Excerpt from:  Checking Out Audrey, Ellora’s Cave (Exotika)
Copyright © LYLA SINCLAIR, 2009
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

I heard a groan as I neared the reference section, my favorite area of the Edward J. Kumm University Library. Quieting my steps, I listened for more of the familiar sounds. I’d seen the looks the two had given each other earlier when I was working the front desk. They’d been downstairs studying at different tables, pretending to be strangers, but I suspected that they were just playing the game—the game I’d witnessed numerous times yet my elderly co-workers seemed completely oblivious to.

Another groan. I was almost there, so I went around the back of the second-to-last shelf, then sidled up the final row, my hands caressing the decrepit spines as I passed. If my boss Mrs. Cravitz knew why quiet little Audrey Simms was really so eager to “re-shelve” the giant tomes that no other librarian wanted any part of…

A moan…and a grunt. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

Silently, I slid a copy of the Farmer’s Almanac—I never understood why we needed it at an arts and communications college—out of its rightful place on the shelf and peeked through, knowing this was the best and safest vantage point.

As suspected, there was the blondie-blonde from downstairs, her spaghetti straps pulled half way down her arms, her large breasts exposed. Although I was a blue-eyed strawberry blonde myself, nothing about me had that kind of appeal. She was one of those girls who oozed sexuality and invitation from every pore of her body.

My nipples tingled and I wondered if that made me a lesbian.

I suppose I should have been jealous of her, since she was the one participating and all I could ever do was watch, but I couldn’t help appreciating her boldness in being able to bare all in a public place. Besides, there was no point in feeling envious of something you could never be in a million years.

I’d recognized the guy from the moment he’d walked into the library. His chiseled jaw, tousled sandy brown hair and broad shoulders appeared in every issue of the college newspaper. It was no surprise Kurt Anderson—star running-back of the football team—could get any woman he wanted to the third floor with him. In fact, I was surprised I hadn’t seen him up there before.

His big hand—perfect for catching footballs—squeezed one of the blonde’s breasts as he sucked hungrily on the other. I was mesmerized by his full lips and long, thick fingers. I wondered what they’d feel like on my body.

On my breasts.

I glanced around, unnecessary as it was. With Google and Wikipedia, no one used this section for legitimate purposes anymore. The only books I had to re-shelve were the ones I removed for a better view.

Sliding my hand under my shirt, I caressed my breasts through the bra. They were probably as big as hers, maybe bigger, but I always covered them in giant woolen sweaters or corduroy jackets, since my shyness with the world was all encompassing, mind and body.

Kurt pushed the blonde back onto the study table and stepped in closer so her legs were splayed open, straddling him.

“Yeah, you want it, baby,” he rasped. “You want me to take you right here, where anybody could see.”

She raked her long manicured fingernails down the back of his shirt. He growled and covered her pouty-lipped mouth with his. As he grasped her hair in a tight grip at her scalp, he slid the other hand down until it found the end of her short skirt. I watched his thick fingers disappear underneath. She moaned and pushed her hips forward. My own hips thrust forward of their own accord. He stopped suddenly and looked into her eyes.

“Why, Goldilocks, you’re not wearing any panties on your pussy,” he said.

A naughty grin spread across her face. She raised a perfectly arched brow. “The better to fuck you with, my dear,” she replied.

For a split second, I felt it was my duty as a librarian to point out that they’d mixed up the two fairy tales and the second quote was actually a paraphrase from Little Red Riding Hood. But the urge passed quickly when I saw her hand move down to his pants and I heard the unmistakable sound of his zipper.

I held my breath and couldn’t allow myself to blink until I saw what was in there. She whipped it out with a flourish—obviously a professional cock slinger. He groaned. My pussy groaned along with him and I was pretty sure then that I wasn’t a lesbian. It wasn’t the biggest penis I’d seen in my “studies” on the third floor of the library but it was respectably long and very thick. I imagined how it would feel pushed inside me, my pussy stretching around it…

My thighs tightened and my crotch let out a little yelp, which, fortunately, only I could hear.

She pushed his jeans down a bit, exposing his ass to me. A fabulous ass. One of those squatting, bench-pressing kind of asses. I felt a sound in my throat and wondered if it had been audible. They certainly didn’t seem to notice.

She pumped her hand up and down on his hard purple flesh exactly five times—I always counted for some odd reason.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. “Now.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck you,” he said. He pulled her off the table and flung her around so her face was squeezed against the ancient Britannicas. Pushing her skirt up to her waist, he kneaded her ass with his huge hands. My mouth went dry as I watched him place his cock just outside the entrance to her pussy. He slid in, so slowly it was almost painful to watch…to wait for.

“Please fuck my pussy,” she whimpered. I watched with longing as his wet cock slid out of her and back inside again. My eyes fell closed. Leaning forward, I pushed my green-corduroy-skirt-covered crotch up against a volume of Standard and Poor’s that was protruding from a lower shelf, and enjoyed the slight bit of friction between my thighs.

