Reading Porn at the Library

by Kathrin

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Mult, Lesbian, Fiction, Humiliation, Rough, Anal Sex, Fisting, Oral Sex, Voyeurism, Water Sports, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Reading my erotic stories in front of a captivated and more than slightly wet audience at the local library, my submissive librarian Novella makes sure my holes are just as stuffed as the mouth of the critics who tried to interrupt me.

Writing porn is usually a very lonely process, and if it weren’t for the great encounters some of my stories are based on, and the great encounters that follow some of my stories, I wouldn’t be doing it. This is about some of the more unexpected outcomes of forays into smut.

My friend Novella, upon hearing that I’m also a writer of porn, thought it would be a great idea to organize an “intimate reading” at the library she works for. At first I was sceptical, especially about the audience and if they’re really aware of what they’d be in for, but she seemed so enthusiastic about it and didn’t see any problems with it that I finally agreed.

From what I understood, the event was mainly advertised in the lesbian community and the posters made sure this was an “adult, no holds barred, all pussies leaking” event on porn, unabashed, unashamed, without the pretentious mask of “erotica” or the word “sensual” in it. It was an event about getting hot, and getting off.

To my surprise, there was an actual little crowd on the evening of the reading. Novella introduced me, beaming visibly for excitement. She was dressed unusually tasteful and nice for her, wearing a tunic-like teal dress that was flowing nicely down her figure, stretching a little around her wide thighs. The blue streaks in her short black hair were only faintly visible in the spotlight and she actually wore decent makeup behind her glasses - thin eyeliner and some mascara that showed her beautiful long lashes.

“I’m not going to lie,” she said. “Kathrin is my friend, and she’s made me cum, and she’s made me cum even more often with her stories.” I stood a little aside, at a desk she had put on the small stage for me, grinning embarrassed in my orange batik dress. She continued: “And Kathrin’s not going to lie to you either, when she reads her stories now. They’re straightforward, honest, raw and without sugar, so they’re best served with some pussy in your mouth. Which is why I’ll be underneath her desk the whole time.”

I stared at her in disbelief but she already made her way over to the desk and just crawled under it. For a moment I was baffled, but the audience was applauding and I felt stupid just standing there, so I finally sat down. The small room in the attic of the library where we were was about halfway filled with listeners, women of all ages, all staring expectantly at me.

I cleared my throat. This was something I was so not used to, being a musician, expecting fans to cheer and chase them from one song to the next, with hardly a pause. Reading for an audience was much more ... quiet, and slow, and awkward. “Hello,” I said, feeling Novella’s hair brush against my legs, “the first story I’d like to read is about a housewife I met at a sex shop.”

I started out slow, reading some not too kinky material, wanting to make the audience feel at ease and loosen up a bit. But as I read, Vella was nudging my pussy, running her small fingers through my pubic hair as if trying to comb through it, kissing it, licking it gently until I had to finally slouch down some, my tits barely above the desk, spreading my legs further to give her the best access to my effervescent pussy springs.

The audience applauded politely as I finished. “More,” someone said, “that was much too short!” I sighed, partly because of the tongue at my clit, partly because of the comment. “I write these stories usually in one sitting, until I cum,” I said. “So they’re perfect wank-material for me. But if it takes you longer, you can always read another while you rub yourself. Which, by the way, is recommended.” I grinned as I reached for the next sheet of paper.

“This is the very first story I wrote,” I began. “It’s about my friend Sabrina, and what she did with a bottle.” This time, I took my time. I read slowly about Sabrina, how she fucked herself with a bottle in my car until she had to pee, and how I took my revenge by pissing in her mouth. Vella was nuzzling, enduringly, on my clit, her fingers only slightly probing my pussy, licking the hot wet crevasse.

In the dark, quiet room, I could hear a few soft moans and some of the women were sinking suspiciously low down on their chairs, squirming a little with their hands at their crotch. A few apparently didn’t know what they had bargained for and so I heard a few disgusted sounds when I came to the part where I pissed straight down on Sabrina’s face until she opened her mouth to swallow.

I closed my eyes when I finished, sighing again as Vella was crooking a finger inside me, licking pussy slime as she scooped it out. “There are a few fetishes you’ll have to expect from my stories, and pee is definitely one of them. If that’s too much for you, then I heard there’s a nice vanilla erotic reading next week that may be more to your liking.” Some of the girls in the audience were laughing.

Suddenly, one woman stood up. “It’s not just the urine fetish,” she said, looking disgustedly at me. She was middle-aged and conservatively dressed, her hair pulled up to a nice updo. She was wearing some cat-eye glasses that reflected in the dark room and gave her a grandmotherly look, even though she couldn’t be much older than myself.

“It’s that you don’t know how to write properly,” she began her tirade. “You should use more descriptive words, and spend more time building up. Writing about how something feels, smells, sounds ... all those things are important. Frankly, I’m hugely disappointed.”

I stood up. “And what makes you think,” I asked as I slowly made my way around the desk towards the front of the stage. “What makes you think I want you to like my stories?” She looked at me surprised, heads now turning towards her. “Well,” she replied, “it seems like a logical conclusion. Why does one read stories in a public forum and submit to being critiqued if you don’t care if someone likes what you write? Otherwise why write, if you don’t care if anyone likes the stories, why read them? Furthermore why leave a story open for judging if you don’t care?”

I laughed, slowly making my way through the few rows of women towards her. “You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I read stories here so you can judge them,” I said, slowly and quietly, “that is not the case.” I had finally reached her, my face only inches away from hers, staring through her glasses into her eyes.

“You don’t get to judge,” I hissed, sharply, under my breath. “Nobody cares about your critique. Nobody cares what you like. Your opinion matters for shit to me.” I stretched the last words long and distinctly as she sank back into her chair, staring at me speechless.

I smiled, getting even closer, pulling my skirt up above my knees as I was straddling her seat, sitting down in her lap with my hands on her shoulders, looking at her provocatively. “You think you’re somehow entitled to have writers appeal to your tastes,” I continued to taunt her. “Well, you’re not. You’re not entitled to shit. If you want a story that caters exactly to your peculiarities, go write it yourself. Otherwise, shut the fuck up, suck it up, or get the fuck out!”

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