Emily hadnât really thought about anyone being there. It was too late at night and no one roamed the back of the bookshelves like she did. Peering around in the dust for a first edition or signed copy missed by Sharon, the bookstore owner. Sharon was patient with her long shopping expeditions. She was an odd woman with a glimmer in her eye that said she knew more about Emily living in a world of fantasy than Emily herself did. But then thatâs the way it had always been.
It was nearly after 10:00 when Emily stumbled on the translated mythology, with drawn pictures full of satyrs, centaurs and other half human half man creatures sheâd forgotten about from her days in college courses where the dull professor had droned on and on bringing no life to the subject. She studied the pages carefully, pushing her glasses back up on her nose and adjusting her long braid back over her shoulder. Sharon called out to her âEm, Iâm just going to lock up, will you close the back door behind you as you go out?â
âSure, Sharon, I found one I think I want, can I take it home?â The owner called out her agreement and Emily bolted out the back door, the book clutched under her coat.
She made it to her apartment in record time, fixing a quick cup of tea and then grabbing the book again. While sheâd changed into her favorite silk kimono sheâd found it opened up by her dresser. Puzzled sheâd looked at it again, it was turned to an illustration of centaur, half horse half man. Heâd been holding a woman in front of him, hand under her arms while she struggled, a minotaur bent over her nakedness grazing her breasts with a long tongue while several smaller satyrs watched the scene, their faces masks of lust.
Emily had been shocked at the turn of the pictures. It was obviously some kind of mythological erotica. She hadnât planned to read it but...now that she had it home she wondered what else could be there. She looked at the picture again as she picked the book up and moved to her bed. The womanâs face was an image of fear and something else, maybe arousal.
Emilyâs own experience with sex had been haphazard and not very interesting. She found masturbation cured her needs for the moment. The men that surrounded her at work were pasty-faced, whining geeks. Then there was her boss, Tom, who was like one of the minotaurs in the pages...leering and overtly masculine with a face like a bull and the body of a weightlifter. He scared her in a way she couldnât put her finger on. His son was his second in command, Robert had a longer, slimmer build but still carried the same broad chest. She thought he must look like his mother, with a long refined nose and dark compelling eyes. Amazing that Tom could have brought anyone with Robertsâs good looks into the world. They were opposites but then they were both the same, exuding dark sexuality that made Emily tremble.
The illustration called to her again, she hadnât noticed the womanâs hair, it was long, as long as Emily kept her own...and straight and thick. The womanâs head was thrown back and she looked oddly familiar. A tickle of urgency ran down her spine. She brushed it away. What was the matter with her. Laughing at herself, she looked at the minatour and the horse-like centaur. They reminded her vaguely of Tom and Robert. The Bull and The Horse. Yes that seemed to apply
Emily turned the pages in fascination. The game with the woman continued, at one point the centaur had pulled the woman under him, intent on burying his long rod into her. The size of the creatures cock made Emily clench her thighs together. The womanâs face was stretched in pain. The minotaur looked on, stroking his own long weapon as he watched. Emily blinked and looked at the text under the drawing, the words were some Latin scramble she could make no sense of. When she looked back to the picture the minotaur seemed to have moved. He stared out of the framed picture now. Directly at her, lust in his eyes, his cock in his hand. She looked in fascination and the hand that stroked that weapon. It was huge for man. But not for a minotaur she wondered? Round and thick, nearly purple in the artists rendering and uncircumcised, something she had never seen before. Of course not, she thought. No centaur would be circumcised! It was enough to split a woman too small to accept the thickness. She felt a trickle of moisture run down her legs. Gasping, she slammed the booked shut and adjusted herself in the bed. This was too much. Her imagination was running away with her.