Chapter 1

I went to work for my city's library service when I was eighteen and almost forty years later it was the only job I ever held. When the reorganisations took place I was happy to take early retirement and grab a sensational severance pay offer. I had my plans, after years working with books I'd decided that I wanted to write myself, fiction. People might be surprised if they knew that a plump and prim looking lady like me had plans for an epic fantasy novel featuring magic, battles, and large heaps of wild sex. I soon learned two things about being an author; writing with the word processor of your computer is dead easy and what you've written seems good at the time but banal when you read it back. So when I received that phone call it gave me the opportunity to take a break from my attempt at becoming the new albeit sexy Tolkien. When the phone rang I picked up and an unfamiliar voice spoke.

"Ms Wallace? Ms Martine Wallace? You don't know me; I'm Daniel McIntyre the director of libraries, museums, and art galleries. I realise you've only been retired a couple of months but would you be interested in a return to Galton central library to help us out?"

Which is why I'm back on the payroll as a contract employee at my old stamping grounds. Mr McIntyre has discovered the extent of the old subterranean library stacks and the vast amount of papers stored there and decided it should be transferred to computer. Unfortunately there's nobody left who knows what's stored where anymore. I wasn't the only veteran staff member to take the money and run, two emigrated, one died a day after retirement, and two others had turned him down. Stack work is messy so I had selected a not too new trouser suit and was now waiting in the Martindale stack for the arrival of Mr Mcintyre to explain what was wanted of me. He turns out to be ridiculously young for such a senior position, to my eyes anyway, but that's maybe my fifty something mind set acting up. He's not alone, accompanying him is a slim young lassie with silver blonde hair cut short and spiked with gel. She's very tall and eccentrically clad in an ankle length dress that will not be very practical or comfortable in the dusty and confined spaces of these ancient catacombs. When she turns side on to talk to him I see the skirt is split to the hip and her long, dancers legs, are revealed with every movement. Small designer specs, very like mine, are perched on the tip of her aquiline nose and her make up is a sort of retro punk ensemble of heavy dark lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow. The whole package though is sort of exotic attractive.

"Martine, do you mind if I call you Martine? This is Cynthia Reynolds our resident computer ace; you'll be the one to find the records she's to transfer to the hard drives. She has a master list to work from so the two of you will be working down here for as long as it takes. I'll leave the two of you to get to know each other; I've a committee meeting in a quarter of an hour."

And a nervous looking and beautifully suited young man trots off occasionally glancing back over his shoulder at us. Cynthia throws herself into an old swivel chair and pops one spectacular leg up on top of an even older and well scarred kneehole desk. Whipping a lighter and pack of cigarettes out of a breast pocket in that long, blue dress she speaks for the first time.

"Thank fuck that stuck up prick's gone Marty, Marty okay with you? My friends call me Cyn 'cos it rhymes with sin, sin, get it? I'm supposed to be a real naughty girl. I got all the bad habits, I smoke, drink, and sex? Wow sex!"

I reckon she'd keep going like a record and her sex life might make a good source for my novel but I jump in quickly while she pauses for a second to draw breath.

"Marty's fine with me and Cyn will do but should you smoke down here?"

She wrinkles her nose which makes her even more attractive and giggles like a schoolgirl.

"No problem Marty there are no smoke detectors down here and no one ever comes down here to catch me so have a fag yourself."

I like a drink and sex is fine any time but I've never smoked in my life so I decline and while Cynthia puffs furiously I ask her for the first set of records she needs to start with and away we go. After three or four hours I'm tired, stiff, and dusty, while Cynthia is sitting in an office chair at her computer terminal that has been parked in an alcove that once probably held a couple of bookcases. Typing furiously from a listing of cash, book, and art donations, from Victorian merchants in days of yore. I plonk myself down in the spare chair and groan.

"I'll have to take a break Cyn I'm as stiff as a board, I'd forgotten how hard it is down here!"

She's out of her seat in a flash and behind me and her long fingered hands rest on my shoulders.

"Relax Marty and I'll give you a massage, I've got a talent for it I'm told."