Any port in a storm, I guess.

He thrust into her, and I thrust along with him, desperately trying to have some semblance of sex for myself. I could feel my panties dampening under my long skirt.

“You’re such a hot little slut!” he gritted out. I imagined it was me he’d said that to, and my thrusts became more frantic.

Her sounds went higher in pitch until they became a staccato “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,” followed by a lot of writhing and shuddering. This was it. He’d come any second and I wanted to come with him. I pinched my nipples and ground my pussy against him—I mean, the book. He pounded her like a jackhammer then grunted loudly and collapsed with her against the encyclopedias.

As usual, I wasn’t as lucky. I was so close so many times before, but it never happened for me. At least not with anyone else around. I took these stolen interludes home with me and used them to get off at night, but I was always alone.

Alone in my apartment. Alone in bed.

As much as I hated to admit it, my “duties” on the third floor of the library were a part of why I hadn’t sought a job in my chosen field after graduating with a communications degree a couple of years before. Instead, I’d taken the full-time job the library offered, turning what was supposed to be a part-time college gig into a career, of sorts.

Not that I’d have done much better if I could have torn myself away from my lurid little hobby. As a senior who’d gone through high school virtually unnoticed, I’d decided the change of scenery at a university would “fix” me, and my extreme shyness would magically evaporate. I chose the communications major, with the totally unrealistic expectations of becoming a news writer or reporter…or even an anchorwoman.

If anything, my college experience had made my problem worse. When I started my freshman year, the university was out of dorm space, so I took an apartment alone—the same apartment I lived in four years later when I officially became a librarian. The same one I lived in now, as a matter of fact.

I still couldn’t look people in the eye for more than a split second. I still couldn’t hold the simplest of conversations, especially with a guy, without going completely blank. Just the thought of job interviews—eye contact, putting your best foot forward, thinking clearly while someone questioned and judged you—was unfathomable to me.

* * * * *

Those same thoughts were going round and round in my head the next day as I scanned bar codes for students who were checking out books.

Without looking up, I took the next book handed to me.

“Your hair looks nice like that.”

I glanced up into brown eyes with flecks of gold that I could swear were sparkling flirtatiously at me. Perfect white teeth, which stood out brilliantly against his olive complexion, smiled down at me. He was a bronzed god. Tall, dark, handsome…and he was looking at me as if he knew me. Or wanted to know me.

My eyes lowered immediately but I’d suddenly forgotten which button to push before I scanned.

“You usually wear it pulled back, don’t you?”

I could swear my heart stopped dead in my chest. I considered asking for CPR, but was completely tongue-tied. Had he really been noticing how I wore my hair?

“Like in a bun or something?” he tried again.

That morning I’d been in a hurry and rushed out of my apartment without anything to make a ponytail or bun with. But how did he know? I didn’t recognize him. But I guess when you go through life with your head down, there are a lot of things you miss.

“Mm-hm,” I replied, trying to seem busy and efficient instead of painfully shy. I stared down at his library card.

Maximiliano Fernandez.

“I know it looks like a mouthful, but everybody just calls me Max,” he said. I looked up at him again. He had a sheepish grin on his face, but I knew that he knew it was totally charming and nearly irresistible. I felt my face turning pink, so I lowered my head and began scanning his books. “My parents just got a little carried away…with the name I mean…”

“All done,” I said and glanced toward the next person in line so Max would take the hint.

“Since you know my name, it’d be only fair if I knew yours…don’t you think?” he asked.

“Audrey Simms,” I murmured without looking up. I grabbed the next library card that was being held out toward me and continued working.

As I felt him move away, I wished with all my heart I could respond in kind to his interest in me. But then I reminded myself that a person had to walk before they could run and my two—mostly clothed and fumbling—sexual experiences in the back seat of cars in high school barely counted as crawling. I certainly didn’t qualify for this guy. First, he was Latin for God’s sake, and they’re famous the world over as lovers. Okay, that might be a stereotype, but what if it was one with a basis in fact? I couldn’t take that chance.

And second, his name was Maximiliano, which I was pretty sure was from the Latin “maximus” meaning “the greatest”. I’ve always held a strong belief that people tend to live up to their names—self-fulfilling prophecies and all that. I could only imagine the wild, passionate abandon this guy would expect in bed.

I decided that even if my life changed drastically that very day, it would take me years—maybe decades—before I’d qualify for a Maximiliano Fernandez.

How tempting he was, though, with the twinkling eyes and the smooth voice, and did I see dimples?

Maybe if I start with Cheech Marin and work my way up…

But my life didn’t change drastically that day. It was the same lonely day, followed by the same depressing night that I’d experienced hundreds of times over the past six years.

A week later, though, I was confronted with something so shocking, so unthinkable, so lurid…well let’s just say things changed all right. Boy did they change.