In Too Deep (6 page)

Or rather I was, until, on a whim, I touched Daniel Brewster’s cock.

There’s old carpeting on the floor, so my steps are muffled to near silence. I discharge my ostensible reason for coming down, dumping the shredded paper and returning a couple of volumes I snatched up as a pretext. And then I pause, trying to frame a cheery greeting and a light, throwaway reference to yesterday that will get us over the hump of awkwardness and back on to a more promising path towards, well, towards something.

Daniel’s carrel is empty. But he’s been here, and he’s clearly coming back. His tweed jacket is hung on a hook on the end
of
one of the stacks. Precious texts on the Wars of the Roses are lying open across the broad wooden table. You would think as a historian he’d be a touch more respectful of such rare tomes, but maybe he’s got other things on his mind, eh?

There are also a lot of sheets of handwritten notes scattered hither and thither, along with two newspapers, each open at the crossword and Sudoku page. His high-end laptop is glowing with what looks suspiciously like a solitaire battleship game, rather than a learned treatise. Curiously, there are not one but two large magnifying glasses, set atop a heap of computer printout, and as well as a couple of roller-balls and some pencils there’s a rather beautiful fountain pen lined up beside an open stenographer’s notepad.

Fountain pen?

The area is awash with more light than illuminates the whole of the rest of the archive. Not for this scholar the ancient practice of scribbling and squinting by flickering candlelight. Several high-watt Anglepoise lamps shed clear bluish light provided by special daylight bulbs. Professor Hottie likes things bright and easy to see.

So do I. But where the hell is he? Probably ferreting about at the far end of the long complex of smaller archive rooms. So I take the risk of drawing closer and taking a better look at his things.

And the handwriting of the notes.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not a bit like the elegance of Nemesis’s lettering. It’s quite sharp, large and vigorous, expressing a hugely confident intelligence in its author. And the bits that are written by fountain pen are in black ink, not blue.

The archive is almost silent apart from the occasional tiny chatter of the laptop’s hard disk and the distant humming of
electricals
, and the air is heavy with the weight of knowledge and dust. But suddenly I detect something else. A distinct buzzing sound. It’s almost exactly the same pitch as my vibrator and instantly my mind presents the weirdest of pictures. Has Professor Hottie got a secret vice he indulges in, down here in the bowels of learning? Or maybe I’m not the only member of the library staff who’s leading the life of a clandestine pervert?

Either way, I’ve got to know what’s going on. It’s blindingly foolhardy, and there’s the potential for stunning embarrassment, both for me and for whoever’s buzzing, but, walking on fairy-footed tiptoes, I steal in the direction of the noise. It’s coming from the tiny and rather shabby washroom. It used to be a staff loo but now we have newer and far nicer facilities upstairs. It’s handy, though, when you’re shelving in the stacks for an extended period.

I inch forwards until I can see round the corner. Judging by the sound, whoever’s in there has left the door open. And then I have to cram my knuckles in my mouth to stop myself squeaking like a startled mouse. Daniel Brewster is standing in front of the rust-spotted mirror, running a battery razor back and forth along the line of his jaw. He’s leaning over the sink, barely a couple of inches from the glass, peering intently at his reflection and frowning hard. Nothing unusual about this, apart from the location – and the fact that he’s standing there stark naked.

Dear Lord in Heaven, he’s beautiful!

Unaware of my scrutiny, he stands relaxed, his limbs elegant, loose, almost classical. His form is muscular and compact, not an inch of spare flesh on him, and there’s a delightful little tangle of dark hair adorning his chest.

My eyes skitter from one to another of his body’s charms, almost painstakingly avoiding the place they really want to
look
. But eventually, of course, I succumb. And his cock is just as beautiful as the rest of him. Hanging soft and unaroused, it’s still impressive, and swings meatily against his thigh as he steps back and puts the razor out of sight.

I have to flatten myself against the plastered wall to keep from inching forwards and maybe revealing my presence. I feel just like Nemesis, observing the object of my fantasies and willing the imagined vision not to evaporate. But the reality of Daniel Brewster’s nudity far exceeds any of the day and night dreams I’ve been entertaining about it since he arrived here. My heart thuds and bashes about, and I’m half afraid that, even if I don’t move a muscle or breathe ever again, he’ll still detect its tremendous clamour in my chest.

