Cocaine Librarian

You should go out and get laid.

I've been turning the phrase over and over in my mind as I restock Enlightenment Philosophy. It was said, if not in anger, then at least in frustration. It stung, but she was right. I'm not any fun lately. I kill the atmosphere every time I go out. My psyche is an untangleable mess of neurosis and hang-ups.

Maybe Ishould just go out and get laid.

It sounds so liberating. A swift sword to the Gordian knot of my personality.

I find myself looking around the library. It's nearing seven o'clock and it's emptying out. It's late enough in the term that all the students' studious resolutions about studying have long since worn off but still early enough that no one is panicking about assessments. They must be all heading into town to have fun.

Fun -- I remember that concept. It's elusive. I've been in this job four months. The girls in admin have tried to welcome me. They keep inviting me out with the promise that a Girl's Night Out will be fun. It never is.

Except everyone else always seems to be having tons of fun. It's me. I know it is.

So, I've hit on the fundamental question. Finding someone and fucking them with the full intention of never seeing them again. Would that be fun? How many of the students here are heading out to do that very thing tonight? Nearly all the boys surely, in that forlorn hope-springs-eternal way they have. How many girls?

A few maybe. The sluts.

"Slut," I say, under my breath, trying out how it sounds. A bearded Master's student with a copy of Voltaire in his hand gives me a look, but I don't think he's entirely caught what I just said.

The word sounds good on the tongue. It feels right somehow. It's not me though, is it? I'm a good girl, I am. I need to be courted, wined, dined, and romanced.

Pressured, pestered, guilted, groped, ultimatumed...

Truth is, I always put the brakes on for fear of seeming cheap. It's essential that I make them work even for that very first date and, now that I think on it, I can hardly blame them when it suddenly seems not worth the effort. Going slow can suck especially when, months in, the mask drops and they're through with waiting for you. What if I don't even bother to hang around to find out what jerks they all are? What if I set the rules myself? What if I keep those rules refreshingly simple?

I'm pondering all this when the phone rings.

"Hey, girl, you coming out?"

"Nah, I'm going to give it a rest tonight, you know?"

"Oh, come on, Cath, it'll be fun. Wait, you're not still not pouting over what Jane said last time, are you?"

"What me? No! But in truth, I'm not really enjoying these nights out that much recently. I'm going to stay in and recharge."

"Okay, well, you've got my number if you change your mind."

My half-friend hangs up. I take a deep breath and take off my own mask of feigned civility.

"Slut." This time no air escapes, I only move my lips savouring the consonants.

It's just a passing fancy. I was telling the truth just now. I will just stay in. The right novel and a bottle of wine would cheer me up no end.

Except, it won't. Not to any discernable degree.

Of course, if I go out and get laid, there's no reason I have to share that information with the admins from Gossip Central. We might all find it more fun next week if I turn up with just a genuine smile and a kept secret.

Hypothetically then...

Anywhere in the center of town is out. I don't want to bump into the staff posse going the other way and be forced to join up and I definitely don't want to end up anywhere there are students who might recognize me.

There are trains to a few places. Nottingham will do. An hour is far enough away to give me some anonymity. I could spring for a hotel room. A hotel room means he doesn't know where I live. It means I don't get trapped back at his. It means I can make up any lie I want about who I am, why I'm there, and when I'm leaving.

Do I need to go home first? I think not. I'm dressed for casual business. Somehow I always end up more formal than the rest of the staff without meaning to -- a shortish grey pleat skirt and jacket to match, a shirt with slight frills but also with a collar, and my hair scrunchied into a ponytail. Attempting to glam myself up always makes me self-conscious. Whatever I choose never seems to be good enough. So this time, what I'm wearing will be good enough. I'm just going to be a professional stopping in for a drink and a screw wherever I end up in town.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The bar is pretty much perfect - mood lighting, soft jazz, classy Art Deco inspired décor.

And men.

Actual real men, not students. In suits, for the most part. It makes a nice change.

It is fairly empty, but there are considerably more men than women, which is good. I don't have much competition. A couple of older business woman sitting at the back complaining about their line managers. A younger woman with a martini who I fantasize might be an actual real-life whore. And then you have me. Yes, this place will do nicely. It's also thankfully quiet enough not to trigger my anxiety.

I scan the drinks menu. Everything is suitably exotic. I choose a Bellini -- Prosecco and peach juice, and I settle in. My plan is to drink the first three-quarters quickly, but not quickly enough that it looks like I'm downing it, then eke out the remaining dregs in the hope that someone notices and offers to by me another one.

I don't have to wait long. The guy is mid-fifties and has senior management written all over him: a well-tailored suit, so much as I'm able to judge, a slightly greying beard, but still most of his hair. Tall, not exactly muscular but certainly without any middle-aged paunch. Looked at in the dim light of the bar, he looks pretty damn good.

"Is this seat taken?" he asks. I gesture in welcome and he pulls up a stool.

"You come here often?" he asks. Even I'm aware that it's an standard line, but its said with a certain relaxed manner that suggests he's just warming up.

"Oh. Erm. No. First time," I reply. I'm not quite stammering.

"So, what brings you here?" he says.

"Well...you know...just..." I start. Then I decide to just go for it. "I want to get laid."

He raises an eyebrow but barely breaks his stride. "I see. Do you come out and get laid often?" His delivery is as neutral as the first time.

"No. First time," I reply. Then panic. "No, wait. Not the actual first time first time. Just first time here and first time..."

"Okay, I think I get it," he says. "You want another one of those?"

"Oh yes," I reply. I thought he'd never ask.

"Alan," he says and offers me his hand.

"Naomi," I lie. It's just that tad more exotic than Catherine, without being outright strange.

And just like that, it appears that I'm going to be his.

We make small talk. He tells me enough about his job to establish that, yes, he is financially stable and then quickly veers into talking about a recent golf trip he took to Scotland. He's smart enough not to focus on the act of hitting balls into holes, but on the countryside and the lovely 18th-century hotel, and his evening back in Edinburgh on the way home.

I pretend to hang on every word, but really I'm waiting the minimum length of time it takes for a girl to finish a cocktail without seeming like a lush. Every so often, I chip in with a 'Sounds wonderful' or an 'I'd love to go'.

Finally my drink is empty.

"Another?" he asks.

Even though it's what I've been waiting for, I still have a problem formulating an appropriate response. I stare at the empty glass and give a weird partial grimace and then my eyes dart to the door.

"Or...?" he says.

Show turns out to be easier than tell. I take him by the hand and lead him out of the bar. We walk back to the hotel, the mostly silence being made even more awkward by the fact that I take a couple of wrong turns on the side streets. As I enter the hotel lobby, I feel the receptionist's eyes glare disapprovingly at me, which is odd because she doesn't even look up from her computer screen. The lift seems to take forever to get to the fifth floor. It gives me a chance to make one last appraisal of my 'date.' He's good. He is going to be good, I'm pretty certain. When the doors open I realize it's now only a few short steps to heaven -- slutty, slutty heaven. I grab his hand and practically pull him to my room.

A hotel room is not a place where you can entertain for any great length of time. There is no point bluffing about coming in for a coffee. There's a bed and that's it. Tonight that's all there needs to be. He takes one look around and simply says "Nice." We're left standing in the middle of the room.

"You're beautiful," he says, taking a step towards me. I don't read too much into that. I'm getting fucked whether I'm beautiful or not. It's just a prelude to him being able to kiss me, something to fill the silence, so I simply lean in.

I've never kissed a man with a beard before. It tickles but it's also nice somehow. He smells nice. It's not just aftershave, there's genuine masculinity behind it. I feel his bulge pressing into me around my navel. That pressure startled me. I pull away from him.

"Are you okay?" He is surprised by my sudden reticence.

I try to recover with a pout. "I want you to fuck me, Daddy."

It comes out wrong. It's supposed to be seducitve, sultry, but a little wobble enters into my voice and when I reach the 'Daddy' I'm embarrassed by how ridiculous I sound. Unconvincing. I finish with sound that's half a giggle and half a snort.

"I will, and happily if that's what you want," he says. "Is it?"

"It is," I say. "Sorry, know I'm being weird. It's nerves."

"It's okay," he replies. "Say what's on your mind."

"This is not really me. I wanted to do something exciting and out of character, but I'm not sure if I can."

"Exciting and out of character, eh," he smiles. "How about this? It might help with the nervousness and maybe help give you an out of character experience."

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small package containing white powder.

"Wait. Oh, my God. That's..." Words fail me. I look at him like a goldfish for five seconds.

