Antique Book Trade Adventures

Berkeley Square, London. The stripped branches of the giant plane trees are stark against the pewter November sky. It’s only mid-afternoon, but already the narrow streets and lanes are growing dim in the weak, dying light of a watery autumn sun.

A famous bookstore stands on the west side of the square. Unchanged in layout since it first opened in 1853, it remains a Mecca for antiquarian book collectors. Its unkempt, disorganized, labyrinthine nooks and crannies are an Aladdin’s cave of rare texts on such varied subjects as “Aquatic Birds of India,” “Ivory Carving in Early Medieval England,” or “Scientific Results of the Second Yarkand Mission of 1874.”

A bitter wind swirls the usual London mixture of plastic bags, tabloid newspapers and dead leaves around my feet as I cross the square towards the warm orange bloom of light through the window of the heavy, brass-bound front door. Spatters of icy rain begin to speckle the gritty pavement, and I lower my head as I increase my pace towards the haven of the bookstore. Just as I reach for the smooth, cold brass door handle someone else shoots into the alcove, nearly bumping into me, breathless from running through the now-splashing rain. “After you,” I say, pulling open the heavy antique door. She is still disheveled from her last-minute dash, her spotted glasses starting to fog over with exertion. I catch a glimpse of her light blue eyes as she murmurs “thanks,” and slips into the lobby, curly red hair hanging down with dampness.

The marble floor echoes her footsteps as she briskly approaches the untidy desk where a hunched figure is barely visible behind a haphazard battlement of used books; unwillingly, the clerk (who looks as if he has been here a century at least), disengages himself from a dusty volume and asks if he “may be of service” in a tone that makes it clear he resents the disturbance. I discreetly hang back, looking over some 14th-century French illustrated missal pages¾a bargain, at just under two thousand pounds. In response to her whispered request, the clerk scribbles a floor, aisle and shelf number on a slip of paper, and hands it to her. She hurries off, heels clacking on the floor, and as she hangs her dripping raincoat on an old hat-stand, I approach the clerk quickly before he can re-submerge in his tome.

It takes several minutes for the clerk to pinpoint the location of the items that I ask to see; he is not asked often for early Georgian anti-government leaflets. By the time he locates the distant room where such arcane ephemera is kept, her footsteps have faded into the distance, lost in the maze of corridors somewhere in the interior of the building. The clerk directs me to the “half-basement,” an annex in the far bowels of the old store, where I will find my volumes.

After wandering through the meandering aisles, I find the back of the building, and the stairs to the “half-basement,” and I note that there are only a few other clients on the main floor; I catch fleeting glimpses down twisting aisles half-blocked by stacks of books that have overflowed the shelves; the occasional dim figure may be seen, tweedy, lost in thought, poring over the shelves, or nose-deep in an old leather book.

The “half-basement” is well-named; down half a flight of steps a dim corridor, lined with books, leads off to a mezzanine only a few feet below floor level. As I walk down the corridor, glancing at the clerk’s scrawl on the slip of paper he gave me, I note that between the rows of books, I can see the back aisle of the main floor, now at eye level. After taking a couple of wrong turns down short aisles of unfamiliar subjects, I find my objective: early 18th-century ephemera. There are several long shelves full, and I settle in to browse.
I don’t know how much time had passed—perhaps three-quarters of an hour—before I heard an odd sound coming from somewhere farther down the mezzanine corridor. I poke my head into the corridor, but see no-one. Quietly, I step slowly farther down the corridor, and the sounds become clearer—a rhythmic breathing, with a soft rustling of fabric. It grows closer as I sidle down the corridor. I see a sign at the corner of the next aisle, reading “Curiosa”—a code word in the bookseller trade for antique erotica.

Slowly, I put my head around the corner. It’s her. The redhead! Her back is towards me half-way down the gloomy aisle. Her head is bowed over a book in her left hand, and her hips are swaying ever so slightly, one foot out of an expensive-looking sling back high heel shoe. Her breath is coming in short gasps, in rhythm with the sinuous undulations of her hips under her mid-length skirt. I am transfixed; I can’t look away. She puts out one hand to support herself, then straightens up as she greedily flicks over a page and continues to read to herself. I can feel my pulse strengthen as I watch unseen, licking my lips, my chest tightening as I match her breathing in unconscious harmony. I can sense a tingling in my chest of excitement and danger. I want to know what she is reading and rise up on tiptoe to try and see the title at the top of the page, but I’m too far down the aisle. I take a quiet step forward without taking my eyes from her; but I brush a stack of books, and a fat volume of poetry falls to the floor with a “plump.” She spins around, eyes wide, dropping her book in consternation. Her large blue eyes are glistening, her cheeks flushed—but with embarrassment or arousal?

