Bibliotheque – By Pier29

I am a librarian. I work in the Reading Room of the State Library. Some would consider the atmosphere tedious, but I love my work. Inside each book there is a universe, yet I am surrounded by an overwhelming silence. There is a peace and refinement in this old building with its domed ceiling of tarnished jade and gold. It has attitude. Contained decadence. Those modern buildings of steel and glass are so rude.

 

Yet, I must admit that at times my job becomes a little boring. The only people who come here now are pasty academics and retirees who want to trace their ancestry. Both types smell musty, like moth balls; as if they have lived in a cupboard for a century or more. I have become accustomed to the smell of old books and old clothes. That is why the couple immediately caught my attention, even before I actually saw them. They smelled of musk and rain, a wonderous combination which caused me to act most uncharacteristically.

 

He stood behind the pretty blonde as she asked me where they could find the language books. I misunderstood her request, thinking that they wanted language instruction. “No, no,” she laughed. “We are wanting books written in languages other than English. My husband …” she stopped and turned to look at him with a mischievous grin and continued, “is taking me to Paris.” He smiled back at her, wrapping his arms around her small waist, giving her a soft kiss on the side of her face.

 

As I said, their perfume, hers especially, stirred me – more than enough to stiffle my usual sense of propriety. I felt a tightening in my groin. The looks they had given one another, spoke volumes.

 

I directed them to the third floor. I had thought that people only turned on their heel in fiction but this time I was witness to the real thing. The woman turned, grasping his hand and strode off, the man walking behind her, languid as a cat.

 

I waited a while, then gathered some books which had to be reshelved in the languages section. I had to take care on the wooden steps. I did not want to disturb anyone.

 

I stopped when I could hear the woman’s voice. She was speaking in hushed tones, her voice scooping and falling like a musical instrument. It had a quality of controlled urgency. “Je tu veux,” she purred. Through the bookshelves I could see her face and the face of the man standing behind her. His eyes were closed and his mouth was curved into a rapturous smile. I knew enough french to know that I had never envied anyone more than I did him in that one moment. She was reading from a book, leaning into it, her elbows resting on the shelf – but every now and then her hazel eyes would close and she would lean back toward him, her mouth slightly open.

 

I slipped off my shoes and moved closer, my heart beating so hard I was sure they could hear it. But if I was discovered I had an armful of books as a rather lame alibi. Now what to do with the rather obvious buldge in my pants? Peering through the shelves, I had a clear view of them from the front, and, to my delight, their bodies were being reflected in a painting – a portrait of a long dead patron of the Reading Room, a dour madame, whose eyes bore witness to the following scene. The woman’s skirt was pulled up to her thighs, revealing long, slender legs in black silk stockings and suspenders. I could hear her clearly now, as clearly as if she had been whispering to me. God, I wish she was. She was reading in French. Of course, I smiled – “La Langue d’amour.” As she read, the man caressed her full breasts, freeing them from her black lacy bra and with his other hand explored the soft, red petals between her legs, occasionally stroking her sensitive nub with one smooth sweeping movement. It was this last teasing manoeuvre which caused her breath to catch in her throat preventing her from reading any further. She leaned into him, closed her eyes and pushed her body against his with a low moan.

 

With a visible effort of will, she opened her eyes, leaned forward and began to read. The movement of his hands steadily increased in urgency, her reading matched the intensity in speed, but all the while the volume remained the same musical whisper. With her shirt now having fallen slightly off her shoulder, he fondled her breasts teasing her dark, taut nipples even as he alternated between rubbing her clitoris with fast, rhythmic strokes and a more langurous exploration, sometimes plunging his fingers deep within her. I could hear her breathing, the quick exhalations, her stifled cries.

 

I saw her take a deep breath, forcing hersself to read on as he kissed the nape of her neck, licking her with the very tip of his tongue. I felt the hairs on the back of my own neck prickle as I watched him free his penis from the folds of his black trousers.

 

I was frozen, my heart beating wildly. I wanted to move but I was pinned to the spot by the weight of the silence and the strangeness of the moment. Such a game, I thought, and knew then that I had been seduced. These two lovers knew the language of love all too well. I watched the man stroke the length of his erect penis, curling his fingers around its rosy tip. The woman’s whispers were a constant stream. She wrapped her stocking clad foot around his calve. I saw him looking down to admire the peachy shape of her ass as it gently nudged and rubbed against his penis. The woman arched her back and settled her weight evenly. At the same time she flipped the page of the book and continued to read with a deceiving air of nonchalance. She was clearly struggling to maintain control.

 

He teased her with his penis, rubbing it against her slowly so that she stopped reading. He whispered something in her ear and cupped her breasts in his hands, squeezing, kneeding. “Mon amour…” she smiled at his attempt at French and continued her litany, at which point he ruthlessly entered her. They moved together like dancers, easing into each others bodies with an even, insistent rhythym. His hand snaked around her shapely thigh, back to the cleft bewteen her legs where it kept time, moving incessantly.

 

Still, she continued to read, her stream of words like music for the dance. Now the words seemed to be coming from far, far away. She was gripping the shelf so hard I could see her knuckles turning white. The bookshelf rattled with the force of his thrusts. He stopped short of tearing her apart. She came then, arching back, his hands still nestled bewteen her legs. I could feel the sharp bolts of electricity up her spine as I saw her shudder, the atmosphere all the more intense for the sudden silence. Feeling her pleasure, her lover thrust into her without control, and I could see the wildness in his face, caught a glimpse of his fiery blue eyes so filled with love and passion for this creature, as he came, grasping her hips, pumping stream after stream into her, panting softly in her ear, “J’adore,” over and over and over again.

 

They rested together, their bodies limp, his face buried in her hair. The smell of their sex, so thick in the air. Slowly, like a puppet coaxed back to life, she turned towards him as he gently removed his flaccid penis from within her and nuzzled her neck. My body too, must have relaxed, so much so that one of the books to be reshelved slipped from my arms and fell to the ground with a great thud. They turned and their eyes met mine. With an immediate and sickening accuracy, the woman smiled after what seemed like an eternity. “Le fin,” she said.

 

P.S no fish were harmed in the making of this fic and John and Marlena did in fact pay for the soiled books on their way out.