Foreword: Hardback is a flash fic, half written by myself and half by D.H.Lawrence (by default). Two strangers bond over a mutual fondness of books. I know, technically, this story is told from multiple perspectives. I try and avoid head-hopping usually. But in this case, I wanted to switch between the two characters on purpose.
“We fucked a flame into being.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
She loves the smell of books.
Old ones. New ones. It doesn’t matter.
There’s just something about the freshness of the pages, no matter how used. The way they sound when they are flicked through—oh so briskly—the way the paper fans a gentle breeze across her face and nether regions when she masturbates. She straddles the ragged hardback copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover she purchased yesterday at the second-hand book store. Her legs are already open wide, her orifice agape and waiting to receive her prize. She cowers over it, feeling a sense of warm, comforting wetness envelop her as she casts her eyes down over every delectable word on the page:
“But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don’t have them they hate you because you won’t; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can’t be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.”
She slips her fingers into her wet, dripping cunt, moaning as she moves them rhythmically inside herself. It’s as if all the objects are coming together to produce some kind of sweet, sexual music. She brushes her fingertips over her engorged clit, sending an acute ripple of pleasure surging through the core of her body. This stirs those thick juices that have been secretly bubbling away up there for hours on end. With each fresh prod, the juices seep out and coat her pale hands, the tiny dewy droplets clinging to the pages of the book. The ink on the top line smears ever so slightly as evidence that the book was the inspiration for her playtime.
It’s imperative she keeps her balance whilst she fucks herself stupid. She slams her hands down flat on the floor. Her face grows more flushed by the second, and small beads of sweat form on her brow. She turns to face the wall and pulls down her lace knickers so they’re wrapped around her ankles. Then, she takes the book by its top right corner and eases it into her tight anus. It doesn’t go in far, of course, but the sensation of it entering her is just enough to get her so much wetter than she was five minutes ago. Her furious cunt-fingering is unrelenting as she makes sure to explore every inch of her throbbing inner walls.
Meanwhile, the librarian is standing on the other side of the doorway, watching the scene unfold with eager eyes and bated breath. He adores the way she flips her hair backwards as she teases herself mercilessly. It’s already gone eight o’clock and there isn’t a single soul left in the library. Except the two of them. And even then, she is so wrapped up in her self-exploration that she hasn’t yet noticed him lurking there, voyeur-like, on the other side of the partition.
Although he is careful to be discrete, he is becoming all too aware of the fact that his trousers are tensing around his hips. Here is a man who would admit to anyone that he likes a good fucking book. But he knows the truth—that when he’s alone at night, nothing turns him on more than a good book fucking. He understands the incomparable pleasure that can be gained from watching someone become so damn smitten with the written word that they actively choose to pleasure themselves with the physical manifestation of it.
Embarrassed, yet unwilling to tear his eyes away, he covers mouth and lets out a strained breath. It’s time to release all the tension, all the suffocating tightness that’s built up down there. He unbuckles his belt with one, simple movement, and there’s a brief chink of metal on metal as he does. He pauses to raises his gaze towards her.
Did she notice?
No, she’s still right in the midst of being swept away by her own ecstasy, completely indifferent to her external environment.
The librarian shunts his trousers over his hips and pulls the rim of his boxers down, taking his hard cock in one hand. Now, there isn’t a shred of doubt in his mind what he wants to do. He watches her soak that relic of a book all the more readily with her sweet flowing honey, whilst pumping away at his arousal with one hand. He grips his very own copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in the other hand. But unlike hers, his version is a softcover, but he doesn’t particularly care about the details. She likes it hard, he likes it soft. They’re still getting off to the same thing, and if a mutual love of this book can bring them closer together, he would be happy.
He digs his teeth into his bottom lip as he comes hard onto the book, his seed sliding sultrily over the faded papery cover. A small amount of blood trickles from his mouth, and he licks it away, like some auto-cannibalistic vampire. She flicks her hair backwards again, the way he likes it. She sticks her tits out, and moans loudly as she comes. Juices everywhere.
Seeing that she has finished, the librarian cleans himself up and pats his clothing down before slowly approaching her.
“E-excuse me, miss?” he said, straining to keep himself from looking directly at the delightful mess she has made. “I’m sure you’re aware that this is a library.” He clears his throat. “Could I…ask you to keep your voice down?”
She freezes, still squatting over the book. Her cunt is visibly dripping and pulsating from all the stimulation. The pages of the book have been well and truly ruined, the words now most certainly unreadable by anyone. Her chest rises and falls with the deep, exhausted breaths she’s drawing in and out.
“It’s…not like there’s anybody else here.” She turns to face him with a smile. “Did you enjoy the show?”
His authority as the librarian has dwindled in an instant. Now, it feels impossible to bring himself to say anything else that might discourage her from ever bringing herself to orgasm in such a sacred place again. Instead of chastising her for being such a cock-tease, that hard-on creeps its way back up his body, before he can protest.
He gulps. “I-I did.”
She notices the copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover in his hands, the traces of white pearly liquid hanging from the cover. Her smile widens. “I see you’re enjoying this book too.”
He mimics her smile, content knowing that she knows what he knows.
“How about we…enjoy it together?”
(and here’s where I let D.H. Lawrence write the rest … seems to follow on perfectly)
“His body was urgent against her, and she didn’t have the heart anymore to fight…She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up…she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes…He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering.
Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him.
She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit and she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling til it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, til she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries.”
― D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover