Chapter 2: The Manuscript and the Moans
The next morning, Marie went to work again, trying to think as little as possible about what had happened the day before. The phantom sensation of Luc’s quick, sleepy climax seemed to have stained the very air of their apartment, a reminder of the hollowness she’d carried to bed. She moved through her routine on autopilot: the oatmeal, the kiss on Luc’s cheek, the metro ride staring at her own reflection in the dark window.
Even so, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy when she ran into Marcus. It was in the periodicals section, sunlight slicing through the high windows to catch the dust motes dancing between them. He was leaning against a cart, sorting new arrivals.
“Morning, Marie,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. There was no wink today, no sly smile. Just a calm, professional acknowledgment. It should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like a door being quietly shut in her face, a dismissal of whatever electric current had passed between them at the printer, in the philosophy aisle. Had she imagined his interest? The thought was somehow more humiliating than the attraction itself.
She mumbled a greeting and hurried away, the ghost of his cologne—that clean, spicy scent—seeming to follow her.
Towards the end of the morning, Marie headed towards the storage area where she was to shelve some books. The cart squeaked a mournful protest as she pushed it into the deeper, older part of the library. The air grew cooler, thicker with the smell of aging paper and settled dust. The cheerful fluorescence of the main halls gave way to the occasional naked bulb, casting pockets of jaundiced light between long trenches of shadow.
As she approached a quiet corner near the archived local newspapers, she heard voices. Not the murmured professional tones of colleagues discussing a misplaced collection, but something lower, rougher. She recognized Abdou’s hoarse voice, a gravelly bass that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. And a woman’s voice she didn’t immediately recognize—breathy, strained, punctuated by sharp little gasps.
But what surprised her most was that the words had nothing to do with a colleague’s conversation.
“...like that, you big fucking brute? Huh?” the woman’s voice panted.
A low grunt from Abdou. “Shut up and take it.”
Marie stopped breathing. The cart’s squeak fell silent. Her heart began a frantic, hammering rhythm against her ribs. She left her cart and moved closer, making sure she wasn’t seen. She slipped behind a monolithic stack of leather-bound municipal records, her fingers cold against the worn spines.
When she saw the scene, she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Before her eyes, her colleague Valérie was doubled over a heavy oak sorting table, her skirt hiked up to her hips and her panties hanging down to her feet, a sad little puddle of lace on the worn floorboards. Behind her, Abdou’s incredible bulk moved with a slow, terrifying piston rhythm. His security jacket was unzipped, his uniform trousers pooled around his powerful thighs. His hands, massive and dark, gripped Valérie’s hips, his fingers digging into the pale flesh there. The penis driving into her looked enormous even from this distance, a thick, dark shaft glistening wetly, disappearing and reappearing with each deliberate, devastating thrust.
Screeek-thud. Screeek-thud.
The table legs scraped against the wooden floor in time with his movements.
Valérie’s face was turned to the side, pressed against a stack of yellowing newspapers. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth a wet, open circle. “Ohgodohgodfuckmefuckmefuck—AAAAAHNHH!” Her cry was raw, shredded, utterly wanton.
He, in turn, spoke to her in short, crude sentences about what he was doing to her. “This what you followed me back here for, you desperate slut? This big black cock you wanted to try?” His voice was a steady, relentless growl, devoid of passion, full of pure, carnal purpose. “Take it all. You wanted it. Now you fucking take it.”
Marie had watched porn with her husband before, but this was the first time she’d seen a man and a woman having sex in real life. The sounds were wetter, messier. The smell of sweat and sex cut through the dust. And what a man! A gigantic figure who easily towered over his colleague, his back muscles rippling under his tight t-shirt with every drive of his hips. A married colleague, just like her. Valérie, who complained about her husband’s lack of calls, was now being ruthlessly fucked in a storage room by a man who treated her like an object. And she was screaming for more.
Marie should have run away, but she stayed, enjoying the spectacle. Her own breath came in short, hot pants against the palm still clamped over her mouth. As she watched Abdou pound her colleague’s vagina, she felt her own vagina getting wet, a sudden, shocking flood of heat and slickness that soaked through her cotton panties. A pulse began to beat there, in perfect, shameful sync with the screeek-thud from the table.
Without really realizing it, she found herself putting her hand between her legs, over her skirt, and began to caress herself through the fabric. The pressure was faint, maddening. She rubbed slowly, her eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the junction of their bodies, on the brutal, beautiful mechanics of it.
“So? Anything to see?”
Marie heard Marcus’s voice right behind her, a whisper so close it brushed the shell of her ear. She jerked, a full-body flinch, but he was already there. The black man pressed himself against her, and she felt his erection, hard and insistent, against her buttocks through the fabric of her skirt and his pants. He had been watching her watch them.How long?
He didn’t wait for an answer. His arms came around her, one snaking across her collarbone to pull her back against his chest, the other resting low on her stomach. He was holding her in place, forcing her to keep watching.
“You like it?” he murmured, his lips moving against her hair. “Watching the big savage fuck the loud blonde? Is that your thing, Marie?”