Before she can speak, I say “I’m sorry—I thought I heard something back here. Are you all right? Here, let me—“ I step forward and bend down to pick up her book.

Flustered, she says, “No, please, I can—” but too late, as I have already grasped the thick volume. “

’The Perfumed Garden’, the Burton translation;” I say. “This caused quite a scandal in its day!” I open the old book, and read aloud in a quiet, husky voice: “Woman is like a fruit, which will not yield its sweetness until you rub it between your hands. Look at the basil plant; if you do not rub it warm with your fingers it will not emit any scent. Do you not know that the amber, unless it be handled and warmed, keeps hidden within its pores the aroma contained in it? It is the same with woman. If you do not animate her with your toying, intermixed with kissing, nibbling and touching, you will not obtain from her what you are wishing; you will feel no enjoyment when you share her couch, and you will waken in her heart neither inclination nor affection, nor love for you; all her qualities will remain hidden.”

As I read the ancient words of Sheik Nefwazi, she closes her eyes and licks her lips. As I continue to read in a deep, quiet voice she begins once again to breathe deeply, her firm, pert breasts heaving with each line I read. I move closer by her side, so that I may drop my voice to a whisper, next to her ear. As I finish reading the passage, I take my free hand, gently place it on her shoulder, and turn her around so that I am standing close behind her, against her, and feel the warmth of her body flowing into mine. I murmur in her ear more verses: “In order that a woman may be relished by men, she must have a perfect waist, and must be plump and lusty. Her hair will be black, her forehead wide, she will have eyebrows of Ethiopian blackness, large black eyes, with the whites in them very limpid. With cheek of perfect oval, she will have an elegant nose and a graceful mouth; lips and tongue vermilion; her breath will be of pleasant odor, her throat long, her neck strong, her bust and her belly large; her breasts must be full and firm, her belly in good proportion, and her navel well-developed and marked; the lower part of the belly is to be large, the vulva projecting and fleshy, from the point where the hairs grow, to the buttocks; the conduit must be narrow and not moist, soft to the touch, and emitting a strong heat and no bad smell; she must have the thighs and buttocks hard, the hips large and full, a waist of fine shape, hands and feet of striking elegance, plump arms, and well-developed shoulders.”

She begins to slowly grind her buttocks against my hot, hard cock, which is throbbing against my fly. I stop reading, and whisper “raise up your skirt.” She bends forward slightly, and slowly runs her hands down her outer thighs. Gathering the hem in her hands, she gradually brings her skirt up towards her ass, bending forward slightly as she does so. To my amazement, I see she is not wearing any panties. With one hand holding up her skirt, she slides the other hand down over her stomach, and brushes her fingers through her pubic hair, then moving back so that her bare ass is now hot against my crotch, grinding and pushing my pulsating cock. The front of my pants are damp with her pussy juice. I growl in her ear, “Undo your blouse. Play with your nipples.” She drops the hem of her skirt obediently, and her hands tremor as she undoes the buttons on her blouse, then pulls down on her bra, releasing two firm, small breasts with large, pink nipples. I take her right wrist in my hand and guide it to my mouth, sucking it, licking it, then leading it back down to her hardening nipple. I make small circles around it, then take my hand away as she takes up the motion herself, sighing quietly with pleasure.

My breathing is now hard, rhythmic, spasmodic. Her ass is moving up and down the shaft of my still-imprisoned cock. I feel the groove of her buttocks envelop my hardness. I feel her heat through my pants, now sodden with her juicy perfume. Barely able to catch my breath, I read more: “You will excite her by kissing her cheeks, sucking her lips and nibbling at her breasts. You will lavish kisses on her navel and thighs, and titillate the lower parts. Bite at her arms, and neglect no part of her body; cling close to her bosom, and show her your love and submission. Interlace your legs with hers, and press her in your arms…”

Gulping, I spit out the words. “I want you to touch your pussy for me!” She smiles as she complies, drawing up her skirt once more, the fingers of her right hand tracing out the swollen, distended lips of her sweet cunt. She slowly draws tiny circles around her clit, matching the movement with her ass against me. My hard cock quivers with the motion, and I press hard into her ass, the rough twill fabric wet against her skin. “Let me taste!” I gasp, and once again seize her right wrist in my free hand. Her index and middle finger glisten with the sweet honey of her slippery cunt, and I can smell its heady aroma as I draw her fingers into my mouth, savoring the musky, gingery tang. I read another verse from the book:

“It has the splendid whiteness of a forehead,
In its dimensions it is like the moon,
The fire that radiates from it is like the sun's,
And seems to burn the member which approaches;
Unless first moistened with saliva the member cannot enter,
The odor it emits is full of charms.”

