At The Library – Chapter 1

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I am in the stacks at the library. I fucking love the library. Endless shelves of books on every subject. I will often spend an afternoon as an indulgent treat for myself. And today there is nothing urgent that I have to attend to, so I am here.I am doing as I love to do, wandering and pulling books off of shelves until I have an armload full.  I am balancing the stack in both arms, pausing to tuck them under my chin when I spy something new and interesting to add to the pile.  My eyes scan high and low, taking in the names of authors, the titles, even the color and design of the spines. When I find a particularly interesting section I may pause and set the books down to grab a few and balance them on top. My ritual is to continue like this until my arms are struggling to contain their bounty, then I will find a table where I can lay them out and peruse them. Sometimes I will riffle quickly through a series of nonfiction texts looking at images and instructions and contemplating projects I might undertake. Sometimes I will sink into a novel and wile away the afternoon before checking it out of the library and taking it home. Today I am in the lower stacks. I have been looking at historical periodicals and journals, fascinated by their glimpses into an earlier time and culture.  As I wander towards the back of one of the aisles, I come across  a small section of a shelf that has a meagre selection of erotica. I set down my armload of books on the floor and nervously reach up to pull a selection off a shelf. Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. I know of this book. I read a few pages once upon a time when I spotted it on the shelf at a friend’s house before guiltily shoving it back when I realized what it contained. I am curious and I begin to read. My heart is racing and I am looking around to make sure no one is nearby, feeling istanbul travesti somehow that my interest in such a work of fiction is inappropriate. I would not want others in my small town to catch me reading it. I carefully place my hands over the cover in a way that obscures the title.The prose is poetic and lurid and deals with some shocking subject matter. I am both aroused and conflicted as I read. I find myself laughing as I peruse Anais Nin’s ‘letter to her sponsor” in which she hurls hateful invectives at him for forcing her as a writer, to turning erotic art into unimaginative mechanical sex acts.As I am perusing this prose, I can feel my body responding predictably to the sexual scenes that the author describes. Flipping casually through the worn pages, my thumb comes to rest at the beginning of a tale called Artists and Models, and I begin to read. A delicious warmth is pervading my form. The heat that suffuses my cheeks also pools low in my belly and throbs between my legs. And soon I am pulsing my thighs together and surreptitiously pressing my fingers against my pubic mound. The place is deserted. People flock to the malls and leave libraries alone these days. I have not seen or heard another soul, and I allow myself to sink down onto the floor against the wall, my pile of books forgotten. I lose myself in the delicious words on the page. I read the model’s account of her seduction at the hands of the artist, “I felt his penis against my ass. He slipped his hands around my waist and lifted me up slightly so that he could penetrate me.” And as I read, I imagine the brush of his penis against my ass. I imagine the artist’s hands on my hips. I close my eyes and conjure the sound of his penis sliding violently in and out of my moist pussy.  Reading this collection of short stories, I am in turmoil, travesti istanbul intensely aroused, the feeling augmented by nervous energy. I am in a public building, in a relatively open space. I pause, my heart racing and let my senses scan the stacks,  looking for any signs of life before I slip my hand down the front of my pants.My panties are soaked and I begin working my fingers between my swollen pussy lips to tease my clit. I trace slow circles over my flesh that serve to inflame my arousal. And as the sensations intensify, I occasionally create a burst of rapidfire vibrations. My fingers, light and teasing, pressed flat against the front of my pussy, become a blur of movement sending delicious sensation coursing through me, ratcheting up my heart rate, making my head swim with pleasure.I scan the text looking for more sex. “His fingers dug into my flesh. His nails were sharp and hurt. He aroused me so much with his vigorous thrusts that my mouth opened and I was biting into the couch cover,” I read. I sink my teeth into my lower lip. My head rests back against the wall for a moment as I imagine his ‘vigorous thrusts’. I envision myself face down, with my hair falling forward, bouncing with each jab of his cock. As I continue in this fashion, left hand holding up the book, right hand teasing delirious sensation from my raw nerves and eroticised mind, my forearm is cramping a little from the effort to reach down the front of my restrictive pants. I pull my hand out and continue reading. Occasionally I come across passages that create an intense erotic rush in my body. I desperately want to both soothe and nurture the sensations. The next part makes my pussy throb, “‘I want to teach you something’ said Millard. ‘Do you want to let me do it?’ He seated his finger inside my sex. ‘Now, I want you istanbul travestileri to contract around my finger. There is a muscle there that can be made to contract and expand around the penis. Try.’”As I read the words, I wriggle to push my hand down further. I slip my fingers inside, and squeeze, imagining Millard’s fingers. I imagine his eyes burning into mine; imagine a grunt of satisfaction as he feels me squeezing his fingers and wishes for the sensation around his cock.Panting now, I try to hold my breath and listen. Not a soul. With my heart pounding, I ease my hand out to unfasten the buttons of my pants and undo the zipper.I am no longer looking at the book. I am attempting to peer through the stacks, some part of my brain being recruited as lookout. The shelves are of the type that are open and I can see through them. I can see aisle after aisle of tomes. I slide my hand down the front of my body, and my fingers find my clit and start frantically teasing it again.  In a moment of self awareness I notice that my mouth has dropped open; my gaze has become fixed. I am struggling to maintain vigilance. I feel deliciously naughty and also ridiculous and somewhat mortified at my own behavior but I am so fucking turned on I want to continue. I want to take it further. My pussy is demanding more.I slide my right hand out of my pants and slip my two middle digits, ring finger and ‘bird’ finger into my mouth and suck the slippery tangy wetness off of them before hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my pants. I plant my feet on the floor, lift my ass and push my clothes down over my hips. When I let my weight settle back down, I feel the cold marble of the floor against my cheeks. The sensation sends chills through my body and makes me more intensely aware of both my vulnerability and my arousal. The book cast aside, I am now sitting on the floor of the stacks masturbating in earnest, my pants down around my thighs in a rumpled bind, my fingers buried deep between the plump folds of my pussy. I am trying to remember to control my breathing as I rocket towards an intense climax.

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