"Okay, never mind. Forget I mentioned it," he says. He quickly puts the substance back in his bag. "I'm not going to force myself on you. Not if you've changed your mind. Not if you're not completely certain."

I don't say anything.

Everything has gone almost exactly to plan and yet I find myself balking at the final hurdle. It has hit me hard that I don't know anything about this guy and that there might be some pretty big downsides to not knowing anything. He's just given me a very real indication that he might be dangerous.

There's part of me that is excited by that danger.

But also he going, instantly and without complaint. He just walks over to the door and opens it. It's so simple that I almost find myself laughing. None of my previous would-be boyfriends would have given up in the same circumstances. Not without slamming the door on their way out.

There's part of me that is comforted by that.

And so, just as he's about to leave forever, I find my voice - my tiny mouse voice.

"Umm, actually...I think maybe I would like to try some of your cocaine, please."

"You would?" he says, turning and re-entering the half amused.

"If that's okay," I mumble.

He smiles wryly and puts his bag down on the cramped 'office' desk. The package comes out again and along with it, a gold credit card. He begins to arrange part of the dust into one line. The credit card ends up on one side of the table, its edge still white, and then I'm offered a five-pound note rolled into a tube.

"What do I actually do?" I ask.

"Lean over, put one end to your nose and the other right above the powder. Then just snort it up."

I take the note off him uncertainly. I hover it over the dust and try breathing in through my nose. Nothing happens.

"No, closer," he tells me. "Hoover it up properly."

I try again. This time a centimeter of the powder disappears. I feel a burning itch and my hand goes straight to my nose, holding it closed.

"It's okay," he tells me. "Just take a second...Now try again."

This time when I snort, I move the tube slightly. I get about half of it. My hand goes instinctively back to my nose, rubbing the side.

"Don't worry, you'll start to feel it in a moment or two."

I stand there immobile for a second. "Wow, I think...yeah, I do."

I lean over the table again.

"Other nostril," he prompts. A moment later the whole line is gone.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"I feel...like...oh my God...I've never...I mean, I just have never done anything like this before and I can't believe...I know I probably shouldn't, but I came out to have a crazy night and this seemed like just about the craziest thing I could do and, just...wow."

I look to him and then I look at the bed. Everything suddenly seems so much easier. I practically throw my dress off above my head. Before it lands on the floor, my bra also comes off. My heart is beating fast again. I'm flushed in the cheeks. Not blushing anymore, just flushed. It's the excitement of his eyes on me.

"Lay down on the bed," he orders.

"Sure, right, are we going to..."

"Just lie down. Don't move."

"Oh, I'm definitely going to be..."

"Just...for a second, please."

It slowly dawns on me what he has in mind. I lay back and he transports a little of the powder over to me on his credit card. He runs a small line down each of my breasts. Then he leans down and snorts it up off me. I feel a shiver run through me. This is slutty in ways I couldn't have even imagined. As he wrinkles his nose, I grab him by the back of the neck and bring him in for a full snog.

When our lips part, he gives me a mischievous grin.

"Are we going to fuck now?" I ask him. "No wait, I have a better idea. I'm going to suck your cock first."

He doesn't have a chance to answer as I'm tearing his belt apart and his trousers off him. His dick springs out fully erect.

"Oh yes," I say, giving it a playful little slap. "This is what I've been after. Who-hoo! Cathy going out and getting laid tonight!"

"I thought you said your name was Naomi."

"Whoopsie." I laugh. "Don't tell anyone else, will you?"

With that, I'm on his cock. The taste, the feel of it in my mouth, the power of giving someone head, it all comes back to me and I start enthusiastically pleasuring him. He's big as well. Bigger than any of my previous boyfriends. I find I relish the challenge.

I try taking him deeper and deeper. I manage to get all but about an inch there and then find myself choking. I come up for air.

"Attempt two," I say.

I push down harder. As I start to gag, I pull back just a little and then push down again. I do this four or five times, get to about half an inch and then it's too much again. I surface coughing and spluttering.

"You don't have to," he says.

"No I can do this," I tell him. This time, I just ignore the sensation and push down all in one go. My nose buries into his stomach and my lips close around the very end of his shaft. The feeling of puking subsides and I hold myself there for a few seconds.

