The Blac Boo of Sex

Please note: All characters depicted in sexual situations are over 18 years of age.

The library was nearly empty at this time of year. There was a fair in the square and most likely people were outside, enjoying it. Sunshine had its place, but I like old books.

I found it at the back of the SF and Fantasy section, at the intersection of Nerd and Sex, and it was a book, of course. And it was about sex. This back corner was where the amorous folk often came to make out and fondle each other. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps not.

It had a black cover and no title on the spine. The spine was well worn, almost grey, and the cover was embossed with a cross, but it wasn't any kind of cross that one would see in any kind of church, it was more filigreed and looked sort of Celtic.

The first story was about a young man who got lost in a forest and then "seduced" by a witch. I put that in quotes because it seemed to be completely consensual. It was written in a style that evoked the old masters or perhaps a Grimm's tale, and I loved it. It was difficult to read, but quite effective. I flipped through the front looking for a publishing imprint, but couldn't find one, but no pages seem to have been torn out. At the beginning of the book, there was simply a quote, but no attribution:

**Sex can be the most wonderful thing in existence, and the most terrible. Sometimes the best can be both.**

I smiled in anticipation but before I could read further, on the other side of the shelves where I had pulled the black-covered book, I heard low laughter. I was no longer alone.

I flipped to the first story; the main character was named Martyn, and seemed to be following a map, searching for a woman who lived in the forest, for some kind of cure.

I heard a bump and the shelf next to me wobbled, and books shuffled in their spaces. I heard the sounds of people canoodling in the next aisle. How many people were over there, I wondered? Because it sounded like more than two. Maybe it was some kids who snuck over from the fair. I ignored them and went back to the story.

I flipped to the part where Martyn found himself wandering in the dark, so he stopped, laying down in a moss-covered grove. He awoke some indeterminate time later, to sounds of laughter and merriment. Excited, he hopped up, and was encouraged by lights among the bows and eaves of the forest. He followed them, but even though they just seemed only a small distance away, they always remained out of reach. He kept moving forward, and I began to worry for him as he tripped and climbed in desperation. He crashed through a clearing and suddenly the sounds and the lights ceased, mysteriously snuffed out. Martyn's map still lay discarded in the moss-covered grove.

I gripped the edges of the book as I read further. Had the sounds of the amorous couple (throuple?) also ceased? I continued reading.

In the clearing was a house. Not a gingerbread house perhaps but something akin to that, at least in my mind's eye. The young man Martyn, full of trepidation, moved towards it assuredly. There were no lights in the windows, but a thin trail of smoke wafted from the chimney. As he approached the rounded arch doorway, the black and green painted door slowly swung open. A woman stood there, clothed only in a light shift, her ample bosom easy to see even in the dim half-light of the night-shrouded clearing.

'Well, hello, Martyn,' she said, her lips blood red and pursed, smiling. He seemed drawn to her and she drew him into the house with a delicate hand, that same smile playing upon her lips. He smiled at her and went in willingly, saying nothing.

Then I noticed that the subtle vibrations of the shelf I was leaning up against had become more pronounced, and I felt each rhythmic thump. Was someone having sex, like actual sex, in the library? A lump formed in my throat at what I might find on the other side... I simply had to investigate. What kind of person wouldn't?

I tried peering through the gaps between the books on the shelves, but I couldn't see anyone. I placed the black-covered book in my satchel and quietly, carefully tiptoed down to the end of the aisle. I reached the end of the next row and could still hear the sounds of lovemaking drifting down the aisle toward me, but when I rounded the next corner, I was astonished to find it empty. A cart for replacing books had been discarded in the middle of it, but other than that, the aisle was clear. I paced back and forth along the rows, but no one was there.

Slightly exasperated at not being rewarded with any public displays of affection, and completely puzzled by the emanations of sensuous sounds, but with no visual accompaniment, I stood there, dumbfounded. I could still feel, but only just, the vibrations coming to me from further along. Gentle slapping sounds of flesh on flesh, light groans and moans of pleasure, the hiss of sudden breath intake, yet, there was no one there.

Confused but now also strangely aroused by this peculiar phenomenon, I walked down to the other side of the aisles, trying to find the source. Part of me was scared shitless, but another part of me felt strong stirrings of arousal and... lust.

I edged past the discarded reshelving trolley, the volume of the erotic noises increasing as I went along. I could feel the vibrations of at least two people fucking. The tempo increased as I walked forward, my footsteps cushioned by the carpeting, and the sounds ahead softened by the absorption of so many books. And then it seemed I was nearly on top of them, or should be. My brain was electric from the synesthesia. I could hear the delights of sex right in front of me, but I could see nothing. It was a strange sensation, feeling I should see something arousing, but not being able to actually see anything. It was curiously enjoyable. My eyes searched frantically around at the shelves looking for something that simply wasn't there, or at least, couldn't be seen. Perhaps all those times I had thought there were amorous participants in that corner of the library, it was simply this phenomenon, whatever it might be. Despite my fear and terror, I was having fun.

Then suddenly there was a cry, not quite of someone reaching climax, but as if the invisible participants had noticed I was there and had been surprised at my sudden arrival. I distinctly heard the voices of at least three separate people in exclamation and alarm, crying things like, 'Oh my,' and, 'They've found us!' and all manner of exclamations. Indeed it seemed I had interrupted... something. I could almost smell the musk of sex in the air, and at the same time I heard invisible fumblings with clothes, zippers, a belt jangling as it was being hitched up, then a scramble of footfalls on the floor. I heard amused laughter and felt what may have been a breeze pass by me, ruffling my hair. Then there was silence.

I took the book to the counter elsewhere in the library, still shaken but also incredibly aroused by my experience. A very cute transgirl helped me. She had light brown and also pink and purple hair, and a skirt that seemed to match.

Immediately when she saw the book, she shook her head and said, 'That's not one of ours.' She picked it up and looked it over, still shaking her head. She opened the cover and there was a lurid image there. I was immediately embarrassed. I must have missed that page somehow, but it seemed to be of a swarthy fellow with goatlike appendages for legs, three of them, and between each was a dripping, throbbing cock. I don't know if the girl noticed or not, but she flipped through and I saw more lewd images in various styles, some like daguerreotype, others more impressionistic: a woman with four breasts of two stacked pairs being suckled by disembodied mouths and lips, an orgy scene of some hairy participants in a forest and something like looked very much like a giant walking vulva, all flashing by like a zoetrope animation. At the back of the book was a slip of paper, like a makeshift bookmark. A single name was scribbled in the margin, the rest of the bookmark seemed to be a flier of some kind for a club called "80% Straight". The name was my own.

She read the name out, and I heard myself saying, 'That's me.'

Not reading the confused expression on my face, she looked at me with some disdain and said, 'So this is your book, then?' and held it out casually with one hand. 'If you don't have any of our books to check out, then why did you come up here?'

I apologised and took it from her and I saw her watching me as I walked away, and I couldn't read her expression.

And then, something strange happened on my journey home. I had planned on going straight home but for some reason decided to take a detour. I walked down past grand houses on the wide boulevard with the big trees. While walking past a house with an arched red door, movement in one of the windows above drew my eyes upward. I saw naked flesh and hair being flicked. I imagined muffled sounds of delight coming from within the house, which looked tasteful and elegant. Something possessed me, due to my experience at the library and some residual arousal, to cross the road for a different vantage point. I admit, I am a bit of a voyeur and my fantasies stray into those kinds of territories often. So this was too tempting to pass up. Truth be told, it was the reason for the detour, as I had frequently seen, shall we say, _interesting_ sights while walking along that posh road at night.

Across the way, I could see into the window with a slightly a better angle. Someone was laying on the bed on their back, I couldn't tell what gender, and a woman was sat atop them, facing forward. She had chestnut brown hair and her breasts bobbed nicely with each up and down motion. She saw me standing in the street and our eyes met, and I saw her say something to her partner, but she kept up her rocking motion. Then she smiled and winked, which I took to be a sign that they didn't mind an audience. Her movements soon became more vigorous and she closed her eyes, fondling her breast with a free hand. She smiled and opened her eyes, biting her lip and then blew me a kiss! I looked around, to make sure I wasn't being taken for a fool, but no one was around, the street was largely empty and I seemed to be an audience of one.

I gave a wave and she continued grinding herself onto her partner, closing her eyes with each thrust. Then, a pair of hands snaked around, cupping her breasts. And then a third hand emerged, putting a finger to her mouth, which she sucked greedily. I swear I had only seen a single other person on the bed, at least from what was visible from my vantage point. Not long after, she ducked out of sight, and I left, presuming the show over.

I felt the book in my satchel, my feet carrying me home, still wondering at the scene I had just witnessed. I closed the door and set down my things and started to brew some tea. I replayed the events that had just taken place in my mind, the strange experience at the library, and the exhibitionists along the main road one of whom appeared to have been some kind of Hindu God.

Later, I got out the black-covered book and tried to catch up to the place where I had left off, but not before looking for the images I had seen while standing in front of that cute librarian. The first was a finely detailed study of a pair of lips sensuously enveloping the base of a familiar part of the male anatomy. Only the bits of skin directly adjacent to the wet mouth were visible, but it was quite clear what was going on. I flipped through and stopped at a medieval style drawing of a threesome, three women mostly unclothed, two with their sexes joined in a scissoring pose, and the third perched over one of the scissoring pair with her legs spread wide, vulva nestled upon the other woman's mouth. One of the women lying down had absolutely enormous tits, which were resting realistically between her armpits as she lay on her back. The other scissoring partner was up on one elbow, looking toward the presumed artist with a slight smile and eyes demurely half-lidded. I felt as if she were looking directly into my soul. I flipped through the rest of the book quickly, looking for the pictures I had seen in the library, and finding several others, but strangely, couldn't seem to find the ones I had seen before, which were still lodged in my brain; the four-breasted woman, the orgy, the human-sized vulva walking around, free-as-you-please.

I saw other images flash by when flicking through, but I soon gave up and just flipped to the front to resume the first story, my mug of tea already gone cold. I skimmed looking for the place I had left off (if only I had known there was a bookmark within, one which apparently had my name on it!), and noticed that the narrative mentioned a watcher that followed behind, a detail I had somehow missed before. I chalked it up to my distracted state whilst reading, with the sex phantoms and all.

Let's see, where had I been? The blood red lips, ample bosom, a flash of thigh-high stockings, and she leading him inside with a smile.

Inside, the hearth, and a single bed in the middle of the room where their lovemaking began. She lead him to the bed and he, transfixed by her, with his eyes following her curves through gossamer clothing: the cleft of cleavage there, the hint of smooth full buttocks. All the while the two were silent, no dialogue, just a glance, a look and her gentle touch. She took his face in her hands, bending down to kiss him sweetly on the lips. His eyes wide as she stroked his shoulders, then her hands moving further, down to his crotch, looking for the waiting bulge there. The author described the woman cradling him to her breast, her fingers stroking his soft hair. He parted his lips tentatively and she pressed his mouth to her and gasped when the wetness of it touched her nipple and the deep red areola.

Then the next passage described how she, in an almost ritual fashion, undressed him, helping him out of his clothes, pulling his jerkin up and over his head, and kissed him on both sides of his face and then on each of his now bare light pink nipples as she does so. He shivered with delight, saying simply, 'More."

I felt my own shivers of anticipation, sipping from a fresh mug of hot tea as I turned to the next page. She moved down and with both hands unclasped his trousers and bade him step out of them. Then she stopped to examine him, looking over every inch of his body, lingering on the good bits. I noticed the author focused more on her eyes and expression than on the description of the young man Martyn.

Then the woman, who I had said must be a witch of some kind, removed her clothes. The author described her in short bursts, as if an observer's eyes were darting all over, overwhelmed with the situation and at being face to face with a naked woman. Her hair was luxurious, and long, to the middle of her back. She was voluptuous, and the author described her breasts as if never having seen tits before, and I made out that they were slightly pendulous, with large areola and nipples as large and long as the first segment of a forefinger. She stood with one leg crossed so that her sex was concealed, but with the dark tangle of hair below a beautiful contrast to her unblemished skin.

