Hardback

"We fucked a flame into being."
― D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover

She loved the smell of new books. Something about the freshness of the pages and the way that they sounded when flicked through briskly, creating a gentle breeze on her face and pussy. She straddled the brand new hardback copy of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" by D.H. Lawrence, her legs open wide. She was right over it and felt a warm sense of wetness coming over her as she read the words on the page:

"But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may."

And with that, she rammed her fingers into her wet and dripping vagina. "Mmm", she moaned as she started to move them inside of herself, pushing against her clit as she did and sending a ripple of sensation through her body. Watery juices started to flow onto her hands and tiny droplets adorned the pages, smearing the ink ever so slightly.

She slammed her hands down onto the floor to try and keep her balance as she fucked herself happily. Her face was getting flushed and red. Turning around and pulling her lace knickers down even further, she took the book by one of its corners and started to grind its sharpness into her tight anus. It didn't go in far, of course, but the sensation was just enough to make her even wetter and hornier than ever.

The fingering was unrelenting, pushing and shoving her hand up there, feeling every inch of the inner walls of her warm, enveloping, inviting pussy.

Meanwhile, the librarian was standing on the other side of the doorway, pleasuring himself as he watched her soak the book more and more with her sweet flowing honey. He pumped away at his throbbing cock with one hand, and holding another copy of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" in the other. His was a softback copy, but he didn't care. If it brought him closer to her, that was fine by him. He bit his lip as he came hard onto the book, his semen sliding down the faded papery cover.

The woman let out a loud scream as she came, but quickly covered her mouth in horror as she remembered where she was.

The librarian cleaned himself up and slowly approach the woman.

"Excuse me, this is a library" he said, matter-of-factly. "I'm going to have to ask you to keep your voice down."

Still squatting over the book, her pussy pulsating from all the action and soaking the white paper beneath, she turned around to face him. Her ass looked far too inviting and he couldn't bring himself to say anything else. Instead, he just felt his horniness returning, creeping its way up his body and into his cock.

She noticed the copy of "Lady Chatterley's Lover" in his hands, and the traces of white pearly liquid that hung from the cover. She grinned.

"I see you're enjoying this book too", she said.

He smiled back at her, knowingly. "What do you say we enjoy it together?"

(and here's where I let D.H. Lawrence write the rest … seems to follow on perfectly)

"His body was urgent against her, and she didn't have the heart anymore to fight...She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up...she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes...He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering.

Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him.

She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit and she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling til it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, til she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries."
― D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover