Meet Me By the Kama Sutra (Regular Sex Issue 4) Read online

  Regular Sex 4 ~ Meet me by the Kama Sutra.

  By

  Kitty French

  Welcome to the forth issue of Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make sure your weekend starts with a bang!

  Enjoy, and remember to check out issue 5 next Friday.

  Happy reading,

  Love Kitty x

  Regular Sex ~ Issue 4 ~ Meet me by the Kama Sutra

  HUEY

  I don’t think I’m imagining it. She keeps looking over at me today, I’m sure of it.

  I’ve been writing in the library for three weeks now, a half-hearted attempt to save both my money and my heart from the effect of the endless espressos that accompany trying to work in the local cafe. It’s quite charming as libraries go, housed in an old Victorian building with lots of side rooms and lamp-lit nooks. I’m missing my coffee hit but it’s certainly a charismatic sort of place, and right from day one I’ve caught one of the librarians watching me out of the corner of her perfectly made up eye.

  I’ll tell you something else I’m not imagining, either. She wears stockings to work. I haven’t been letching, but sometimes when she clears the books from the table I’m working at or comes close by to file away a pile of returned books, I can see the outline of the catches pressing beneath her skirt.

  That’s not normal, is it? I mean, it is in my fantasies, but most women don’t wear stockings on a day-to-day basis in reality, do they? The fact that she does tells me stuff about her. It tells me that she’s confident, and that she embraces her own sexuality. That’s not a sexist thing to say, is it? I don’t mean it to be. It’s a compliment. I love that she’s not apologetic about the fact she’s fucking beautiful, that she chooses to wear clothes that celebrate rather than shroud her body. Make no mistake about it, this girl is packing some serious pin-up curves; she looks like she belongs in the nineteen fifties drinking cocktails with Marilyn Monroe rather than stacking sci-fi books alphabetically, as she appears to be tasked with this afternoon.

  She’s kneeling on the wooden floor across the room from me with books spread all around her, and my mind is about as far away from my work as it could be. I should be thinking about my research, but all I can concentrate on is how much I’d prefer to research underneath Sylvie’s blouse. I know her name; it’s on the badge I try not to look at in case it looks like I’m staring at her tits.

  I’m not a letchy sort of bloke. I’m thirty-two, for God's sake. I jacked my career in teaching six months ago, mostly because my soon to be ex-wife was the headmistress at the school I taught at and she was openly shagging the head of Maths in his free periods. So yeah. I’ve chucked my job, chucked my wife, and bought a motorbike with a good chunk of my savings. I know what you're thinking, classic midlife crisis; if you need further evidence, here it is. I currently live in my mate’s barely converted garage, I have the makings of a beard, and I’m using my impromptu holiday from reality to write the book I’ve always said I’m going to write. I did warn you I’m having a crisis. But then you knew that the moment you heard I’m spending most of my afternoons fantasising about screwing the nubile librarian, didn’t you? Christ. I’m so friggin’ textbook I even bore myself.

  Oh God. She’s filing books on the bottom shelf now. Her arse is in the air, and I’m having to sit on my hands to stop myself from touching myself or else going over there and touching her. I swallow painfully because I can see the tops of her stockings peeping out from beneath her skirt. An old boy sits at the table across from me, one of the regulars, openly ogling her. I know this because even though he’s facing away from me he’s craning his head sideways to get a better look up her skirt, ratty old goat. Shit, is that where I’m headed when I’m a pensioner? Sitting in the library in my dirty mac waiting to cop an eye-full of someone half my age? Who am I kidding? The only difference between him and me is thirty years, a clean t-shirt and a hot shower.

  Sylvie’s done with her books now and stands up, smoothing her skirt over her thighs with fluttering hands. No wedding ring. I’ve checked, because the one thing I’m not is a marriage wrecker. A marriage wreck, maybe, but not a marriage wrecker.

  I force my eyes back to my screen in case she spots me watching her when she turns around. Count backwards from five slowly, Huey. Five. Four. Three. Two. Don’t look, don’t look, oh shit.

  She’s just sat down opposite me at my table.

  I lift my eyes slowly, and surreptitiously watch as she opens her notebook and clicks the end of a pen she pulls from behind her ear, poised to write something. Then she raises her eyes to mine and our gazes lock. It’s the oddest feeling, as if she looks inside me, all the way in, and her eyes sparkle with undisguised mischief.

  She looks down at her pad for a few seconds and then writes something down, rips the sheet from the book, and slides it across the table to me. It’s far enough that she has to stretch, and I reach out wordlessly and pull the paper towards me.

  ‘Am concerned that my blouse is inappropriate for work because that guy over there keeps staring at me. Tell me something... can you see my bra through it?’

  Now, I’ve been married for six years, so I’m out of practice, but that’s a come on, right? Just to be sure, I grab my pen and scrawl something on the paper, then push it back over the table.

  ‘Are you asking me to look?’

  She reads my request and the smallest of smiles tilts her lips as she lifts one eyebrow and nods, her eyes flickering around the quiet library to make sure no one’s observing us. Mac man has his back to us, and there’s no one else in this side room but us.

  I swallow hard and lower my gaze to her breasts. Her black blouse is kind of sheer, just the right side of respectable but still sexy enough for me to be able to register that her bra is black too.

  It’s hard to look away now that I’ve been invited, and even harder not to imagine what she’d look like without her blouse. I take my time, and then catch my breath because she’s just slipped her top button open to reveal more creamy cleavage.

  She writes something down and slides the paper back.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’

  I snake my tongue over my suddenly dry lips, my eyes on the freshly revealed curves of her breasts.

  ‘I think I might need more to make a closer inspection.’

  The words fall from my brain onto the paper, and when she reads them she replies then folds the paper in half, moves it towards me, refastening her button as she stands up to leave. Shit. Did I push too far?

  ‘Meet me in the reference room in five minutes.’

  Fuck, yes! I watch her walk away, studying the feminine sway of her shapely ass, and then I panic because I don’t even know where the frickin’ reference room is and she’s left the room now and I need to wait a few minutes before I follow because my raging hard on will give me away, even if my guilty eyes don’t.

  SYLVIE

  I’m a librarian for a reason. Well, two reasons actually. The first is that I love books. The second is that I love sex, and the vast majority of men have a thing for librarians. I think it’s got a lot to do with the enforced silence of the library; it gets them all pent up with the need to roar like lions. You have to be careful in here though, because the men who use the library generally fall into one of three categories.

  One - the obvious perv. You can tell these guys a mile off because they generally don’t wash as regularly as they should, usually wear macs, and are quite often bald. They tend to hang around the newspapers or sometimes in women’s fiction, which is a bit obvious, isn’t it?

  Then you’ve got the uber-geeks, the ones who are genuinely too
caught up in their studies or their books to notice the sensual world around them. Every now and then I’ll have a crack at one of these guys if I’m feeling like a challenge, and I’m not ashamed to admit that they can be slow on the uptake. There was a guy earlier this year, a mature student who was actually hot as hell beneath his bowtie and braces; I had to practically ask him outright for sex before he clocked on. To give him his dues though he was a right horn-dog once he got going, I don’t know which of us was sadder when he graduated and moved back home for the summer.

  My only unbreakable rule is that my boss must never find out; I’d be fired for certain and I love this job. It’s back to the books again, you see. I get to read voraciously for free, and I write too. One of these days my book will be on these shelves, you just wait and see.

  So on to the third type of man, my favourite kind, Mr. middle-of-the-road. These guys are usually here to research something particular, or maybe to grab some quiet time, always alone, relatively easy to reel in. Huey is one of these guys. I know his name from his library card, and I know that he finds me attractive because I’ve caught him glancing at me. He’s cute, all dark hair and stubble, and I like the way he looks away quickly as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. He’s got that shy-guy vibe going on, and interestingly, I sense that underneath it, he probably isn’t shy at all.