Those thin strong fingers start digging into my tense shoulder muscles and she's right she does have a talent for it, I can feel the tension ebbing and I relax as she moves on. I twitch a little; both of her hands have slid along the sides of my breasts, just strayed in error? A warm feeling remains where she touched them and her hands return again. The lightest tease and gone again, she rubs all the way down to the base of my spine as far as where the cleft of my buttocks begins and I begin to wonder if she's making a pass at me. Don't get me wrong just because you're fifty turned and prim looking it doesn't mean you don't want or need sex and surprise, surprise, I've done it with guys and ladies and enjoyed both kinds of sex but I don't want to respond to what may be quite innocent. However my body doesn't agree with me and my pussy betrays me. As Cynthia massages my calves and thighs my clitoris rouses and I have a minor cum right there leaning onto the desk before me. I've dampened my panties and take a short shuddering breath. Did Cynthia notice? She looks hard at me.

"You okay Marty you look a little flushed?"

I nod and my throat feels tight, my last female partner worked here before she moved to a better job in another town and my only sex lately has been with my fingers or my vibrator but maybe I was imagining Cynthia's motives? She leaves for a lunch break and to buy a new pack of cigarettes. We work through the afternoon and nothing untoward happens. Cynthia is easy to work with, a dry sense of humour, a fund of funny and risqué tales, and a relaxed attitude that makes the day fly by. As I make ready to leave for home Cynthia still has one more batch to input but as I tell her goodbye she pops out of her chair and kisses me goodbye, smack on the lips. I'm confused again, if this happens again tomorrow it will be time for me to clear the air and find out if she goes the lesbo route and fancies me or not. Last thing before bed I take a long, hot, bath, then slide naked between my silk sheets and soon drift off into a deep sleep. What a dream follows! I'm in some sort of cellar lit by torches in wall sconces. I am also stark naked except for a pair of gilded sandals, I'm still me though, plumpish, not fat, and with my own nicely rounded figure and the same fifty odd of years. I'm sat on a sort of long, low couch upholstered in dark red fabric. A door slams and who storms in but Cynthia. Strangely clad she wears a bodice that lifts her heavy breasts but leaves them completely bare and some sort of mesh trousers through which I can see her shaven vulva. She drops besides me on the couch and nestles her head against my breasts and my nipples harden instantly.

"I knew you'd come my lover, they can't keep us apart, I want you so badly."

Her lips close on one sensitive brown teat and her teeth nip at it while a hand slides effortlessly between my thighs and her fingers enter my dewy crease. My pussy burns with need and she rolls me onto my back thrusting hard inside me. I'm on fire and shred those flimsy trousers from her then wrap my legs around hers so our wet labia are plastered against each other. I'm fucking her like a man would fuck a woman when I start awake gasping for breath, my hips are jerking spastically and I'm in the middle of an amazing orgasm. My cum has soaked my sheets and all I can do is writhe as I have a sexual eruption like I haven't had for what seems an eternity. My thumping heart steadies and my breathing slows, the red numbers on my bedside alarm read 2.45 a.m. and I realise that I'm dripping with sweat. I spend the rest of the night on my settee drinking tea, recalling that amazing wet dream, and drowsing before the flicker of my gas fire. I arrive early at the stacks only to find Cynthia is there ahead of me, today she's gone the other extreme and her pleated kilt is about one inch below her crotch revealing a pair of black lacy panties and black self support seamed stockings that make her look like a Las Vegas hooker. Again she greets me with that full lip kiss and I decide I'll have broach things this morning, either she's just naive or she wants me in between the sheets with her. I dump the latest mound of dusty papers for her attention and sit beside her to open the subject.

"I had a fantastic dream last night Cyn."

She does that cute little nose wrinkle and peers at me over the small lenses of her specs.

"Do tell Marty what kind of fantastic dream was it?"

"An erotic one, a wet dream!"

"Tell me all about it."

"It was you and me, we were dressed like something out of Cleopatra, at least you were, all I had on was sandals. We were having sex together.