With a little sigh, he runs water into the sink, and then sets about giving himself what my dear old mum would have described as a ‘strip wash’. He rubs a soapy flannel all over his arms and shoulders and torso, then rinses the cloth out and wipes away all traces of lather.

Then he soaps the flannel again and applies it to his genitals. At first he’s just getting clean. But after a few moments, and inevitably, I suppose, all that changes. Under the ministrations of the flannel, his penis begins to lengthen and thicken, rising up. With a grunt he tosses the washcloth into the water and takes himself properly in hand. His smooth, freshly shaven jaw tenses as he manipulates his cock with his fingers, pushing and pulling in long strokes, working the fine, rapidly blushing skin over the hard, blood-filled core that keeps on swelling.

Fully erect, he’s astonishing, magnificently fulfilling the promise I felt yesterday, when I touched him through his jeans.

He breathes deeply, raggedly, his fine chest heaving as he
really
throws himself into his pleasure. With his free hand bracing himself on the sink, he pitches forwards, pressing his forehead against the mirror. I can see his lips moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying for the hammering of my heart.

His body is like a perfect engine and he’s pumping it, priming it. I send up a silent prayer of thanks when he adjusts his position, widening his stance for stability, and presents me with an even better view of his erection and his hand upon it. Up and down, up and down, he’s merciless with his own flesh. He rubs his forehead against the mirror as his corded thighs flex and work in time to his masturbation.

I wonder how long he can keep this up. I certainly can’t last much longer. Not without whipping up my skirt and pushing my hand into my panties to share his gasping ritual by rubbing at my clitoris. My sex feels wide and wet, as if welcoming the beautiful male organ just a few yards away. I clasp my crotch, cupping it hard through my skirt, and just as I’m about to reach for my hemline Daniel lets out a broken groan … and comes.

Semen spurts out of him, shooting from his tip in intense little jets that splatter on the porcelain pedestal and slide down it like liquid pearls. He seems to go on and on, as if he’s been abstinent for weeks, even months, and only now has he been forced to seek release. His face is agonised yet celestial and his voice is desperate as he swears and snarls, wordless and incoherent.

I don’t know what to think or how to react. I barely
can
think. I’m dumbstruck, thunderstruck, mind-struck. This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, so perfect and intimate it’s dazzling.

It’s too much. My head reeling, I back away as fast as I can without making any commotion. But as I reach the corner I
trip
and scuff my shoe and the sound seems enormous, resounding through the entire basement, even though really it’s tiny. I spin and launch myself towards the stairs, up to the world of normality, but not before an image imprints itself momentarily on my eyes: Daniel’s head coming up, turning, following the sound.

Has he seen me? I hurtle up the stairs, issues of sound forgotten. I must get out into the library as fast as I can. I burst out of the door to the archive and nearly run into Tracey, carrying an armful of fiction.

‘You all right?’ Her eyes are wide as I stand there, panting. I’m not out of breath from running, but from the impact of what I’ve seen.

‘Yeah … well, no, bit of claustrophobia, I think,’ I babble, as she frowns in concern. ‘I’m usually fine down there, but it’s hotter than usual somehow.’ I fan my face, and it’s not for effect. I must be bright pink, and I’m convinced my ears are far rosier than Daniel’s have ever been. The image of his penis, also rosy, makes me sway on my feet.

‘Look, why don’t you take five in the staff room?’ Tracey shifts her books to one arm and pats me on mine. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the desk for a bit. Nobody will mind.’

She’s a kind soul, and I take advantage of her offer. But it’s not the staff room I rush to. I pile into the ladies’ cloakroom and lock myself in the nearest stall, the disabled persons’ cubicle. As I collapse on to the lowered lid of the loo, I realise that I’m still breathing heavily.

Did he see me? And if he did, do I even care, right at this moment? All I want to do is bring myself off, release the tension, come as he did. I haul up my skirt and thrust my hand into my panties. No niceties. No slow build-up. This is desperation. Does Nemesis do himself as urgently as this when he’s watched me in the library?

