Books a Door to Another World

Books and Curiosities, est. 1899.

The bookshop sat a little back from the main street, a bakery on one side emitting warm wafts of yeast and spices, and on the other an antiques shop, all three shops older than any of the antiques within, timber-framed first and second floors atop dirty orange brickwork. Windows haphazard, no two oak beams forming a neat angle any more, the building twisted with age.

I had heard of this shop, somewhere. Its curious name stood out to me, and the more I read about it, the more I wanted to visit, and to bring along my friend Mercy. She was interested in books, I was interested in spending time alone with her. She was beautiful, dark eyed, sensual, voice overflowing with intelligence and wit, every movement a dance. I found it hard to tear my eyes from her.

Through the doorway of the shop we entered a sepia world of stories, research, images, adventures and fantasies. The weight of knowledge pressed down on the foundations of the shop, the scarred oak beams dipping low in the room, forcing me to stoop, Mercy moving on unhindered.

Browsing the shelves it appeared that there was no real order to the shop. Geography next to film, next to an improbably large section on mending clocks. Books in every language, some too old to handle, some outlawed years past, many out of print, some that felt like they were the only copies left in the world. An eccentric shop, though some weak effort had been made to alphabetise. But this isn't the kind of place you go to find something specific. You are here to discover.

We moved about the shop, picking through dusty shelves by weak sunlight that filtered through lace curtains of cobwebs on grubby windows, or from the glow of a few dim light bulbs that could have been Edison's originals. Sometimes separating, sometimes browsing the same shelves, brushing against one another in the narrow passages of the shop, we explored the avenues of books, heads tilted to one side, reading faded letters on worn spines.

But there was more than just books here. Old records, soviet propaganda posters, maps, dozens of old cameras, typewriters. There seemed to be some overspill from the shops on either side; a cosy warmth from the bakery, random piles of junk from the antique shop.

Narrow, steep stairways, unlit, led to the floor above. Each step a different height from the next, we groped our way up into more books, more stuff, less light, fewer signs that this place had been disturbed in decades. As we scouted and scoured, each alone, I could hear her progress through the shop. Soft footsteps on creaking wood, pauses as she knelt down, knees on rough oak, to lift a book from a bottom shelf, skirt lifting slightly... It was hard to concentrate when she was anywhere near.

After about an hour, we met up in a dark corner of the second floor. The lightbulb above us fizzed noisily, floorboards moaning softly below. We had met nobody else on our exploration, but we each had an armload of books and we would have to find somebody to pay, but for now, up here, alone. We surveyed the shelves about us, and found we were in the erotic literature and art section. Eyebrows arched, Mercy reached for a well thumbed book, and we giggled like teenagers at archaic descriptions of sex and intimacy, and at how some things had changed, and some things hadn't from one century to the next.

To the right of the shelf was a tall, wide cupboard, recessed into the wall, a door a little way up the wall. It had a small brass handle, which we turned, expecting it to be locked, but the door swung open, grating hinges, hollow inside, filled almost entirely by a dark bulk dully reflecting the limited light.

In tarnished silver, the rough shape of a torso sat within. Thin, overlapping plates allowed it limited articulated movement, the model was that of a complete man, from knees up to shoulders. Above the shoulders, where you would expect a head, was an orb like a Van de Graaff generator, and below the knees was a wooden box, into which the automaton was set. The whole thing was relatively featureless, as if detail was unnecessary, that this was functional rather than a work of art. The only indication that the automaton was a man, not a woman, was a rather more detailed silver penis, erect.

Mercy reached out to touch the automaton. She told me it felt cold and heavy, but smooth. The black tarnish like age spots, though the smooth 'skin' gave the automaton a look of energetic youth.

Mercy withdrew her hand from the silver automaton and spun to face me, her dark hair swirled before settling about her face. She looking up at me, mock coquette, a spark of mischief in her eyes.

Pulling up her black cotton skirt, above her knees, above the tops of her black lace stockings, revealing pale thighs that I'd spent night after night thinking about, she placed herself down upon the automaton's silver cock, eyes closing, mouth widening a little as she made her slow descent. Although I couldn't see, I'm guessing by the way she sat down that there wasn't any underwear in the way.

She opened her eyes then, looking directly at me with a smile more mischievous than any fairytale sprite, and I got hard, my cock pressing against tight jeans, a grin spreading across my face. I leaned against a bookshelf opposite, and watched as my friend moved slowly up and down the silver shaft.

