The Boostore

Authors Note

Another short story I wrote between working on longer stories. While I understand the passion of the community, I please ask that any feedback be constructive and not abusive. Any negative feedback will not be read. I encourage constructive feedback on my work via the comments or DM's as I want to grow within a positive community.

Fingers crossed, MrJ.

...

Abigail takes the four stone steps from the street to the narrow timber framed doors. She can see through the glass panels inside before she opens the door. The high narrow rows of shelves packed tightly with ancient books. It's just as the old canvas sign hanging from the red brick facade of the heritage building says. "One Million Pre-Loved Books". The few times she has walked past she chuckles at the rough old sign and the little-noticed disclaimer handwritten in faded black felt pen, "Subject to the final count. Taking applications for counters". The sign on the glass panel over the door in find calligraphy reads "

Chronicles Fine Publications

". She believes this may be a throwback to the bookstore's hay day as one of Downtown's busiest booksellers. But the art of reading paper form books is all but gone. Bookstores come in two types, discount chain stores that are racing a dyeing race to compete with online options. And ones like the Chronicles that have pivoted to "pre-loved", antique or rare books.

With her first child at university and second well into his high schooling Abigail has found more time for herself. She reflected on the little joys of her youth that made her happy. This led to her rediscovering the thrill of reading. Not just reading but reading real books. The texture of the parchment, the smell of the leather cover of a first edition, the small curves of the Times New Roman lettering. This brought Abigail to her Saturday adventures. Every few weeks she would tell those who listened that she was going to the gym or shopping.

But instead, she would board the No.96 bus to head downtown. Once in the city, she explores the network of old bookstores taking in the erotic nature of the written word.

Today she steps through the narrow doors into the old building filled to the four metre high ceilings with rows of timber shelving packed with books. The ageing timber floors creak under the patches of worn carpet that fill the spaces between the shelves. Each section is labelled with a handwritten description on a white laminated card hung perpendicular from the shelve uprights. Fantasy, Thriller, Mystery, Biography, Sports, Ancient History. Under each type are the letters of the alphabet stuck to the front of the shelves.

Abigail floats up the aisles, resisting the temptation to collect books too early. Too often she has only made it partway into these vast treasure troves of literature before filling her hands with books. At the front counter, two young shop clerks nod and smile a friendly greeting. Abigail is always curious about the weekend workers in these shops. Young enthusiasts of the analogue written world, idealistic university scholars maybe. Almost always in their early to mid-thirties, dressed in neat but low-cost clothing. For Abigail, something about their want to be close to the hard copies of literature makes them attractive. She reminds herself that they are no more than five years the senior of her eldest, but that does not stop the appreciation of their desire.

She moves deeper into the tall rows of bookshelves, one over and two back. She runs her fingertips over the leather and hardcover spines of the books, feeling the change in curves and texture. No glossy paper covers here, only old hard materials. Her body tingles with the sensation under her finger.

The white cardboard sign on the shelving upright says "reference: marriage counselling and advice". Abigail thinks why could she not have found this aisle a long time ago? It is not that they are divorced, or that they even dislike each other. It is just over time they fell out of love. Family, work, life. It all happens. When he was offered a posting to Thailand at the same time as Abigail being given a well-earned promotion the silent decision was made for him to go and her to stay. Kids stayed to finish high school and university. They will live their own lives after that.

Abigail absentmindedly picks up a pocketbook-sized publication from the middle of the reference section. The hard hessian-covered book cover has embossed words. "How to be a perfect wife". She chuckles to herself. It must be a conservative 1950's publication. She is not surprised to open the cover to the first page to read the author is a Rev James Millwright and the first edition date is 1952.

Holding the book in her hand she goes back to survey the section titles as one of the Chronicle's helpers makes his way down the narrow aisle towards her. She knows he works in the shop because of the standard-issue leather apron. One would expect to see a worker wearing one in a butcher or hipster bar, but the Chronicle has owned this outfit for many years. Abigail cannot help but notice the young man's physique. He wears the apron well over skinny-leg jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt.

The aisles of the tall bookshelves have barely enough room for two people to pass, but Abigail makes it tighter for the young man. She rocks backwards as he starts to move behind her. With a degree of familiarity, he places a hand on each of her hips as he slides his pelvis over Abigail's round arse. She is taken by the fleeting moment of intimate touch from an attractive young man. As he moves away, he is no longer taking up Abigail's weight, in a trance of erotic stimulation she forgets to stand as her legs buckle slightly under her. The clerk takes hold of her elbow to help steady Abigail.

'Are you all right madam?' He asks in a low baritone voice hiding his youth.

Flustered, she allows him to hold her elbow a little longer before replying. 'Yes. Thank you for your kindness.'

She thinks to herself, not just catching my fall but rubbing that hot young body against mine. She runs her eyes over him like he is a fine piece of artwork.

Unfussed by her suggestive glances he looks at the book in her hand and rings still on her fingers. 'Looking for some advice on how to be a loving wife?' He asks with a cheeky smile.

'Oh god no. That boat is long sailed. All the way to Thailand where he is fucking the house help.' Abigail slaps her hand over her mouth. She turns bright red not believing the words flowed out of her like that.

The clerk just smiles. Maybe he has heard this all before. Maybe he is just cool on his feet. Before turning to keep on his journey down the aisle he offers his final advice. 'Maybe he does not know what he is missing. From what I felt there is plenty of goodness to be given right here.'

He takes a few steps aisle looking for a book as Abigail watches his tight arse in those jeans, dreaming of squeezing them as he pushes his hips between her spread legs. As he takes a book from the shelf, he turns to see her watching again.

'There is a very good and hardly touched romance section deep in the back. You may find something good to stimulate your mind back there.' With that, he takes the book as he walks down the aisle. She watches him until he turns a corner to disappear into the depths of the Chronicles. Abigail feels a tingle shoot up the back of her neck as her nipples harden under the sensible bra.

After the attractive young store clerk disappears into the stacks of book shelving Abigail returns to the good housewife manual from the Reverend. She flicks through the pages chuckling. Tips on meals to prepare ready for the man of the house to return after a long day at the office. Cleaning tips for getting those pesky stains out of the bathtub.

Around the middle of the book, the Reverend goes well outside what Abigail would have considered his remit. Although, knowing the repressed nature of society around the time this book was written, maybe the good Reverend did have some knowledge of female attire. Appropriate day wear for around the house. Cleaning attire, sensible pants, a long sleeve shirt and head wrap to keep those locks of blonde hair from falling into the cleaning equipment. Shopping says, long dress with overcoat, gloves and a hat. Nighttime when your man offers to take you for dinner and a movie. Ohhhh, a satin dress with a belt, the square neckline of the form-fitting top showing a little chest skin but not the cleavage, petty coats under the dress to accentuate the hip line to show all those other men what a great provider your man has. And the house dress, always worn when greeting your man as he arrives home at night. A floral dress with a round neckline with a hint of lace, a form-fitting torso and an A-line dress to just below the knees with low-heeled Mary Janes. Your man will undoubtedly appreciate seeing you at your best after a long day slaving behind his desk. Oh my god. Abigail chuckles to herself.

On the next page, the good Reverend takes his knowledge of women's attire to the next level.

"1950's Lingerie"

Abigail's mind wanders from the book to a place many years earlier than she was far too young to be in, but her imagination finds her. She imagines a world where she is the perfect housewife for her husband. Abigail wants more though, she wants something her husband will not give her. The perfect housewife knows her husband's weakness, she becomes the perfect seductress to give her husband something he cannot resist to get what she wants. She uses the advice of the Reverend's manual to make herself irresistible.

Abigail is startled back into reality as an old lady politely asks to pass her, she places the book in her shopping bag before moving on into the depths of the bookshop.