It doesn’t take long. I rub roughly, messily, slipping around in a great puddle of silkiness, parading stark images through my head at the same time. Daniel’s hand on his cock. His heart-stopping profile as he grimaces. Semen, jetting, jetting, jetting.

I roll my head to one side, my own neck arching back as I come, riding the heavy, wrenching pulses.

Afterwards, I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth and it takes a long time for me to compose myself. And to clean myself up too. I mop ineffectually at my crotch with damp toilet tissue, trying to get rid of the telltale smell of my arousal. But that only gets me going again, and I rise to another quick, hard, guilty and not entirely satisfactory orgasm, biting my lips and wishing suddenly that I’d never gone downstairs in the first place.

It’s quite a while before I return to Lending, and Tracey swoops in on me to see if I’m OK.

‘I’m fine now,’ I lie. ‘Just needed a drink of water and a breather. It can get so stuffy down there in that hellhole.’

‘I thought you liked it?’ Tracey gives me a sly smile. ‘I thought you liked the view?’

It’s well known that I fancy Professor Hottie, but then, so do most of the female staff. And even one of the male staff too.

‘I do, normally, but he wasn’t around.’ More blatant lies. ‘Maybe it was disappointment that made me come over all funny?’

We chat for a moment more, then I see a rather uncertain-looking old gentleman approach the Enquiry Desk. Duty calls. What follows is one of those classic library misunderstandings. In a rather wavering voice he asks to be pointed towards books on ‘rearing carnations’. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. But when I lead him to our well-stocked gardening section, and find
Cultivating Carnations
by Reginald Blair, the pensioner looks at me uncomprehendingly, blinking in confusion. I’m not
quite
sure what’s going on either, until, after closer questioning, it transpires that he’s actually seeking info on ‘reincarnation’. The mysticism and spirituality shelves yield exactly what he wants, and his effusive and rather sweet thanks are genuinely touching. It’s all a good distraction for me, and I feel the simple glow of professional satisfaction as we return towards the desk with a clutch of books to check out. I tell him there’s always the library’s request system if he can’t find exactly what he wants in this haul.

But the happy-librarian glow instantly dissipates, to be replaced by all sorts of other smoulderings, when I see Daniel Brewster standing waiting there, right in front of the suggestion box.

Even though the image of him naked and masturbating is now probably forever seared on the inside of my brain casing, the clothed Daniel is still quite a sight. Especially as he seems to be dressed up for some kind of gala event. Gone is the tweed and denim, replaced by a very, very sharp midnight-blue suit and a matching tone-on-tone shirt and tie combo. His crazy black hair is somewhat tamed, and he’s holding his briefcase and has a dark mackintosh over one arm. Which makes sense. He was obviously having a wash and brush-up downstairs in preparation for going somewhere straight from the library, bout of self-abuse notwithstanding.

He appears to be waiting for someone and, when he turns my way and his dark eyes warm, it seems to be me. My face flames. He saw me! He knew I was watching! And yet his own face is composed, open and confident. There’s nothing in his expression to suggest he knew he was being watched. He seems perfectly untroubled by anything that’s happened today. Or even yesterday.

‘Hello, Gwendolynne. You’re looking very nice today. I like your hair like that.’

Compliments? Social niceties? What’s going on? Even if he didn’t see me watching him, that farcical little interlude yesterday should make this apparently casual meeting at least a little awkward.

‘Thanks … I thought I’d try a change.’ I’d almost forgotten that I decided to do my hair differently this morning, another pathetic ploy to have an effect on either Nemesis or Daniel. It’s still fastened back, but in a lower bunch, off to one side and more loosely. And I’ve left a few tendrils curling around my face. I was going for something a tad more sultry to contrast with the businesslike blouse and skirt.

I start blushing for a quite innocent reason, the simple female pleasure of being politely admired. But moments are ticking on, and I realise I’ve got to say something.

‘You’re looking very smart yourself, Professor Brewster. Are you going out somewhere?’

His sudden smile is a picture, and bizarrely it’s almost as exciting in its own way as his naked body was. He touches his hair compulsively as if he’s not used to being so gussied up. Even when he’s been on television he’s usually looked quite casual.