“N-no,” she breathed, the lie pathetic and transparent. She was grinding back against him now, a small, involuntary movement she couldn’t stop.
“Liar,” he whispered, a chuckle in his voice. “I’ve been watching you for five minutes. You haven’t moved. You’re trembling.”
On the table, Valérie wailed, a high, broken sound. “I’m gonna come! Oh fuck, I’m gonna—”
“You come when I say you can come, salope,” Abdou grunted, his pace never faltering. “This is my dick. You take it how I give it.”
Marcus placed his hand on Marie’s stomach, then slid it down, slipping between her shirt and skirt. His fingers were cool. She gasped as they slid under the elastic waistband of her panties, over the swell of her pubic bone, and then down, through the coarse curls, to find her.
She was drenched. Slick heat welcomed his touch. He made a soft, approving sound. “Fuck, Marie. You’re soaking. Dripping for it.” His fingers slid over her labia, parting her, finding her clit with an unerring accuracy that made her legs buckle. A low moan escaped her, muffled against her own hand.
“Shhh,” Marcus soothed, his other arm tightening around her. “Listen to them. Listen to him use her.” He began to circle her clit, a slow, torturous rhythm that contrasted with the brutal pounding just meters away. “He’s going to fill her up. You hear that? He’s going to pump that huge black cock right into her married little cunt and dump his load.”
As if on cue, Abdou’s grunts grew sharper, faster. “You feel that? You feel me getting ready to drown that tight white pussy?Huh? Take it. Take my fucking seed.”
“Yes! Give it to me! Fill me up!” Valérie shrieked, her body bowing taut.
The vulgarity, the raw possession in their words, sent another violent surge of wetness between Marie’s legs. Marcus slid one finger inside her, then a second. They plunged into her tight, clutching heat, and the sensation was so acute, so utterly different from Luc’s familiar, tentative touch, that she cried out, a sharp, choked sound.
“That’s it,” Marcus breathed into her ear. He pumped his fingers, squelch-squelch, the obscene sound loud in her ears, syncing with the now frantic screeek-THUD, screeek-THUD from the table. His thumb kept working her clit in rough, perfect circles. “You like hearing that? You like knowing he’s fucking her silly just a few feet away while I finger-fuck you in the shadows? You’re a dirty girl, Marie. A married little librarian with a filthy, hungry cunt.”
She was spiraling, the world narrowing to the sight of Abdou’s massive form driving into Valérie, the feel of Marcus’s expert fingers fucking her, the sounds, the smells. Her hips rocked, fucking herself on his hand, seeking more, harder, faster. The coil in her belly wound tighter, a screaming tension she had never felt, not even in her most secret fantasies.
Abdou roared, a raw, animal sound that echoed in the cramped space. “AH!FUCK! TAKE IT ALL!” There was a final, shuddering THUD and then a series of fierce, short grunts. Valérie sobbed, a guttural, satisfied sound.
At that exact moment, Marcus curled his fingers inside Marie, pressing up against a spot that unleashed a white-hot detonation. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, a seismic wave that clenched around his fingers and turned her vision to static. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted blood, her body rigid against his, every muscle locked in ecstatic agony.
It subsided in waves, leaving her limp, panting, sweat cooling on her neck.
Marcus slowly withdrew his fingers, glistening with her. He brought them up to her mouth. Dazed, obedient, she opened her lips. He pushed them in, and she tasted herself—salty, musky, foreign—as he husked, “Clean them.”
She did, her tongue swirling around his fingers, her eyes still glued to the scene before her. Abdou was pulling out, and Marie saw, with a jolt that went straight to her throbbing core, the thick, pearl-white spend already beginning to leak from Valérie’s well-used opening, dripping down her inner thigh.
Marcus took the opportunity to slip away with Marie, pulling her gently but firmly back from the edge of the shelves, further into the shadows. Her legs were useless, watery. He turned her to face him. His expression was calm, but his eyes were dark with a knowing triumph.
“I knew it,” he said softly, wiping his hand on his trousers. “I knew what you were like from the moment you stared at my crotch in the philosophy section. All that quiet, all that propriety. It’s just a shell.” He leaned in. “This was just the beginning. An appetizer.”
He told her he would meet her the next morning in an empty room on the third floor, the old map room, at ten. He gave her the number. Then, without another word, he straightened his shirt, gave her a look that was neither smile nor leer but simple, stark expectation, and walked away, blending back into the stacks as if he’d merely been searching for a book.
When Marie left the storeroom, her cart forgotten, her body humming and hollowed out, she wondered what she had done. She, the mother, the married woman. She had watched a colleague be violently fucked. She had let another man finger her to a screaming, illicit climax while she watched. She had tasted her own arousal on his fingers.
But as the shame rose, a cold, sick wave, it was met and overwhelmed by a memory of physical truth: the ruthless skill of Marcus’s fingers, the coarse, degrading soundtrack of Abdou’s fucking, the utter, total surrender of her body to a sensation she had never known.
Marcus had made her orgasm like never before.
The echo of Valérie’s cries seemed to follow her all the way back to the fluorescent light of the main library, a secret tattooed onto her bones.