The next aisle starts with action novels. She works her way through the various action genres. Sci-fi, Spy, Adventure and lastly old school detectives. She picks up a purple-covered hardcover. Reading the blurb on the back she gets excited. A retired spy is called back into duty to find a black widow assassin who is killing off the heads of international crime organisations. The spy is drawn into a cat-and-mouse chase with the Femme Fatal that could see him become her next target as she draws him in with her natural attraction. Abigail feels that familiar sensation as she thinks of the detective getting closer to the black widow, does he fall into her sexual trap? Inside the back cover is the typical New Your Times quote, "an ode to the best of Mickey Spillane. A detective story within the gritty underworld of violence and sex". As a child her father owned the Spillane series, it sat on the top shelf of his bookshelf never to be read by a young Abigail.

The book goes into Abigail's bag. She fears she will soon have a bag full, again not making it to the back of the shop.

The end of the aisles is dedicated on both sides to Period Romance. Abigail does love a good Elizabethan Romance novel. She could see herself in a royal court, wearing a multilayered dress that pushes her cleavage to just under her chin while princess and dukes do their best to find out what is under the thirty layers of petticoats. She sees a well-worn hardcover. Not even bothering to inspect the blurb she slips it into her bag knowing many horny women have enjoyed that book before her.

Across the back wall are shelves packed with Autobiographies. One is turned into a feature publication. Diaries of the House of Madams. Looking at the blurb on the back it is a series of stories from high-end sex workers living in an exclusive brothel. These are stories of a world as far away from Abigail's sexual history as one could get. She slips the book into her bag. Maybe just one more.

As she walks along the ends of the many aisles she finds a narrow opening in the back wall. This must be the portal into the deep depths of the book archives she has heard about. Abigail is unsure if she should enter this wormhole. She does not know if she enters if she will ever be able to make it out. Her nerves push her past the shelving on the other side of the opening. Sports. Urrr, not her thing. This is enough to push her into the void beyond the narrow gap. Something stops her for a moment, one book leaning on the end of a row of "Alternative Sports" books at eye level. A simple title, Oil Wrestling. Below the wording on the cover is a photograph of two muscular oiled men in only loincloths wrapped around each other. Abigail holds out her hand to run a finger over the erotic image of the oiled-up athletes. She shivers at the thought of being a referee in this sport being drawn into the oil-covered embrace of the two men.

Before she picks the book up her sense of higher culture drives Abigail away from the oil wrestling book through the void into the labyrinth of corridors and rooms behind the main shop.

The first thing that strikes Abigail about the hidden world behind the narrow opening from the main Chronicle space is the lack of order. The small rooms are labelled with genres, but inside there is no order of sub-categories or alphabetical order. The shelves are packed vertically with books that spill out to unsorted piles on the floor of the rooms that subsequently spin into the narrow corridors. The two times she had entered the Chronicle in the past she wondered how they justified the million-book claim. She sees now how they could.

The first room she enters has a "Natural World" sign over the door. She is surprised to see two selves perfectly laid out amongst all the chaos of books. The top one is a carefully collated collection of National Geographic magazines. She recalls how the Nat Geo monthlies became the point of reference for so many of her age to explore human anatomy. The shelf below is filled with hard copies of National Geographic publications, each numbered and in order. A complete set of limited-edition publications. She picks out random copies of the special editions. Birds of the world, nature in cities. And lastly tribal men of the world. For old time's sake, she needs to open the book. She flicks through stories filled with historic photographs of semi-naked or naked men from remote tribes of the Amazon, New Guinea, Pacific Island, Africa and Australia.

She stops gazing at the naked bodies wondering what it would be like to be the first to meet these exotic men and how they would react to a pale-skinned woman dressed in explores clothing. Would she remove her clothes to feel the air of the natural forest? Would the natives want to run their hands over her soft pink skin to feel how it feels? Would she let them touch her skin, her nipples as they got hard? Abigail shivers at the thought of the sensation.

Abigail places the volume back in its place wanting to keep the collection together.

As she is about to leave the room something stops her. She picks up one more magazine. On the cover is promoting a story inside. "My Life as a Jungle Princess". Abigail feels a shiver again. She may need something to read on the bus back home. She puts the magazine in her bag.