I can’t hold it any longer. I drop the book to the floor, freeing both hands. I reach around with my left hand and cup her breast, just brushing the now-hard nipple with my thumb and forefinger. My right hand sweeps down across her tummy to her bellybutton. I make small, gentle circles around it with my middle finger, and she wriggles with the tickling sensation. Continuing down, my hand finds just a hint of stubble; remains from her recently-shaved bush. She opens her legs slightly, allowing my fingers to seek the fleshy outer lips of her pussy. I can smell her warm, mouthwatering aroma as I gently use my fingers to part the swollen, pink lips of her cunt. My fingers become slippery with her abundant juice immediately. She gives a little gasp as I slip and slither my fingers over her small, hard clit, tracing along its edges, then gently, barely touching it with a flicking motion. My fingers are soaked with her essence, and I feel the warm liquid running down my fingers to my hand. I slide my fingers down her flowing channel to her cunt, and tentatively stroke the wet hole with the tip of my middle finger. I keep my hand close pressed to her clit, and use my wrist to gently rub as I start to penetrate her cunt, slowly, tentatively, with my finger.

I begin to breathe with a low rumble, deep in my chest, as her gasps become more insistent, small whines of pleasure. I run the tip of my tongue up her neck, towards her ear. I gently nibble her right earlobe, my heavy, hungry breath panting in her ear. Suddenly, looking up, over her shoulder, out through the row of books on the shelf, I see a pair of feet coming along the aisle on the main floor, just above our heads.

I clap my left hand over her mouth, and whisper “Shhh!” in her ear; she opens her eyes now, and I can feel her body stiffen as she realizes that there is someone standing only a few feet away, studying the shelves above us. Did he see? Does he know? Can he hear us? But rather than freezing in place, she continues to thrust her ass into my crotch, her cunt even wetter and hotter with the danger of discovery so close. Her heavy breath slips through my fingers, still over her mouth, and I grit my teeth to remain silent as she works her ass up and down the front of my pants. Unable to stop myself, I match her thrusts with the fondling of her cunt and clit by my right hand. Her breath is coming fast and shallow now, and I can hear her cunt slurping with wetness as my finger moves faster in and out, feeling every silky fold. Hasn’t the stranger above heard? He hasn’t moved; I can see nothing but a pair of alligator shoes, damp from the rain.

As her panting increases, she suddenly grips a couple of the fingers I have over her mouth with her teeth; not hard enough to hurt, but insistent and wild. I can feel her tongue running over my fingers, and I release my grip over her mouth, to slide my first two fingers into her now-open mouth. Slurping and slithering her tongue over my fingers, she bobs her head, sucking them, giving little nibbles, running the underside of her tongue over the smooth nail.

I can feel the tension in her body as we pound into each other; we’re so close now—my breathing is jerky and uneven; I bury my face in her back to stifle my whimpers of ecstasy. We come together, in a mute, intoxicating frenzy of euphoria. My hot cum oozes down the shaft of my cock, over my balls, leaving a warm stickiness inside my pants. We are both breathing hard, still clinched together, chests heaving, hearts racing. Looking up, I see that the stranger’s feet are no longer in view; in the scorching delirium of orgasm, I had forgotten that someone else was so near.

She turns to face me, her cheeks apple-red from our frenzied grinding and rubbing together. Her eyes are huge, the blue-grey iris almost wholly eclipsed by her dilated black pupils. I start to speak, but she puts her index finger against my lips and gently shakes her head. I run my hands once more over her small, jutting breasts, then softly pulling her bra cups back up over the milky white orbs. Smiling, I help do up her floral print blouse, fumbling with the backwards buttons.

Her hand slides over my wet crotch, and she giggles, “That was a very fruitful shopping trip!”

Blushing a little, I start to ask her name, but she again places a firm but gentle finger across my lips.

“No names, no questions. Just two people who love old books—right?”

I nod, and my lips grow into a smile under her finger. She bends down to replace the fallen poetry book on the shelf, winks, and turns to go.

Suddenly, she stops and takes a step closer, bringing her lips to my ear. “I thank you—and so does my husband. He likes to listen, you know.”

She disappears down the aisle. Bemused, mystified, I watch her small, trim feet clack down the main floor above. Stopping, they are joined by a man’s pair of feet, still in the alligator shoes. After a moment, they walk together down the main aisle, out of my field of vision.