Mark stopped and gently pushed me up against the wall, leaning forward to kiss me. His lips looked soft, yet as they embraced mine for the first time they were firm and confident. I let out a sound of excitement as our mouths explored each other, our lips pressed against each other’s and our tongues moving together, though I kept one eye on the walkway above in case anyone spotted us. Mark sensed my apprehension.

“It’s ok,” he said. “I’ve been here before, just looking at the music scores, and no one ever comes down here.”

“Except you?” I said.

“Exactly,” he replied. “And I’m already here.”

I wondered if he’d brought other women here, but soon let the thought go. He kissed me again and I responded, letting him ravage my lips with his own, my body with his hands. It felt good letting him touch me through my top. His hands were confident, even slightly rough. I remembered something I’d seen on the internet about women wanting to be manhandled, and that they’d soon say if the man was being too rough. Mark seemed like the kind of man who would handle me perfectly.

I’d never been in a situation like this before and it excited me; neither with a total stranger, letting them kiss and fondle me after meeting them just a few moments ago, nor in somewhere so publicly inappropriate as a library. Knowing that at any moment someone could walk around the corner, or along the walkway above, and catch us made it intensely exciting. I felt myself getting damp between my thighs, partly at the way Mark himself made me feel, and partly at the possibility of us being disturbed.

I guessed Mark felt it too, as I could clearly feel his erection through his trousers. It nudged against me, making its presence known. He pulled away from me for a moment, looking down at it and then back at me. He didn’t seem embarrassed. I guessed he was checking my reaction.

I figured I had nothing to lose except my own inhibitions, so I touched him through his trousers, running my fingers over the outline of his impressive bulge. He let me rub my hand up and down the length of it, and I could feel the heat through his clothes. He pressed himself against my palm, increasing the friction and making it strain even more inside his pants.

“Do you want me to take it out?” I whispered. I wanted to feel him in my hand, to control him and make him beg for me. I was staring into his eyes, wondering what he might say.

“God yes,” he said, still pressing himself against me. He touched my breasts through my top, rubbing his fingers over my nipples. They responded instantly, stiffening and poking into my bra, and I wanted to feel his hands on them, his mouth sucking then, his teeth nibbling them. I’d never felt so wanton, so much lust and desire.

I could see a chair over to our right, in the corner of the aisle. It was a simple armless one, with a plain blue seat and back covering, like the rest of the chairs I’d seen elsewhere in the library.

“Why don’t you sit down and I’ll help you out with this?” I said, motioning Mark towards the chair and squeezing him through his trousers.

He grinned and walked to the chair, positioning it so he would have his back to the main aisle and the walkway. As he sat down I knelt down in front of him, with my back to the window. Nothing overlooked the library so no one would see us though it.

I kissed him, kneeling between his legs as my hands undid his trousers, first the clasp at the top and then the zip. I could hear his breathing growing deeper and more rapid, and knew he was as excited as I was. I put my hand inside his pants and released him. He was hard and rigid, and I bent down, licking the tip which glistened with my saliva as I covered it with my tongue.

“That’s good,” he said. “Take it all in.”

I lowered my mouth and Mark brushed back my hair so he could watch me devour him. I took in as much as I could but there were still a few inches of him I couldn’t accommodate.

“Suck me,” he said. “As hard as you like.”

I started to move my mouth up and down, sucking hard so my lips formed a tight seal around his shaft. I made sure I used my lips and tongue to full effect on the sensitive tip, slowing right down each time I almost let him out of my mouth only to envelope him again. He put a hand in my hair, helping to guide my head up and down on him, applying a little pressure to tell me when to speed up.

He tasted so good, and I really wanted to feel him come in my mouth, to feel him running over my tongue. But I also wanted to feel him deep inside me. My clit was dying for some attention, so I reached down between my legs as I sucked him, putting my hand up under my skirt and inside my knickers. I was so wet I sank two of my fingers into myself, thrusting them in and out as fast as I could. My eyes were closed, imagining him inside me, filling and stretching me as we made passionate love on the chair. I wrapped my other hand around his shaft, moving it up and down. He sat right back, stretching his legs out and pushing his hips forward, which made him more accessible. I should have pulled down his trousers, but it was probably better leaving them like they were in case we were disturbed and he had to cover himself up in a hurry.

“Stand up,” he said, pulling me onto my feet and closer to him. He remained seated, and as I took my hand out of my knickers he moved it to his mouth, sucking my fingers and tasting me. His other hand moved up my legs and he took hold of my knickers, pulling them down until they were at my ankles. Stepping out of them I straddled his legs, lowering myself onto him. He slid into me with ease, filling me completely. He felt so good inside me, and our mouths locked together as I jerked up and down on him.

I kept my eyes open so I could see up the aisle in case anyone came, but the only person coming at that precise moment was me. The sheer thrill of having sex with a handsome stranger in public was too much for me, and my brain exploded like a thousand fireworks as I came hard and fast. It was one of the best orgasms I’d ever had, incredibly intense and long. I wanted to scream out loud, but Mark put his hand over my mouth to stop me. I moaned into his hand, sounding like a hostage with tape over my mouth, savouring the intensity of my orgasm and almost biting his fingers.

I carried on riding him, through my orgasm and out the other side. He placed his hands on my bottom, caressing my cheeks as I bounced up and down on him. I held onto the chair, grinding myself down onto him until he started to moan. I knew he was going to come and I kept up the rhythm, willing him to explode inside me. When he did, he buried his face into my neck to mask his own sounds of delight. He jerked his hips as he came inside me, and I could feel him pulsating as he filled me with his hot, sticky semen.

We kissed and then cleaned ourselves up, parting as quickly as we’d met. It felt strange having just been so intimate with a perfect stranger to be going our separate ways; part of me wondered if I should at least try to see Mark again, but the sheer excitement of doing nothing about it was exhilarating. It was completely terrible behaviour, but somehow that made it all the more enjoyable. As Mark walked away, I watched him and laughed at the sheer audacity we’d had of having sex in a public library.

I left the library myself soon after on a total high. I still felt incredibly turned on, and wondered if anyone knew what I’d been up to only moments before. My cheeks were burning, and I held my hand against them to try and cool them down, all the while knowing I’d be back soon to look for more leading men.

*

So, that’s my story. That’s why I now shop for men at the library. After Mark, I worked my way through Sebastian, Charles, two Tom’s and a Nick. All were smartly dressed, well groomed, well read, and all highly sexed. Whether there’s a connection between men who read and who are amazing to fuck, I don’t know. I think I need to carry out more research on that front, but early indications are proving positive.

What I do know is the library has been a revelation, a real eye opener as well as a leg opener.

Mum is pleased I seem to have embraced the library at last, though I haven’t told her the real reason I go there. We spoke about it last night, as a matter of fact.

“Did you pick up anything exciting at the library?” she said, during our weekly catch up on the phone.

“There was something that held my attention for a bit,” I said, biting my lip in the hope she wouldn’t ask for a title.

“Was it a paperback?” she asked, innocently.

“No,” I replied. “It was definitely hard.”

The Library an Erotic Short Story by Anita Bush 2013

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