The next room has a handwritten sign over the door in flowing curvy lettering,

Soft Romance

. Abigail knows what this room is full of and is not disappointed as she steps in. Wall-to-ceiling soft copies of Mills & Boon, Harlequin, Macmillan and more. The covers she can see are all swooning women in long flowing gowns, long-haired topless Adonis swooping up the women. Tarzan and cowboys. Roses and long lingering kisses. More topless men, shiny muscles bulging. Million-mile stares and strong embraces. Abigail feels her heart race as she picks up a small thin publication with a couple Latin dancing in a close embrace on the cover.

She flicks open the cover to start to read. The story is about a couple out to dinner. The man has a carefully planned night for his lover. Dinner is all taken care of, drinks and courses are carefully coordinated. After dinner it is a warm calm early summer night, so he suggests they take a walk. After a while, he leads her into a dance club. They move straight to the dance floor. Bodies pushed tight together, they dance. As the dance floor fills, they slowly get pushed tighter together by the heave of hot bodies.

As Abigail reads, she can hear the music and feel the heave of tight bodies dancing close. She allows her body to move. Her knees bend as her hips pump from left to right. She feels her arse sway back and forth as she reads of the couple getting hotter on the steamy dance floor. The music changes as the tension in the room grows. Abigail feels her hair swing as she sensors the lover kiss the neck of his lady. Abigail's long pleated skirt sways.

She only stops when she hears a muffled cough. Shocked Abigail turns to see a slightly embarrassed old man seated between two large piles of books on a worn fabric armchair. He slowly lifts himself out of the chair, body groaning as he does. Once upright he starts to shuffle his way past Abigail out of the room. The only acknowledgement of what he has just seen is to say.

'I did not mean to interrupt you. You looked like you were enjoying that book. If only this old broken body was twenty years younger, I may have liked to join you in that dance young lady. You looked very erotic.'

Abigail stands in shocked embarrassment as he shuffles out of the room. From somewhere unseen he calls back.

'The next room is more of the same. But more intense. Be careful young lady.'

She slowly puts the little book in her bag, Abigail knows she needs to finish this one in private. She likes that the old man refers to her as "young" and looks at her through the eye of a gentleman admiring an attractive lady. It gives her a spike of adrenaline and confidence. She lifts her chin, Abigail heard his warning but wants to find out.

Over the door of the next room is another handwritten sign in curvy writing.

Erotic Romance

. Abigail's heart misses a beat with excitement. Her feet move without her brain telling them to. She has a sense that the Chronicle is talking to her today. Every book she has looked at has built an erotic energy within her. Feeding an inner desire.

The erotic romance room is more of a short corridor. Narrow and long with a tall half pane with a round fan-top window at the end. On either side, the walls are lined with the usual floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, books stacked vertically and horizontally jammed into every spare space. As with the other rooms the floor is partially blocked with stacks of books to waist height.

Without even opening a book, Abigail knows these books are erotic. Leather and hard cloth covers. Rich browns, blood reds, royal blues and deep greens. Gold and black embossed lettering. She can feel the sex dripping from the covers.

Abigail is not sure which book to choose first when a leather apron is tossed across a pile of books beside her. She does not need to look as she feels the toned young body push against her back as the hands slide from her shoulders, over her waist to her hips. A shot of electric pleasure fires up Abigail's spin as she feels a pair of soft warm lips touch her neck. She whimpers as the hands slide around the front of her pelvis to pull her hips back into the body behind her. As her arse pushes hard into his pelvis she feels the growing bulge in his pants.

He thrusts his hips forward as his hands slide up to cup her breasts. She feels his thumbs searching for her nipples, which he has no trouble finding given how excited Abigail is. He pushes her against the stack of books on the shelves as his hands slide back to her hips. Abigail breathes in the essence of sex from the books pushed against her cheek.

As her heart and breathing race, she feels his fingertips slowly taking up the material on her dress. He holds her against the bookshelves as the helm of the dress lifts over her thighs. He breathes into her ear as his fingertips touch the skin on her hips, finding the waistline of the black cotton G-string she put on this morning not thinking she would have the hands of a young stud wanting to touch them.