  I’m in the reference room now, which by and large is the quietest room in the place. I’m especially fond of the sliding ladder to reach the top shelves, and of the small milkmaid style stools provided for working on the lowest rows. There’s an old school smell in here too, dusty leather and floor polish, it takes me back to my student days and reminds me of several terms of torrid sessions with my foreign languages tutor. I’ve been fluent in both French and fellatio for some years now thanks to him.

  I dressed for Huey this morning. Suspenders, my favourite lace underwear, high heels. He’s been coming in here for a few weeks now and still hasn’t made his move, so I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. Literally.

  I can hear footsteps approaching. It better be him rather than mac man.

  HUEY

  I’ve never been in the reference room before. I don’t see Sylvie immediately as I step inside, just aisles of austere looking books that look less used than the well-thumbed fiction books in other parts of the library. It’s a serious, scholarly kind of room, at curious odds with the pleasure I’m hoping to find in here. A rustle at the far end of the room snags my attention and I walk slowly past the rows of books, all the way to the end aisle where I find Sylvie innocently filing a large, weighty leather tome back into place. She glances my way and I pause, suddenly unsure what to do next.

  Christ, but she’s hot. I haven’t entertained serious sexual thoughts about anyone other than my ex this way for years, and suddenly I’m eighteen again with sweaty palms and one nervous eye on the door in case anyone comes in.

  ‘Come closer.’ She turns her back to the shelves to watch me walk towards her. As I draw near I can see that glow in her eyes again, the thrill of doing something she shouldn’t.

  ‘So,’ she says, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Take a better look, Huey. Can you see my bra through my blouse?’

  She pouts, hands on her hips, shoulders back, pushing her tits out towards me. I look down, and yes, I can just about make out the outline of her bra.

  ‘I’m not sure I can, Sylvie.’ I rest my elbow on the shelf beside her and trace my fingertip over her jaw.

  ‘Would it help if I unbuttoned my blouse?’ she asks, almost innocent.

  I try to look as if it’s a question with more than one possible answer.

  ‘I think it would,’ I say, and she smiles then runs her fingers down her body, flicking her buttons open then gripping the bottom hem of her blouse and opening it wide.

  I make an involuntary noise in my throat, a low sigh of appreciation, and she presses a finger to my lips.

  ‘We have to be quiet,’ she mouths. I nod, then nip her fingertip and suck it inside my mouth, and her eyes widen a little when I swirl my tongue around it.

  ‘I can see your bra better now.’

  I reach out and run my hands over the black lace that encases her and feel her nipples stiffen under the stroke of my thumbs. Sylvie pulls me against her by my t-shirt and cops a feel of my arse.

  ‘I’ve thought about this for days,’ I whisper, brushing my lips over her plump, parted ones. ‘I’ve imagined you, Sylvie, but I didn’t do you justice.’ I kiss her again, slanting my mouth over hers, running the tip of my tongue inside her lips.

  ‘I’ve thought about you too,’ she breathes, and her hands slide under the back of my t-shirt. Her palms slide over my skin, and I wish we were somewhere private so we could get naked.

  ‘Christ, you’ve got great tits,’ I groan, squeezing them together and lowering my mouth to kiss all over them, rushing because I can’t get enough of her. Sex in my life had become pretty routine, no surprises, unless you count the fact that my wife was shagging someone else. That came as something of a surprise.

  This kind of raw, unexpected sex shocks me. Electrifies me. I peel the cups of her bra down so I can see her nipples, pale brown areolae, deep bronze hard little tips begging me to touch them.

  ‘Suck them,’ she whispers, and her hand slips down to rub my cock through my jeans. ‘Put your mouth on me, Huey, I want you to.’

