Meet Me By the Kama Sutra (Regular Sex Issue 4) by Kitty French Read Free Book Online

 
    Regular Sex ~ Issue 4 ~ Meet me by the Kama Sutra
     
    HUEY
     
    I don’t think I’m
imagining it. She keeps looking over at me today, I’m sure of it.
    I’ve been writing
in the library for three weeks now, a half-hearted attempt to save both my
money and my heart from the effect of the endless espressos that accompany trying
to work in the local cafe. It’s quite charming as libraries go, housed in an
old Victorian building with lots of side rooms and lamp-lit nooks. I’m missing
my coffee hit but it’s certainly a charismatic sort of place, and right from
day one I’ve caught one of the librarians watching me out of the corner of her
perfectly made up eye.
    I’ll tell you
something else I’m not imagining, either. She wears stockings to work. I haven’t
been letching, but sometimes when she clears the books from the table I’m
working at or comes close by to file away a pile of returned books, I can see
the outline of the catches pressing beneath her skirt.
    That’s not
normal, is it? I mean, it is in my fantasies, but most women don’t wear
stockings on a day-to-day basis in reality, do they? The fact that she does tells
me stuff about her. It tells me that she’s confident, and that she embraces her
own sexuality. That’s not a sexist thing to say, is it? I don’t mean it to be.
It’s a compliment. I love that she’s not apologetic about the fact she’s
fucking beautiful, that she chooses to wear clothes that celebrate rather than
shroud her body. Make no mistake about it, this girl is packing some serious pin-up
curves; she looks like she belongs in the nineteen fifties drinking cocktails
with Marilyn Monroe rather than stacking sci-fi books alphabetically, as she
appears to be tasked with this afternoon.  
    She’s kneeling on
the wooden floor across the room from me with books spread all around her, and
my mind is about as far away from my work as it could be. I should be thinking
about my research, but all I can concentrate on is how much I’d prefer to research
underneath Sylvie’s blouse. I know her name; it’s on the badge I try not to
look at in case it looks like I’m staring at her tits.
    I’m not a letchy sort
of bloke. I’m thirty-two, for God's sake. I jacked my career in teaching six months
ago, mostly because my soon to be ex-wife was the headmistress at the school I
taught at and she was openly shagging the head of Maths in his free periods. So
yeah. I’ve chucked my job, chucked my wife, and bought a motorbike with a good
chunk of my savings. I know what you're thinking, classic midlife crisis; if
you need further evidence, here it is. I currently live in my mate’s barely
converted garage, I have the makings of a beard, and I’m using my impromptu holiday
from reality to write the book I’ve always said I’m going to write. I did warn
you I’m having a crisis. But then you knew that the moment you heard I’m spending
most of my afternoons fantasising about screwing the nubile librarian, didn’t
you? Christ. I’m so friggin’ textbook I even bore myself.
    Oh God. She’s
filing books on the bottom shelf now. Her arse is in the air, and I’m having to
sit on my hands to stop myself from touching myself or else going over there
and touching her. I swallow painfully because I can see the tops of her
stockings peeping out from beneath her skirt. An old boy sits at the table
across from me, one of the regulars, openly ogling her. I know this because
even though he’s facing away from me he’s craning his head sideways to get a
better look up her skirt, ratty old goat. Shit, is that where I’m headed when I’m
a pensioner? Sitting in the library in my dirty mac waiting to cop an eye-full
of someone half my age? Who am I kidding? The only difference between him and
me is thirty years, a clean t-shirt and a hot shower.
    Sylvie’s done
with her books now and stands up, smoothing her skirt over her thighs with
fluttering hands. No wedding ring. I’ve checked, because