A small, silver switch, old fashioned looking, caught my eye (though I barely took my eyes of Mercy). I watched her as I slowly reached across and down, to her right, and flicked it on. Her mouth formed a pretty O of surprise, and I could hear the sound of small clockwork gears, a dull hum of activity, coming from within the silver man. Her skirt fell down a little, so that I couldn't see what was actually happening, what mechanical action was taking place, but it doesn't take a biology professor to work it out. She was being fucked by a god-knows-how-old silver machine.

Mercy remained on the machine for another minute or so, enjoying the sensation, the fun and impulsive nature of the moment, before she looked up at me and I knew she wanted me to take her home and finish what the silver automaton had started. I flicked the switch back off, and she began to rise from the cock. But the machine obeyed its own, unknown commands, and its arms, still until now, reached out and grabbed my friend by hers, holding her firmly. She looked shocked, pleadingly at me, so I flicked the switch a few more times, but to apparently no effect. The machine pulled Mercy back onto itself, and I could see that, too late, Mercy was on a journey that had only one, terminal, destination. Her eyes closed, alarm and fear passed, adrenaline and ecstasy fueling her now.

She dropped her head, hair curtaining her face, and slumped forward a little, as much as the automaton's grip would allow. And she began to moan, softly, whispering "no, no," which I was confident she didn't mean.

Gradually the moans became shouts, and I feared that we would attract some unwanted attention, but the books surrounding us absorbed every sound, so that even if someone was in the shop, they would not hear. We were alone, the three of us, a strange intimacy in the small, ill-lit room.

From within the cupboard a wax cylinder struck up, a tinny old French recording from the early part of the 20th century. A cafe song, precursor to swing, with a prominent accordion melody, a jaunty gypsy guitar sound, and soft brushes on a snare. A steady beat that matched the automaton's thrusts, a carnival feeling, of old fashioned penny arcades, fire-eaters and carousels.

But behind the soft ticking of the automaton, and the scratchy sound of the wax cylinder, a deep hum developed, the sound of friction. From within the automaton, the Van de Graaff generator had started, and as the static rapidly built, the bulb above us dimmed and brightened erratically.

As the harmless current coursed through her, Mercy sat up, eyes still closed, and I watched her chest swell and capsize heavily with each breath she took. She moaned louder, absorbed in her encounter. The generator gradually ramped up to full speed, the silver cock too, power coursing through her, and she sat bolt upright, eyes bulging open, mouthing a silent scream, her chest went still. I had only seen her come once before, and this wasn't it. She was on the brink of orgasm, but couldn't, as the electricity held her back. For nearly thirty seconds she sat there, staring at me, fucked mercilessly by a machine, paralysed on a knife-edge of orgasm by the static, her face turning red from lack of oxygen, moisture welled at her eyes. Concerned, I reached out to take her hand, and as I got within an inch, a bright jolt of lightening filled the room as static electricity arced from her to me. This sudden release of energy removed the shackles from her, and she came hard, loud and long.

Sensing the release, the automaton slowly ceased its movement, the music and sound dwindled to nothing, leaving she and I alone in silence, the activity fading away, back in the small room we were in. Quivering, she slumped forwards into my arms, I helped her off the automaton, and we sat down on the floor. She put her head to my shoulder and sighed heavily, more satisfied than I have ever seen anyone, heat beating off her in waves, the soft smell of sex, face glowing pink. Eventually she stood, pulling me with her. She smoothed down her skirt, moisture stained the back, she turned and kissed me deeply, tongue darting to mine, her body relaxed. We kissed with quiet passion, a shared experience, for what seemed like forever, and like no time at all. She pulled away, sighed, and turned for the exit. She did not look back.

As I closed the door to the cupboard, I noticed scratchings on the door, old grafitti. It read like a list. In the dim light I could just make out, at the top, the name Claudine, and a date in 1905. The list went on with about twenty more names, each more recent than the last, the most recent about twelve years ago. I carved hers in, and the date, and closed the door. It locked with a firm click.

We made our way out of the shop, books forgotten, and through the town towards home. Arm in arm we walked along the streets, sky the deep purple of dusk, streetlamps glowing a dull orange. The evening was warm, and the aromas coming from a delicatessen coaxed us inside. We bought some cheese and wine, though I couldn't exactly say she was useful in selecting these, hanging heavily on my arm, fuck-drunk. We laughed unselfconciously as we made our way lazily back to our room, in no rush, looking forward to the long evening ahead.

Happy Birthday! x