Meet Me By the Kama Sutra (Regular Sex Issue 4)

Regular
Sex 4 ~ Meet me by the Kama Sutra.

By

Kitty French

Welcome to the forth issue of
Regular Sex, the brand new series of sexy half hour reads guaranteed to make
sure your weekend starts with a bang!

Enjoy, and remember to check out
issue 5 next Friday.

Happy reading,

Love Kitty x

Regular Sex ~ Issue 4 ~ Meet me by the Kama Sutra

HUEY

I don’t think I’m
imagining it. She keeps looking over at me today, I’m sure of it.

I’ve been writing
in the library for three weeks now, a half-hearted attempt to save both my
money and my heart from the effect of the endless espressos that accompany trying
to work in the local cafe. It’s quite charming as libraries go, housed in an
old Victorian building with lots of side rooms and lamp-lit nooks. I’m missing
my coffee hit but it’s certainly a charismatic sort of place, and right from
day one I’ve caught one of the librarians watching me out of the corner of her
perfectly made up eye.

I’ll tell you
something else I’m not imagining, either. She wears stockings to work. I haven’t
been letching, but sometimes when she clears the books from the table I’m
working at or comes close by to file away a pile of returned books, I can see
the outline of the catches pressing beneath her skirt.

That’s not
normal, is it? I mean, it
is
in my fantasies, but most women don’t wear
stockings on a day-to-day basis in reality, do they? The fact that she does tells
me stuff about her. It tells me that she’s confident, and that she embraces her
own sexuality. That’s not a sexist thing to say, is it? I don’t mean it to be.
It’s a compliment. I love that she’s not apologetic about the fact she’s
fucking beautiful, that she chooses to wear clothes that celebrate rather than
shroud her body. Make no mistake about it, this girl is packing some serious pin-up
curves; she looks like she belongs in the nineteen fifties drinking cocktails
with Marilyn Monroe rather than stacking sci-fi books alphabetically, as she
appears to be tasked with this afternoon.  

She’s kneeling on
the wooden floor across the room from me with books spread all around her, and
my mind is about as far away from my work as it could be. I should be thinking
about my research, but all I can concentrate on is how much I’d prefer to research
underneath Sylvie’s blouse. I know her name; it’s on the badge I try not to
look at in case it looks like I’m staring at her tits.

I’m not a letchy sort
of bloke. I’m thirty-two, for God's sake. I jacked my career in teaching six months
ago, mostly because my soon to be ex-wife was the headmistress at the school I
taught at and she was openly shagging the head of Maths in his free periods. So
yeah. I’ve chucked my job, chucked my wife, and bought a motorbike with a good
chunk of my savings. I know what you're thinking, classic midlife crisis; if
you need further evidence, here it is. I currently live in my mate’s barely
converted garage, I have the makings of a beard, and I’m using my impromptu holiday
from reality to write the book I’ve always said I’m going to write. I did warn
you I’m having a crisis. But then you knew that the moment you heard I’m spending
most of my afternoons fantasising about screwing the nubile librarian, didn’t
you? Christ. I’m so friggin’ textbook I even bore myself.

Oh God. She’s
filing books on the bottom shelf now. Her arse is in the air, and I’m having to
sit on my hands to stop myself from touching myself or else going over there
and touching her. I swallow painfully because I can see the tops of her
stockings peeping out from beneath her skirt. An old boy sits at the table
across from me, one of the regulars, openly ogling her. I know this because
even though he’s facing away from me he’s craning his head sideways to get a
better look up her skirt, ratty old goat. Shit, is that where I’m headed when I’m
a pensioner? Sitting in the library in my dirty mac waiting to cop an eye-f
of someone half my age? Who am I kidding? The only difference between him and
me is thirty years, a clean t-shirt and a hot shower.

Sylvie’s done
with her books now and stands up, smoothing her skirt over her thighs with
fluttering hands. No wedding ring. I’ve checked, because the one thing I’m not
is a marriage wrecker. A marriage wreck, maybe, but not a marriage wrecker.

I force my eyes
back to my screen in case she spots me watching her when she turns around.
Count backwards from five slowly, Huey. Five. Four. Three. Two. Don’t look, don’t
look, oh shit.

