That Filthy Book

by Lily Harlem

  God, since that first time we’d indulged in anal play and bondage so often, like kids with a new toy. It was still novel enough not to become boring, but I worried if we did it too often it could. We needed to mix it up, find new ways of creating pleasure, or switch things around so we never did the same thing twice in a row.

  That filthy book came to mind then, and I left the kitchen, not caring that these men were in our home and that I was meant to be making them coffee with two bloody sugars and ‘just a splash of milk, pet’. I rushed upstairs, standing on tiptoe to push the attic door that would release the lock and let it swing down. Reaching up, I grabbed hold of the metal ladder jutting halfway across the square opening and dragged it down. It clattered loudly, the two sections clicking into place as the base met the landing.

  “Coffee won’t be a minute!” I called, gingerly climbing the ladder.

  My stomach bunched at the fact I was actually going up into the roof, something I always left to Jacob. I was all right getting up there, sort of—the banister being beside the ladder and me worrying I’d pitch over it and tumble down the stairs didn’t help—it was getting down that would prove a problem. But I’d do it because I wanted to get hold of that book again. There were so many fantasies in there, ones every couple tried and others they most certainly did not. But if I remembered correctly, there was one in particular that Jacob had already mentioned and it had gripped me lately. Imagining it in my mind before I fell asleep had created dreams that tortured me with their sexual intensity. They’d been so vivid I would have sworn I’d actually been fucked, my cunt sopping, the sheets beneath me damp from my juices, my hand firmly between my legs, leaving me in no doubt I’d fondled myself while I slept.

  The ladder creaked ominously as I climbed inside. With my heart pounding erratically, I crawled across the plywood covering the fluffy yellow insulation, unable to bring myself into a hunched-over crouch. Hands and knees would have to do. It was dark until I reached up and tugged the cord that switched on the light. The bare bulb emitted too bright a light and I squinted at an attic full on all sides, although Jacob had packed things in an orderly way. Two bed frames rested against the far wall, as did the dining table and chairs we’d had too many years ago to count, in its pre-erected state, a regimented row of legs, chair backs and seats, the worn tabletop behind them. To my left sat the pink plastic baby bath I’d used for the girls, and a potty I’d kept just in case we’d decided on having more children. We hadn’t, agreeing two was enough for us, and I thought about doing a car boot sale to get rid of them. There was a lot of stuff up here that was junk to us but treasure to someone else, and the money we would generate could be put to good use by purchasing new toys for us. Adult toys.

  I looked over at the space opposite, trying not to think how many spiders and creepy crawlies lurked in the crevices. I glanced up, seeing the inevitable webs, thick and weighted down by dust. I returned my attention to what was in front of me, suppressing a shudder.

  Containers of all sizes, with black marker pen proclaiming boldly what they held inside, appeared as a higgledy-piggledy beige wall. I scanned them, noting that some housed old clothes, blankets, and crockery. Others were filled with magazines from when we’d needed ideas on how to do up the house, and others still contained knick-knacks I couldn’t bear to part with, even though I would never have them on the shelves again. But one red box sat there, in the top right-hand corner, with no black marker wording, its only decoration a few overlapping strips of brown sticky tape and the original logo from when the box had been the home for packs of frozen spare ribs.

  My box.

  My book.

  I gasped, smiling so hard it hurt. Giddy with excitement, I scrabbled over to the boxes and reached up to pull mine down. Nostalgia hit, a great wave of the past covering me from head to foot in goosebumps. I recalled packing my things so vividly it was like I’d done it yesterday. I smelt my old bedroom, recalled the state of it, junk all around as I’d taped the box closed. My feelings from that time returned then, full force and blunt—shame, embarrassment, guilt, a vow never to read the book again. But here I was, fingers itching to rip back that brown tape, toss every other book aside and clutch that filthy book to my chest.

  The ripping of the tape sounded obscenely loud, and I glanced over my shoulder at the insane thought that the workmen might have heard it. So what if they had? Why was I even bothered? Funny how strange things entered the mind like that. Did some of the old guilt still linger, was that it? Would it always be ingrained in me, a patch of mould that could grow and grow until it infested me once again?

  I wouldn’t allow it.

  This time was different. This time I could embrace what the book said, do every damn thing it suggested, providing Jacob was game.

  And I had no doubt he would be.

  I peeled back the four top flaps, taking the time to run my fingertips along the spines so the lids didn’t spring closed again. The scent of cardboard, musty from years of being in an attic, wafted up to greet me. And that special smell, of ageing books, all semi-damp dust and yellowing pages, made me think of university days in the library, dissertations being written with the deadline looming. Feet shuffling on the cheap, flat-pile brown carpet. Shelves stacked high, books sticking out, some lopsided and others bolt upright.

  I knew where the guilt had come from, then. It wasn’t what the book contained, not really, but that I’d checked it out of the library without taking it back. The librarian had given me such a look of disdain as she’d slammed the date stamper down on the form inside the front cover that I hadn’t wanted to return it—to be given the same look again. She’d made me feel, when I read the book, that it had been wrong. That the events inside had been wrong. Maybe even immoral. But they weren’t, I knew that now, not when they were performed by two consenting adults.

