Claire Currie awoke to the sound of snoring. It was a rising crescendo that then dropped like a heavy book off of a table. It was a slightly unsteady rhythm of sound and fury. If it was a steady rhythm, Claire might have been able to get back to sleep but no; the not quite repetition was enough to keep her awake.
Mr. Dillon wasn’t a loud snorer, but the arrangement of this hotel suite placed his bed three feet away from the couch Claire slept on. She always slept on the couch. Even though they always ordered a room with a King size bed, Mr. Dillon insisted that Claire did not sleep with him. It was unprofessional he said.
So Claire spent every night for the past year in her employment to the Collette-Ashbee collection sleeping on things that were not beds. She had slept on couches when she was lucky, and on floors when she was not. One time the only room available had two single beds and Mr. Dillon used that second bed to hold his luggage.
Fortunately for Claire, being a librarian for the world’s rarest collection of erotica kept her so busy that she usually collapsed at night. Mr. Dillon believed that a librarian should be physically fit as well as mentally fit. Her every day routine involved carrying heavy loads of books or standing in very compromising positions while Mr. Dillon berated or molested her. By the time Mr. Dillon retired to bed, Claire was always ready to pass out.
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She tried to go back to sleep but it wasn’t the snoring that kept her awake. Recently Mr. Dillon had found a book written in 1983 that was becoming an obsession of Claire’s. It was called “The Quiet Ones’ and it might have been the best book Claire had ever read. It told the story of woman who joins a sort of sex cult. The cult lives in a sprawling mansion that resembles a haunted house. No one in the cult spoke, but they fucked endlessly. The woman, who is never named in the book, spends her entire time trying to figure out the mystery of the house while enduring silent sex act after silent sex act.
Sometimes Claire was sure that the main character might have been dead and this was her heaven. Other times Claire was sure the book was a metaphor for society and the plight of the individual. Most of the time though, Claire just thought the silent fuck scenes were hot.
Claire rolled over onto her back. She wore nothing. Mr. Dillon had forbidden her any sort of night clothes. The only thing she was allowed to cover herself with was the spare comforter that Mr. Dillon always requested from room service.
One of the reasons for this rule was because he liked the ritual of her stripping down to nothing before the lights turned out. He would silently admire her heavy brown breasts, round ass and the black bush of her sex. Claire would lotion up her skin before going to sleep and Mr. Dillon always enjoyed watching.
“It’s like watching a book being slipped into its cover,” is how he described it. For Mr. Dillon, that was his version of flattery.
Tonight her lack of clothes was a good thing. Claire was too aroused to sleep. She stroked herself. With one hand she squeezed a hard nipple while the other hand played with her clitoris. Her fingers danced over her sex. She pulled, poked and twisted with the same merciless manner that Mr. Dillon employed. Pinching just made her wet these days and Claire’s pussy could take a lot of pinching.
The sound of Claire’s wet fingering joined the chorus of Mr. Dillon’s snores. Claire’s toes dig into the arm of the couch. She bit down on her lip to keep from crying out. Mr. Dillon allowed her to masturbate, but waking him up was a serious offence.
She had three fingers in her. A scene from the book came to her mind. It was a scene that took place under a staircase. Three men took turns with the woman, each of them fucking her ass. The narrator kept describing the crimson flowers that made up the wallpaper under the staircase in between descriptions of how much the woman’s ass was being pounded. Even as Claire masturbated, she wondered what the significance of those flowers could be.
Claire fucked herself faster. Mr. Dillon said that the author, R.P. Aktins was an unknown pseudonym. The author was never discovered and no other work is attributed to them. The real meaning of his book would always be a mystery. Since it was porn, no serious effort to preserve it or research it would ever happen except for what the Collection would do.
She remembered the look on Mr. Dillon’s face. He was usually so stern and confident but when he said that, his face was so different.
“Ms. Currie, when the world is too dismissive to appreciate genius, we are the last line of appreciation.”
Claire never thought Mr. Dillon was sexier than when he loved porn. She stroked herself faster, imagining Mr. Dillon fucking her ass in a silent staircase. A stuttering gasp escaped her lips as she climaxed.
When her body stopped shaking, Claire opened her eyes. She put her fingers in her mouth. That was the way Mr. Dillon preferred she clean herself. One by one she licked her fingers clean. She was very thorough and made sure to get every drop of her desire.
Claire felt sleep creeping in on her. The afterglow sapped the last of the tension from her body. She pulled the blanket tight around her and surrendered to her exhaustion.
She realized she didn’t hear any snoring.
The blanket was torn from her body. In the darkness Claire could barely see a hulking form loom over her. A hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her leg apart. Weight came down on the couch and Claire felt a naked body between her thighs.
A hot hard cock slipped into her still wet cunt.
This was the other reason Claire slept naked. She wasn’t the only one kept awake at night by the erotica they collected. The difference is Mr. Dillon never needed to masturbate. That was what Claire was for.
Claire groaned as Mr. Dillon fucked her. He was silent except for the occasional grunt. In the middle of the night, Mr. Dillon saw no reason to speak to Claire. His hard cock was all that mattered. Burying it deep inside Claire was the only the intercourse they needed. If he used his mouth, it was only to bite down on one of Claire’s nipples. In the middle of the pitch black night, Mr. Dillon could always find her nipples.
Claire shuddered as his teeth captured her nipple. Her thighs clenched as he rammed into her. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as he took her. She was there for his pleasure. It was her duty.
Mr. Dillon climaxed in silence. His body shook and then it relaxed. For a brief moment, he melted into her. Their bodies were as close as pages.
He got up and returned to bed. Claire heard the condom being thrown into the waste bin. Claire reached around on the floor and recovered her blanket. As she drifted to sleep, it was easy to imagine that the weight of the comforter was Mr. Dillon’s body.
In the quiet hotel room, the librarians slept.