She’s just sat
down opposite me at my table.

I lift my eyes
slowly, and surreptitiously watch as she opens her notebook and clicks the end
of a pen she pulls from behind her ear, poised to write something. Then she
raises her eyes to mine and our gazes lock. It’s the oddest feeling, as if she
looks inside me, all the way in, and her eyes sparkle with undisguised mischief.

She looks down at
her pad for a few seconds and then writes something down, rips the sheet from
the book, and slides it across the table to me. It’s far enough that she has to
stretch, and I reach out wordlessly and pull the paper towards me.

‘Am concerned
that my blouse is inappropriate for work because that guy over there keeps
staring at me. Tell me something... can you see my bra through it?’

Now, I’ve been
married for six years, so I’m out of practice, but that’s a come on, right?
Just to be sure, I grab my pen and scrawl something on the paper, then push it
back over the table.

‘Are you asking
me to look?’

She reads my
request and the smallest of smiles tilts her lips as she lifts one eyebrow and
nods, her eyes flickering around the quiet library to make sure no one’s
observing us. Mac man has his back to us, and there’s no one else in this side
room but us.

I swallow hard
and lower my gaze to her breasts. Her black blouse is kind of sheer, just the
right side of respectable but still sexy enough for me to be able to register
that her bra is black too.

It’s hard to look
away now that I’ve been invited, and even harder not to imagine what she’d look
like without her blouse. I take my time, and then catch my breath because she’s
just slipped her top button open to reveal more creamy cleavage.

She writes
something down and slides the paper back.

‘Well? What do
you think?’

I snake my tongue
over my suddenly dry lips, my eyes on the freshly revealed curves of her
breasts.

‘I think I might
need more to make a closer inspection.’

The words fall
from my brain onto the paper, and when she reads them she replies then folds
the paper in half, moves it towards me, refastening her button as she stands up
to leave.
Shit.
Did I push too far?

‘Meet me in the
reference room in five minutes.’  

Fuck, yes! I
watch her walk away, studying the feminine sway of her shapely ass, and then I
panic because I don’t even know where the frickin’ reference room is and she’s
left the room now and I need to wait a few minutes before I follow because my
raging hard on will give me away, even if my guilty eyes don’t.

SYLVIE

I’m a librarian
for a reason. Well, two reasons actually. The first is that I love books. The
second is that I love sex, and the vast majority of men have a thing for
librarians. I think it’s got a lot to do with the enforced silence of the library;
it gets them all pent up with the need to roar like lions. You have to be
careful in here though, because the men who use the library generally fall into
one of three categories.

One - the obvious
perv. You can tell these guys a mile off because they generally don’t wash as
regularly as they should, usually wear macs, and are quite often bald. They
tend to hang around the newspapers or sometimes in women’s fiction, which is a
bit obvious, isn’t it?

Then you’ve got
the uber-geeks, the ones who are genuinely too caught up in their studies or
their books to notice the sensual world around them. Every now and then I’ll
have a crack at one of these guys if I’m feeling like a challenge, and I’m not
ashamed to admit that they can be slow on the uptake. There was a guy earlier
this year, a mature student who was actually hot as hell beneath his bowtie and
braces; I had to practically ask him outright for sex before he clocked on. To
give him his dues though he was a right horn-dog once he got going, I don’t
know which of us was sadder when he graduated and moved back home for the
summer.

My only unbreakable
rule is that my boss must never find out; I’d be fired for certain and I love
this job. It’s back to the books again, you see. I get to read voraciously for
free, and I write too. One of these days my book will be on these shelves, you
just wait and see.

So on to the
third type of man, my favourite kind, Mr. middle-of-the-road. These guys are
usually here to research something particular, or maybe to grab some quiet time,
always alone, relatively easy to reel in. Huey is one of these guys. I know his
name from his library card, and I know that he finds me attractive because I’ve
caught him glancing at me. He’s cute, all dark hair and stubble, and I like the
way he looks away quickly as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. He’s
got that shy-guy vibe going on, and interestingly, I sense that underneath it,
he probably isn’t shy at all.