  I love that, how she isn't scared to tell me what she wants, that she knows what makes her feel good. I’m sucking one of her nipples now, holding it between my teeth to lick it before working my way to the other one. Her bra lifts her breasts up, holding her there for me to explore with my hands and mouth, enjoying the cock massage she’s giving me and wanting more. Her fingers reach for the buttons on my jeans, and then...

  ‘Sylvie?’

  A voice rings down the corridor outside, and I jump away from her as she hastily fastens her blouse and straightens her hair. Fuck! My cock hurts with the need for relief.

  ‘Sylvie, you’re needed to cover reception for ten minutes.’ A girl appears at the end of the aisle just as Sylvie pulls a book from the shelves and hands it to me.

  ‘There you go, sir, I think that’s what you’re looking for,’ she says, smiling brightly. ‘Come and find me again if you need anything else.’

  I watch her walk away, and as she disappears I double up with the effort of keeping my yell of frustration inside.

  I give it a couple of minutes and then wander out of the room back into the main part of the library, and I can see her sitting alone behind the reception desk.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she says as I approach.

  I nod and lean in a little. ‘I want to fuck you.’ I say it quietly so only she can hear.

  She looks as if she’s thinking about something I’ve said, and anyone who glanced over could easily assume she’s wondering which aisle to direct me to.

  ‘Do you specialise in any particular area? I might be able to point you in the right direction.’ Her pleasant smile is at odds with the lust in her eyes.

  I brush my hand over the stubble on the side of my face.

  ‘Cunnilingus,’ I say. Smartarse.

  ‘That’s a wide subject,’ she shoots back. ‘Can you drill it down a little?’

  Oh, am I going to drill it down. I nod.

  ‘I specialise in making sexy librarians come with my tongue.’

  Her eyes dilate, and she writes something down in that notepad I’m fast growing to love.

  ‘Meet me by the Kama Sutra.’

  She hands me the sheet, then glances away as another customer approaches the desk, and I leave reception. Where the hell will I find the sex guides? I can hardly ask one of the other staff.

  I look up at the headings on the aisle ends as I walk around, bypassing the youth section, the medical section, the romance section. Hang on. Might it be in romance? I pause for a second and then decide that it’s not romance we’re talking about here.

  D
o they have an adult section? I doubt it, or mac man would spend his days lurking there. I’m sure I’ve lapped the building twice now and checked all of the various aisles and rooms, and I can find neither the Kama Sutra nor Sylvie. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve hallucinated the whole episode due to lack of caffeine when I hear a voice whisper my name, low and feminine.

  ‘Huey.’

  I follow the sound into another side room, once more divided into several aisles. I make my way along until I see her, perched several steps up on one of those sliding ladders.

  ‘I think I’ve found what you’re looking for,’ she says when I approach her, and I can see that she has a copy of the Kama Sutra open in her hands. She turns it down to show me a photograph of a couple having oral sex, some guy kneeling with his head between the thighs of a woman with long raven hair, her breasts in his hands.

  ‘You have nicer tits.’ I run my hands up Sylvie’s silk stocking clad thighs. God, she’s seductive. I push her skirt up, revealing the bands of her stockings and the pale, bare skin above. I stop for a second to just look, to admire her, to commit her to memory. She’s the sexy librarian of all of my recent fantasies, and I’m about to lift her skirt over her ass. Sylvie unfastens her blouse and pulls her bra down, playing with her tits as she twists at the waist to watch me.

  ‘What else does the book say?’ I ask, and then ruck her skirt up around her hips and Jesus, I could almost come in my jeans because she’s not wearing any panties.

  She glances at the page for a moment. ‘It suggests beginning with gentle stimulation of the lips and hidden flower with your fingers,’ she breathes, then lifts one high heeled foot onto a higher rung, parting her thighs to give me a better view.

  I run the back of my fingers lightly down the length of her lips and kiss the sweet swell of her ass cheek.

  ‘Hidden flower,’ I repeat, parting her labia with my fingertips. ‘I prefer to call it your clit.’