In Too Deep by Portia Da Costa Read Free Book Online Page B

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