The Bookshop Owner Chapter 2
THE BOOKSHOP OWNER -- CHAPTER 2
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It's just before 5pm, when my phone screen lights up with an email notification. The book I ordered is ready for collection. I haven't been able to stop thinking about my bookshop encounter for the past two days, a mix of lust and embarrassment about it all.
I look up the bookshop opening hours to make sure it will still be open when I get there. I suddenly feel the urge to cut the workday short. I shut down my laptop, change into a pair of jeans, grab my wallet, keys and a tote bag, and I am out the door. I have been telling myself I was dreading going back and having to face the guy that almost saw me ride a dildo on video, but I sure was on my way there within minutes of the notification arriving.
The bookshop double doors are half closed, with the left side slightly open, clear sign that it's almost closing time. A customer comes out with a paperback under her arm. She holds the door open for me; I thank her and enter the shop. I feel a jolt of unexpected excitement when I spot the broad figure of the shopkeeper I briefly met last Sunday behind the counter. Probably not just an employee then. That or maybe I'm just lucky. He's counting a set of banknotes he took out of the till. As I approach him, he looks up and our eyes meet. He raises his eyebrows.
"Oh, well that was fast" he says, without greeting me. My heart sinks a little -- he must have just sent the email and here I am already. Too eager?
"Hi! Yeah... I live nearby. Just thought I'd make it before you closed."
"Of course" he says and bends down to grab something from behind the counter. "Is this the one?" he says showing me the book.
"Yes, that's it, thanks."
"That's £20 total for you. Cash or card?"
I show him the debit card I just took out of my wallet and he gestures towards the card machine next to the till.
"I hope you don't mind me asking" he says, while the beep of the transaction tells me it's gone through. "You're not the chap who wrote Achillean Catechism, are you?"
I look at him, nod and smile, "Oh--yes, yeah, I am." I haven't been asked that question very often and it always make me feel somewhat self-conscious.
"I knew your name sounded familiar! I just saw your email address and thought I'd ask. I'm Dan, by the way" he says and goes for a firm handshake. "Sorry, didn't want to put you on the spot there."
"That's alright -- it was a small collection of poems, I don't exactly get hounded by the paparazzi." He chuckles and slips the book and the receipt into a thin paper bag.
"I didn't realise you were based here."
"Oh, I just moved. I took up a job at the University..."
"Right... Poems not exactly paying the bills then?"
"Surprisingly, no."
"Any new projects you're working on?" I let out an involuntary sigh at the question. He quickly picks up on my reaction and adds, "Sorry, touchy subject, shouldn't have asked that."
He's gathering a handful of receipts and some coins in a plastic pouch. "Let me apologise, how about a hot drink? I'll pop the kettle on."
Before I am even able to reply he disappears through the backroom door behind the counter. The request catches me off guard. Maybe I'm not used to small town hospitality; maybe this is just professional interest. I look around and the entrance door is still open, but there are no signs of customers and it must be past closing time by now.
I can hear the familiar sound of the electric kettle. "Maybe you can show me more of your video material while we wait" he shouts from the back room.
I can feel the blood rushing to face, utterly embarrassed by this turn in the conversation. I consider taking off right there and then, but the urge to apologise takes over. I rush behind the counter and into the back room. It's a small, dark office, filled with metal shelving units and boxes full of books. He's standing in the far corner, next to a small fridge with an electric kettle, tea bags and mugs on top of it.
"I'm SO sorry about that. I really didn't mean that to happen, it was just open on my phone from earlier and--"
"Don't worry about it" he chuckles unbothered. "I wouldn't dare open my media gallery in public either. How do you take it? I've only got regular tea bags, I'm afraid."
My ears are still tingling, so I don't really hear the question. It doesn't help that I find his imposing build and handsome features painfully attractive. "I'm genuinely so sorry--"
"Like I said, no need to apologise. It looked like a hot one, from the quick look I managed to catch. So? Any milk or sugar?"
Feeling slightly confused and vulnerable, I relent. "Milk, just a dash, thanks" I say defeated, leaning against the doorframe.
"I have to make a confession" he says, "I had to google you. Your name sounded familiar, but I never read your work before, I just remembered stocking your book. It's a catchy title."
He hands me a steaming-hot cup of tea. As I calm down somewhat, I manage to take another look at the back room. Boxes are piled up on the floor and more are on shelves, with stacks of books next to them, in what looks like an organised mess that only the person in charge would understand. In addition to the small fridge, there's a desk with an old desktop computer and various stacks of documents. It faces the entrance which, to my surprise, is visible from the back room from a long and narrow window above it.