I’m in the
reference room now, which by and large is the quietest room in the place. I’m
especially fond of the sliding ladder to reach the top shelves, and of the
small milkmaid style stools provided for working on the lowest rows. There’s an
old school smell in here too, dusty leather and floor polish, it takes me back
to my student days and reminds me of several terms of torrid sessions with my
foreign languages tutor. I’ve been fluent in both French and fellatio for some
years now thanks to him.

I dressed for
Huey this morning. Suspenders, my favourite lace underwear, high heels. He’s
been coming in here for a few weeks now and still hasn’t made his move, so I’ve
decided to take matters into my own hands. Literally.

I can hear
footsteps approaching. It better be him rather than mac man.

HUEY

I’ve never been
in the reference room before. I don’t see Sylvie immediately as I step inside,
just aisles of austere looking books that look less used than the well-thumbed
fiction books in other parts of the library. It’s a serious, scholarly kind of
room, at curious odds with the pleasure I’m hoping to find in here. A rustle at
the far end of the room snags my attention and I walk slowly past the rows of
books, all the way to the end aisle where I find Sylvie innocently filing a
large, weighty leather tome back into place. She glances my way and I pause,
suddenly unsure what to do next.

Christ, but she’s
hot. I haven’t entertained serious sexual thoughts about anyone other than my
ex this way for years, and suddenly I’m eighteen again with sweaty palms and
one nervous eye on the door in case anyone comes in.

‘Come closer.’ She
turns her back to the shelves to watch me walk towards her. As I draw near I
can see that glow in her eyes again, the thrill of doing something she shouldn’t.

‘So,’ she says,
lifting her eyebrows. ‘Take a better look, Huey. Can you see my bra through my
blouse?’

She pouts, hands
on her hips, shoulders back, pushing her tits out towards me. I look down, and
yes, I can just about make out the outline of her bra.

‘I’m not sure I
can, Sylvie.’ I rest my elbow on the shelf beside her and trace my fingertip
over her jaw.

‘Would it help if
I unbuttoned my blouse?’ she asks, almost innocent.

I try to look as
if it’s a question with more than one possible answer.

‘I think it
would,’ I say, and she smiles then runs her fingers down her body, flicking her
buttons open then gripping the bottom hem of her blouse and opening it wide.

I make an
involuntary noise in my throat, a low sigh of appreciation, and she presses a
finger to my lips.

‘We have to be
quiet,’ she mouths. I nod, then nip her fingertip and suck it inside my mouth,
and her eyes widen a little when I swirl my tongue around it.

‘I can see your
bra better now.’

I reach out and
run my hands over the black lace that encases her and feel her nipples stiffen
under the stroke of my thumbs. Sylvie pulls me against her by my t-shirt and
cops a feel of my arse.

‘I’ve thought
about this for days,’ I whisper, brushing my lips over her plump, parted ones. ‘I’ve
imagined you, Sylvie, but I didn’t do you justice.’ I kiss her again, slanting
my mouth over hers, running the tip of my tongue inside her lips.

‘I’ve thought
about you too,’ she breathes, and her hands slide under the back of my t-shirt.
Her palms slide over my skin, and I wish we were somewhere private so we could
get naked.

‘Christ, you’ve
got great tits,’ I groan, squeezing them together and lowering my mouth to kiss
all over them, rushing because I can’t get enough of her. Sex in my life had
become pretty routine, no surprises, unless you count the fact that my wife was
shagging someone else. That came as something of a surprise.

This kind of raw,
unexpected sex shocks me. Electrifies me. I peel the cups of her bra down so I
can see her nipples, pale brown areolae, deep bronze hard little tips begging
me to touch them.

‘Suck them,’ she
whispers, and her hand slips down to rub my cock through my jeans. ‘Put your
mouth on me, Huey, I want you to.’

I love that, how she
isn't scared to tell me what she wants, that she knows what makes her feel
good. I’m sucking one of her nipples now, holding it between my teeth to lick
it before working my way to the other one. Her bra lifts her breasts up,
holding her there for me to explore with my hands and mouth, enjoying the cock
massage she’s giving me and wanting more. Her fingers reach for the buttons on my
jeans, and then...

‘Sylvie?’

A voice rings
down the corridor outside, and I jump away from her as she hastily fastens her
blouse and straightens her hair. Fuck! My cock hurts with the need for relief.