  Absurdly, I wanted to cry. That woman had planted a kernel of doubt in my mind at a tender age, and it had sprouted, stayed with me for years, even though I’d talked dirty to Jacob right at the start, before the girls had come along. Even then I’d worried a little that what came out of my mouth made me a filthy person, that I was all kinds of corrupt. Yet I’d still said them. Still enjoyed the result of them. Then becoming a mother had stripped everything away, as though enjoying sex as much as I could wasn’t an option anymore. And my obsession with making sure the books we checked out of the library these days were returned promptly made sense now. I didn’t mind taking those books back. Children’s adventures and good, clean romance fiction. I could saunter in there, head held high, knowing the librarian wouldn’t even look up at me as she scanned the barcodes inside the books and nodded that, yes, I could select some new ones now.

  Hell, I might even borrow a dirty book again; see how it felt now I was more adult and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.

  Thank God I’d woken up. And thank God Jacob had joined me on this new journey.

  I removed the books one by one, placing them gently on the plywood, stalling the moment when I’d see that filthy book again. Although I’d seen another copy in Amsterdam, it wasn’t the same. This was my book—even though it technically still belonged to the library—and it was in English. It had page corners folded over, I remembered that now, and a splash of Coke coated one page where I’d spurted it from my mouth in shock at what I’d read.

  Would those same words shock me now?

  I didn’t think so.

  There was one book left to remove before I’d see my prize. I lifted it, deliberately not looking inside the box, and popped it onto the pile with the others. They slewed sideways, much like the ones in Amsterdam, and I stared at the domino effect, a fan of well-loved literature. To Kill a Mockingbird, A Clockwork Orange, Macbeth and Hamlet. A few cheesy romances that brought a smile. A couple of detective thrillers from when I’d fancied myself the kind of girl who could work out who the killer was, then realised I hadn’t when it came to the reveal. A glut of memories, all attached to those pa
ges. Clothes I’d worn, hairstyles I’d sported, food I’d eaten, people I’d hung around with… God, it had all gone by so fast.

  I turned to look at the wall opposite, delaying the final moment some more, enjoying the recall of my youth. And then I’d met Jacob, tousle-haired Jacob who had turned my world upside down and still kept turning it. The man who had cared for me without question since that first day and continued to do so.

  Tears pricked my eyes, the reminiscence too much, and I took a deep breath before plunging one hand inside that spare rib box and taking hold of the book. I took it out, settled the bottom of it on my folded legs and stared down at it. My Erotic Fantasies sung from the front cover, although it had dulled with time, the previously bright red font more burgundy now. And the entwined naked couple, they didn’t look as lurid as they had back in the day, similar to any number of books out there now that didn’t make anyone bat an eyelid.

  The long and short of it was that time had changed things. This book didn’t really need to be hidden anymore, would no longer be considered base by most people, could sit on my bookshelf without anyone thinking anything of it—except maybe to raise an eyebrow and look at us in a slightly different light, but I would still keep it under wraps in case our girls decided on a nosing spree and discovered it.

  I ran my fingertips over it, then thumbed the pages before telling myself to just get on with it and open the damn thing. I did, and my cunt flooded at the sight of those lewd words. I sat for some time, scouring the pages, imagining the positions and scenarios in my head, but a sharp set of hammer raps from below brought me back to the present.

  “Shit, their coffee!”

  I gathered the fallen books together and put them back in the box, securing it as best I could with tape that didn’t fancy being sticky anymore. Hefting it back onto the wall, I scooped that filthy book from the floor and shuffled over to the attic opening. Peering down, I bit my lip. The landing seemed miles away, and my stomach rolled as I contemplated how I would turn at the hatch and get down the ladder. Book still in hand, I scooted around, legs trembling, and felt with one foot for a rung. My leg dangled in mid-air, meeting nothing, and panic set in. I had to get back down, and I could do it, too, if I pulled up my new, lacy, big-girl panties and told myself to stop being such a fool.

  I found a rung, relief warming my insides, and somehow managed to make my wobbly way down the ladder with the book still in hand. Feeling happier once I was stood on the landing, I popped the ladder catches and shoved it back into the attic. The hatch proved harder to close, the bloody thing not playing the game and refusing to lock. I let out a strangled sound of annoyance and tried one more time, grunting with satisfaction as the door stayed shut. Hot and sweaty, I spun to rush downstairs and make the damn coffee, only to run smack into a broad, white T-shirted chest that gave off the scent of hard work.

  I looked up, whipping the book behind my back and stared at one of the workmen. “Sorry. I’m just off to make your coffee now.” After scanning through the filthiest book I’ve ever read and wanting my husband to come home for lunch so he can fuck me ragged when you and your friend are gone.

