18+ Stories: The Libary – An Erotic Short Story 3March 25, 2018
The Libary – An Erotic Short Story
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 size tranger, 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.
To be continued shiv . . .Connect To Us On: