I am in the stacks at the library. I fucking love the library. Endless shelves of books on every subject. I will often spend an afternoon as an indulgent treat for myself. And today there is nothing urgent that I have to attend to, so I am here.

I am doing as I love to do, wandering and pulling books off of shelves until I have an armload full.  I am balancing the stack in both arms, pausing to tuck them under my chin when I spy something new and interesting to add to the pile.  My eyes scan high and low, taking in the names of authors, the titles, even the color and design of the spines. When I find a particularly interesting section I may pause and set the books down to grab a few and balance them on top. My ritual is to continue like this until my arms are struggling to contain their bounty, then I will find a table where I can lay them out and peruse them. 

Sometimes I will riffle quickly through a series of nonfiction texts looking at images and instructions and contemplating projects I might undertake. Sometimes I will sink into a novel and wile away the afternoon before checking it out of the library and taking it home. 

Today I am in the lower stacks. I have been looking at historical periodicals and journals, fascinated by their glimpses into an earlier time and culture.  As I wander towards the back of one of the aisles, I come across  a small section of a shelf that has a meagre selection of erotica. I set down my armload of books on the floor and nervously reach up to pull a selection off a shelf. Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. I know of this book. I read a few pages once upon a time when I spotted it on the shelf at a friend’s house before guiltily shoving it back when I realized what it contained. 

I am curious and I begin to read. My heart is racing and I am looking around to make sure no one is nearby, feeling somehow that my interest in such a work of fiction is inappropriate. I would not want others in my small town to catch me reading it. I carefully place my hands over the cover in a way that obscures the title.

The prose is poetic and lurid and deals with some shocking subject matter. I am both aroused and conflicted as I read. I find myself laughing as I peruse Anais Nin's 'letter to her sponsor" in which she hurls hateful invectives at him for forcing her as a writer, to turning erotic art into unimaginative mechanical sex acts.

As I am perusing this prose, I can feel my body responding predictably to the sexual scenes that the author describes. 

Flipping casually through the worn pages, my thumb comes to rest at the beginning of a tale called Artists and Models, and I begin to read. A delicious warmth is pervading my form. The heat that suffuses my cheeks also pools low in my belly and throbs between my legs. And soon I am pulsing my thighs together and surreptitiously pressing my fingers against my pubic mound. The place is deserted. People flock to the malls and leave libraries alone these days. I have not seen or heard another soul, and I allow myself to sink down onto the floor against the wall, my pile of books forgotten. I lose myself in the delicious words on the page. I read the model’s account of her seduction at the hands of the artist, “I felt his penis against my ass. He slipped his hands around my waist and lifted me up slightly so that he could penetrate me.” And as I read, I imagine the brush of his penis against my ass. I imagine the artist’s hands on my hips. I close my eyes and conjure the sound of his penis sliding violently in and out of my moist pussy.  

Reading this collection of short stories, I am in turmoil, intensely aroused, the feeling augmented by nervous energy. I am in a public building, in a relatively open space. I pause, my heart racing and let my senses scan the stacks,  looking for any signs of life before I slip my hand down the front of my pants.

My panties are soaked and I begin working my fingers between my swollen pussy lips to tease my clit. I trace slow circles over my flesh that serve to inflame my arousal. And as the sensations intensify, I occasionally create a burst of rapidfire vibrations. My fingers, light and teasing, pressed flat against the front of my pussy, become a blur of movement sending delicious sensation coursing through me, ratcheting up my heart rate, making my head swim with pleasure.

I scan the text looking for more sex. “His fingers dug into my flesh. His nails were sharp and hurt. He aroused me so much with his vigorous thrusts that my mouth opened and I was biting into the couch cover,” I read. I sink my teeth into my lower lip. My head rests back against the wall for a moment as I imagine his ‘vigorous thrusts’. I envision myself face down, with my hair falling forward, bouncing with each jab of his cock. 

As I continue in this fashion, left hand holding up the book, right hand teasing delirious sensation from my raw nerves and eroticised mind, my forearm is cramping a little from the effort to reach down the front of my restrictive pants. I pull my hand out and continue reading. Occasionally I come across passages that create an intense erotic rush in my body. I desperately want to both soothe and nurture the sensations. 

The next part makes my pussy throb, “‘I want to teach you something’ said Millard. ‘Do you want to let me do it?’ He seated his finger inside my sex. ‘Now, I want you to contract around my finger. There is a muscle there that can be made to contract and expand around the penis. Try.’”

As I read the words, I wriggle to push my hand down further. I slip my fingers inside, and squeeze, imagining Millard’s fingers. I imagine his eyes burning into mine; imagine a grunt of satisfaction as he feels me squeezing his fingers and wishes for the sensation around his cock.

Panting now, I try to hold my breath and listen. Not a soul. With my heart pounding, I ease my hand out to unfasten the buttons of my pants and undo the zipper.

I am no longer looking at the book. I am attempting to peer through the stacks, some part of my brain being recruited as lookout. The shelves are of the type that are open and I can see through them. I can see aisle after aisle of tomes. I slide my hand down the front of my body, and my fingers find my clit and start frantically teasing it again.  In a moment of self awareness I notice that my mouth has dropped open; my gaze has become fixed. I am struggling to maintain vigilance. I feel deliciously naughty and also ridiculous and somewhat mortified at my own behavior but I am so fucking turned on I want to continue. I want to take it further. My pussy is demanding more.

I slide my right hand out of my pants and slip my two middle digits, ring finger and ‘bird’ finger into my mouth and suck the slippery tangy wetness off of them before hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my pants. I plant my feet on the floor, lift my ass and push my clothes down over my hips. When I let my weight settle back down, I feel the cold marble of the floor against my cheeks. The sensation sends chills through my body and makes me more intensely aware of both my vulnerability and my arousal. The book cast aside, I am now sitting on the floor of the stacks masturbating in earnest, my pants down around my thighs in a rumpled bind, my fingers buried deep between the plump folds of my pussy. I am trying to remember to control my breathing as I rocket towards an intense climax.