When I pull myself away, long trails of salvia rope from his cock back to my lips.

"Yeah, victory," I squeal. "And now you're all nicely lubed up."

I push him down onto the bed, straddle him and push my cunt down on his dick.

"Oh fuck yes," I moan. "This is what I need. A hard fucking cock inside me."

I ride him. Each time I plunge down onto him, I feel it like a stab across my heart. Before long, sweat starts pouring down me.

"So...fucking...good," I tell him.

"You are fucking amazing," he tells me. I see him looking up at me in awe. I take his hands and press them firmly on my tits.

"Yes, I am," I say in return.

I lean back and just enjoy the sensation of penetration.

"I am fucking amazing!" I shout out loud. "Fucking amazing."

This is answered by a banging from the other side of the wall.

"Oh, get bent..." I start to yell. His hands from my breasts and to my mouth.

"Let's not attract any attention," he tells me. "Not with all thatstuff out in the open."

"Right, right," I say. I roll off him. "Soft and tender then."

He climbs on top and enters me in the missionary position. He's gentle only for a few seconds. As he speeds up, he clamps his mouth on top of mine in a permanent French kiss, then he starts hammering away at me. He is using me and is unrestrained. I pull my legs up around his torso. Before long they're on his shoulders, though I'm not sure how they got there. This pushes our faces apart and my mouth is free again.

"Oh, fuck me, oh, fuck me, oh, fucking fuck me!"

Without saying anything or even breaking stride, he reaches over, grabs my panties, and shoves them in my mouth.

With my feet high in the air, his cock is plunging to depths I didn't know I had, and every thrust suggests he wants to break new ground.

"Oh, your cunt. So tight," he tells me. "Oh, your fucking glorious cunt."

There's an urgency now. He looks me directly in the eye. "You know what I want?"

With my mouth stuffed, I can only express uncertainty with my eyes.

"I want to cum all over that beautiful face of yours. Would that be alright? To spray my cum all over your face?...No, don't take the knickers out, just nod if it's okay."

I don't get to nod, because at that moment my whole body shakes. My veins are on fire as the orgasm takes me. I clamp my hands down onto his arse and thrust him into me. My back arches and my head presses down into the pillow. The first wave has barely subsided when he roughly pushes my hands off him and jumps up onto his knees. The second wave hits me at the same time as his cum splatters my nose. Another dollop hits my forehead and slides down over my eyebrows. A last splurge lands between the panties in my mouth and my chin.

I lay back, just enjoying the glorious stink of his seed.

"Christ, That was just like how they describe great sex in books. The really dirty ones, I mean. I'd always assumed it was over-exaggerated. Artistic license. But no - word for fucking word. Who would have thought? When I've done it before it's been, well, not anything like that. At all. Just...wow. Fuck...ing...wow."

He comes and joins me on the bed, arms covering me around my breasts and waist.

"Well, the night is still young," he says. He wipes his finger across my cheek and then dabs the semen into my mouth. I take it with no complaint. I try to cuddle up to him and he pulls away.

"Wait a moment," he says. He goes to the bathroom and I hear a tap running. He comes back with a hot flannel. He wipes the worst of the spunk off my face with tissue then applies the flannel. I'm cleansed of both his fluid and my own sweat. He puts a pillow upright and sits on it with his legs open. "Come here."

I sit between his legs and he starts to massage my shoulders. "Just relax," he says. "Daddy will look after you."

"Daddy," I laugh. It doesn't sound any less ridiculous coming from him than it did from me. "Daddy. Oh daddy. Big daddy. Daddy-dayo. Papa."

"Look," he says. "The effects are going wear off in a little while and you might start to feel a little rough. But, I'll do you a deal. Another hit to ride that sweet ass of yours."

"Ass," I say. I don't know why he's gone all American on me all of a sudden. "Arrrr-se," I start to giggle. It's funny.

"Do we have a deal?" he asks.

That he repeats himself makes the transactional nature of his request all the more apparent. But even without the temptation of another hit, him doing me there feels transgressive. It's out of character -- my theme with variations for tonight.

In reply, I jump out of bed and pick up the rolled-up note from the table. As I start to bend over, he's suddenly beside me. "Whoah, whoah, whoah." He takes the credit card and separates a much thinner line from the general pile, slicing it and pushing some back. "Have fun, but you do not want to go crazy with this stuff."