"It's a one-way mirror. So I can keep an eye on things, I'm usually the only one here"
I nod in understanding and take a sip. "Do... you run the whole thing by yourself, then?" I ask trying to get past the awkwardness of the situation. He doesn't seem to sense it at all, though.
"Yeah. Not exactly the easiest time to be an independent bookshop. We host events sometimes, book launches and the like. I try to play my part in keeping alive what's left of the cultural scene around here. The only things left are the gay pub and this place, and the clientele too often overlaps." He scratches his salt-and-pepper beard. "Sorry for teasing you about the video, didn't want to sound like a creep."
"Oh no" I blurt out, "I'm the one who should apologise!" He laughs, ignoring my third and frankly pretty weak apology. He puts his mug down on the desk and sits at the computer.
"I'll send you some stuff you might be interested in, there's some events coming up. Might be of inspiration, you never know. Same email address?"
"Yes" I confirm, "thanks, that's very kind."
"You're pretty shy for somebody who writes about sex so much" he says, eyes still focused on the computer screen. So he did read some of my work? He doesn't wait for a reply or an acknowledgement: "... and sent. Should be in your inbox shortly, buddy."
The mention of sex, followed by word `buddy' almost makes me choke on my drink. Hoping he didn't see me flinch, I carefully put the mug down on the desk. What game is he playing at? He turns around in his office chair. His thighs look even bigger up-close. I try not to fantasise too much about how I would love to kneel and nestle my face in between them, so I try to maintain eye contact instead of staring at his crotch.
"Thanks for the drink. I should go, let you get on with things."
"Right, yeah. Pop in if you need anything. Let's go get a drink some time, I can show you some of the local spots."
He gets up, pats, almost lightly squeezes my shoulder and grabs my half-empty mug from the desk. I thank him and head out, wondering if he's looking at me from the back room as I leave. I grab my phone, still trying to make sense of what happened, and open the email. It looks like a newsletter, some of the bookshop's upcoming events and some community ones. It's the end of April, so Pride events are starting to get advertised. I'm still not sure what to make of the whole exchange.
I start replying to the email, a little flustered and impatient to follow up.
"Thanks for this" I type, "These look great! I'll try to attend if I'm free. And thanks again for the hospitality."
I get home and immediately feel the need to undress. Down to my briefs, erection visible through the fabric, I lie down on the sofa. I put two fingers in my mouth making sure they are well lubricated before pulling down my underwear and starting to massage my hole using circular motions. With my other hand I start stroking my dick, caressing the wet tip with my thumb.
My mind goes back to the room with Dan. I imagine how I would kneel and place my face right on his crotch, my body tight between his beefy thighs. I would push his shirt up, unbutton his trousers and take out his cock. I would start kissing the tip, gently at first. Then I would pull the foreskin down and start sucking.
I imagine how he would bend over me, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth, pull my own trousers down and start fingering me. He would move back, put two fingers in my own mouth and make me suck on them until sufficiently wet, then push his cock back down my throat. He would insert one finger in my hole and, upon realising that I am horny and ready, he would put another one in. My moans muffled by his cock, both my holes wet and stretched, I would continue until he released all his sweet juices into my mouth and down my throat.
I notice my phone screen lighting up on the coffee table. New email.
"Thanks for stopping by. Was just reading this poem of yours yesterday. You got some brilliant lines in there. You'll have to share the story behind this one next time"
Included in the email is a screenshot of a page in my book where, albeit in elegant verses, I reminisce about a raunchy one-night stand with a Greek man from some years ago on a Mediterranean beach. Shower sex included.
I open my phone gallery and I take a screenshot of the video that started this whole thing. You can see me naked from the side, ramming my ass against the dildo on the shower wall. I attach the picture to my reply, without including any text.
I hit `Send' and a jolt of adrenaline runs through my entire body. I can't believe I just sent that to somebody I just met. Precum starts dripping on my stomach, while my fingers keep going in and out of my hole, as it puckers up following the rhythm of my dick stroking.
Another notification.
"Now where have I seen this before...?" it reads. "I knew you were a talented bottom the moment you walked in. Bet you had to run home and take care of yourself."
I barely manage to finish reading the message before starting to cum all over myself. Some of it hits my face and starts dripping down my lips and chin. I put the phone down and cup my balls while I lick my lips. I feel droplets of cum roll down from chest to my sides. My body is shaking from the intensity of the orgasm.
I try to regain control of my breathing. When I finally manage to open my eyes, I notice there's one more email notification.
"Oh, and you left the book your ordered. You can come back and pick it up tomorrow. Shop opens at 9:00."
-- END OF CHAPTER 2 --