During this entire episode I have not heard a single echoing footstep. I have not spied another person. And now I am becoming lost in my own lust. With my left hand, I fumble for the book and let my gaze slip away from scanning the shelves for intruders. I lift it up in front of my face, and I begin to scan the prose looking for erotic gems to help push me over the edge. My clit feels stiff and hungry and raw. My muscles are tightening. My thighs are quaking. I'm so close.

And in those final moments, I push away from the wall. I slide down and sprawl across the library floor, hips bucking as I bring myself to a silent and intense climax.

The rush of pleasure flows over me, almost painful as the internal pressure in my body seems to spike.  It is immediately followed by a surge of panicked self awareness, and I scramble upright, and rush to right my clothes. With barely a backwards glance, I bolt from my place in the aisle and stride rapidly, head down from the stacks, feeling the need to put distance between myself and my actions. I suppress the urge to break into a run.  The Anais Nin volume, dogeared, is clutched forgotten in my fist.

As I hurry past row after row of books, turn into the stairwell and race up the steps, my pussy is throbbing. I can almost hear it whispering in my ear that I should just stop by the public restroom on the main floor and slip into a cubicle to rub out a few more quick (although much weaker) orgasms before I leave the building and return to my car. The part of me that is mortified by my behaviour just wants to rush out and get home.

I make a beeline for the outside doors, passing quickly through the detector units they have set up by the exits, and an alarm goes off. It emits a loud, sharp blaring noise and I glance about in confusion. I feel the eyes of a few scattered patrons swivel towards me, and I suffer a moment's ridiculous panic like somehow the alarm bells are announcing what I just did downstairs to the room. I look down and see the book clutched in my fist. When I turn back, I see there is a security guard headed over to intercept me and investigate what it is I'm trying to steal.

I walk back in and step casually up to the checkout area and set the book down on the counter. I reach into my bag, fumbling for my library card. I do not make eye contact. The cover proclaims the contents of the book to be EROTICA by Anais Nin in bold letters. The woman swipes the barcode on the spine, and her terminal lets out an angry chirp. By this time, the security guard has come to stand beside me, and I feel my face flame. 

The librarian tells me that this volume is reference only and does not leave the library, then asks “Just where did you think you were taking it?” Her tone sounds accusatory to my guilty ears. I raise a conciliatory hand, searching for the right words. I want to ask her to please keep her voice down.

Before I can answer, the security guard speaks up. His voice is low. “I need you to follow me to the administrative office please, Miss.” 

I want to argue. I want to explain that this is all a silly mistake, but I notice that people are beginning to pay attention. And there the book lies between the three of us screaming EROTICA in capital letters on its cover. I snatch it up and turn mutely to follow him, my hand covering the incriminating letters, head bent as I cross the main reading area.  

I am led through a heavy fire door and down a hallway to an office. I have to scurry to try and keep up with the tall security guard who strides ahead of me. As I skitter forward on my toes, I attempt breathlessly to explain to his back that I wasn't trying to steal the book. “This is ridiculous,” I say, “I just forgot I was holding it.”

The tall man pauses and turns to look at me. He is grim faced. His expression gives no indication that he has heard or understood my words. He reaches out and clasps the knob of a brown wood panelled office door and swings it open. A tilt of his head indicates that I am to go inside. Once I step through it, he pulls it shut behind me. I wait. I contemplate placing the book atop the desk I see in the center of the room and simply turning to leave. I wonder whether such an action would make me look guilty or put the matter to rest. I perch on the edge of one of two high-back chairs arranged in front of the desk, and then think better of it and stand up again, my two hands clasping the book, so as to obscure the cover. My heart is racing, and I start trying to coach myself to calm down.

As the silence stretches out, I reach out to place the book on top of the desk, deciding to act on my initial impulse to leave it and walk out. As I do so, I hear the sound of a door latch, and a second door that I hadn’t noticed earlier swings open. I jump, startled and knock the book on the floor, immediately crouching down to retrieve it.

A middle aged man of medium height steps into the room. He is wearing a pale golf shirt with the library insignia stitched over the breast and a pair of tan cotton chinos. He has short, medium brown hair, and a beard that has started greying. He is sporting black framed glasses. He looks at me and walks across to sit behind the desk. 

He leans forward, his gaze intense. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly deep. At odds with his features, which make him appear mild-mannered, with an almost boyish quality. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I understand but i'd like to explain,” I say.

“OK. Explain please.”

He looks stern, but I feel a rush of relief at the prospect of being able to clear up this mess. “I just ... I forgot I was holding it.”

I feel a trickle of confusion and uncertainty when he says, “Holding what? the book?”

I seek to clarify, “Yes. I wasn’t trying to steal it. I just didn't know what was ... I was just grabbing stuff off the shelves.”

“Did you like it?” His question brings me up short. He has leaned in and his hand is resting on the cover. Obliterating the word EROTICA. His thumb rifles the pages, seeming to pause when he comes to a dog-eared corner. I flash back to the moment when my own thumb traced over the face of those same neatly stacked pages and I felt the catch where someone had folded one. In my mind this was a signal that my fingers had identified a juicy bit, and I’d pressed the book open at that spot.

Without another word to me, he carefully aligns his hands on the keyboard and hits a few keys. Then he turns the monitor to face me. 

I see a grainy black and white image. It takes a moment for me to make sense of it.  It is a video of a woman sinking to the floor of the stacks with her nose in a book.

Security camera footage.

Fuck.