She simply stood before him, the two of them naked and gazing at one another, before she put a finger of her right hand first in her mouth, and then drawing it down, uncrossing her legs and displaying what the young man could only guess was her deepest treasure between her thighs. She pressed a finger to the hooded bulb at the top of the cleft and made "a small sighing sound which sounded like an angel testing its wings", and then drew her finger along one side of the cleft, along her lips there. Then she pressed her finger inward, up and inside her a little ways, removing it with juices covering it, visible in the flickering light from the warm hearth.

She then walked toward him and he was rooted on the spot, her finger extended toward his mouth. He stood, dumbfounded and eyes wide in amazement as she brought the coated finger to his lips, and then bent to kiss him with the soiled finger between them. The author described in lurid detail how the wetness enveloped his mouth, hers on him, the finger between them, and her slick tongue flicking and darting in to try and dance with his own. He felt the closeness of her, the silken softness of her skin on his, her hair tickling him, and the soft but erect nipples of her ample breasts also tickling as they dangle and dance, tracing lines on his skin.

With a gasp of surprise, seeing the desired response from his member, growing in size and becoming erect, she stepped back. She then put her finger down to touch his penis' tip and he closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. She traced her finger along the outline of his cock's head, and he rocked forward slightly, and she made a shushing sound and pushed him back, her thumb pressing into his light pink nipple as she did so.

'Ohhh,' he said as she rubbed the edge of her thumb around his nipple with one hand, the tip of her finger on her other hand tracing around and to the underside of his penis. HIs legs started shaking as she began gently stroking him between her thumb and forefinger. He made a face like he didn't know what was happening, the sensations were so intense. I felt myself growing harder as I read on.

She then moved her fingers down to the base of his penis, and his legs trembled, she nearly had to catch him as his legs buckled and she guided him gently onto the bed, her soft skin caressing his, feeling like a thousand little points of cold fire against him. She resumed her attentions on him, a thumb and forefinger gently touching either side of his balls. He seemed to want to giggle but didn't, only watched her, his head bent forward, as she climbed onto the bed to crouch over him, her wet sex touching his legs.

I turned the page. The next was a rough drawing, a rubbing of a woodcut, really: the witch crouched over someone, a tangled mass of hair framing the exposed vulva, the curves of her ass wide and and round and perfectly formed in the wood, her locks falling down in tight curls down her back.

When the narrative resumed, he was still with hands at his sides, his erect member standing straight up, the witch squatting over, her tits spilling over her soft belly. Then she lay down, her face next to his penis and she stared at it like it was the only thing. Her tongue darted out from those blood red lips, to trace a small curve over the underside and he gave a soft, high moan, sighing as he did so. His hands instinctively went to her shoulders, brushing her long, coarse hair in the process.

She then took him full into her mouth, slipping herself to the base and he gasped, and squirmed against her, thrusting himself upward, pressing against her urgently and feeling her nose press into his lower abdomen. She made a sound, muffled though it was, a sound of joy. She then proceeded to suck him gently, though her cheeks were taut with suction, then moving slowly, luxuriously back, her lips delicately but firmly wound around him. She clearly wanted to make him reach an orgasm quickly. And it didn't take long. She stroked back and then forth over him, her tongue cradling the underside of his penis, where like little bolts of electric sensation were spreading out like heat lightning. He felt a swelling, in his chest of all places, a burning, that was soon echoed by a burning and tingling down deep at the base of him, somewhere deep inside.

He cried out, and a bird outside took flight, and he felt himself surrendering to her, his member twitching and spasming... wonderfully he was brought into extreme bliss. She chuckled as she suckled him, and all sensation was tingling and spreading out from the single central point of his penis inside her moist mouth, the tingling spread to all of his body. It was the most wonderful sensation he had ever felt. He still felt the burning, and realised his eyes had been squeezed shut, but we, dear readers, had seen all. He opened his eyes and she was looking at him with a wry smile on her lips. She then took his member in her fist and he gasped again, so intense was the sensation, so alike to being sore was his cock. But he was not sore, at least, not yet. He felt every finger and tip as she gently flexed them, feeling his continued hardness. She then began stroking him, her palm and fingers wet with saliva, twisting her fist around his member expertly, as if she had handled thousands in such a way, and indeed, the author said, she had.