  “No, my fault,” he said, stepping back with his hands raised. “I didn’t expect you to turn round so fast.” He laughed, the kind that showed he felt uncomfortable, that by him touching me he thought he’d maybe overstepped the mark. “Um, we’ve finished plastering now. It’ll be ready to paint tomorrow like we promised.”

  I studied him quickly, noting his flushed cheeks, plaster-spattered brown hair, hazel eyes that darted warily from side to side as if he expected Jacob to come tearing along any second and punch his lights out. I felt sorry for him—it had been entirely my fault—and I shook my head, laughing.

  “No, no. My fault. I got distracted up there.” I pointed to the hatch with my free hand, and the book slid within my grip. Please, do not let me drop it. “I’ll just go and get your coffee on now.”

  “Yep. Thanks. We’re ready for that, all this hard work.”

  He smiled, but not the lecherous kind that would’ve told me he knew damn well why we’d had our room soundproofed. I wondered if my excuse of using it as a bedroom-stroke-music studio had been believed.

  “Right. Okay. Two coffees, both with two sugars and a splash of milk coming right up.”

  I nipped past him and hared down the stairs, the book by my side closest to the wall so he couldn’t see what I was holding. As I rounded the bottom newel post and swung myself around in the direction of the kitchen, I imagined that if he saw the book and thought of the soundproofing, he’d think me and Jacob were a raging pair of pervs.

  Did I care?

  The wonderful feeling sweeping through me told me that, no, I didn’t bloody well care, and brought on a surge of laughter. Once in the kitchen, I let it free, leaning over onto the counter until tears ran and my stomach muscles ached. God, it was so good to feel this way—seeing then reading the book again hadn’t made me feel tainted and wrong.

  I was finally me, Karen, a liberated woman, no shackles with regards to my sex life. With the room complete and a door lock in place, we wouldn’t have to go away for time alone. It was getting old having people wink at us when we told them we were off, nudging our ribs and saying ‘dirty weekend’ far too often and with sickening glee. We wouldn’t have to have people knowing we were having sex, didn’t have to explain why we needed time alone—we could just do it, no explanations. Yes, our bedroom revamp had cost a pretty penny, but the money we’d save on hotel rooms would make up for it eventually.

  And why was I even trying to justify it anyway? It was our life, our money to do with as we pleased.

  I stood upright, wiped my eyes and sniffed. Re-boiled the kettle and went about making instant coffee. The workmen came down, thanked me as I handed over their cups, and went out into the garden to drink. I stared at them through the window. Bright sunlight shone on their hair, and they rocked on the balls of their feet, scrubbed their chins, and probably discussed their next job. I wondered if they’d tell their wives about the couple who’d had their bedroom soundproofed because they wanted to try their hand at singing. The workman’s wife, she’d know that was a lie, and maybe it would make her think. I hoped it would, if she was even told about our soundproof bedroom. Perhaps it would help them revitalise their relationship. If they ended up feeling like we did, it could only be a good thing, couldn’t it?

  * * * *

  Another evening, another round of bedtime rituals. Baths, stories, little girls tucked beneath quilts. I took a quick shower, knowing that by the time I emerged, Tess and Lucy would be fast asleep. They’d been on a school trip today, to a working farm where they’d got to feed the animals and help muck out the pigs. They’d stunk to high heaven when they’d returned home, their boots relegated to the patio so they didn’t fill the house with their stench. I’d give them a good scrub tomorrow, but for now I wanted to spend time with Jacob and try out our new bedroom.

  As I dried myself, I thought about how lovely it was going to be, screaming if I wanted to or letting the bed creak; the headboard smack against the wall. The fear of being heard would be a distant memory, and we could love one another as we’d been doing lately, in the comfort of our own bed.

  Or on the floor. Against the wall…

  I slipped on my black négligée, the one Jacob liked to watch me wearing. With a spritz of perfume in all the right places, I made my way downstairs, stopping in the living room doorway and striking a seductive pose. Jacob sat on the sofa, thumbing the remote, and took his gaze from the TV immediately.

  “Ah, you’re on a mission, I see.” He smiled, dropping the remote beside him, and beckoning for me to join him. “Come here.”

  I walked across the room towards him, feeling all kinds of sexy and adored, and knelt on the floor to pull out that filthy book from beneath the sofa where I’d placed it after the workmen had left. I sat beside him, flung one leg over his, and snuggled close.

  “You st
ill want to read this with me?” I asked, glancing up to look at his face.

  He eyed the cover for a second then met my eyes, and there was that glint there, sparkling and full of promise. “Yep.”

  “There’s one thing in here that I think you will like particularly. I read it in the attic earlier, but didn’t get to the part I wanted.”

  “Oh, right. Get on with it then.”

  I fluttered through the pages, struggling to remember where the fantasy I wanted to show Jacob was, but eventually stopped the flow of paper around the three-quarter mark. One corner had been dutifully turned down at chapter eleven. I held the book between us and we both read, me impatient to turn to the next page because I read faster than him.

  And there it was, three pages in, one of the things we had yet to try. It was about something Jacob had done before he’d met me—watching porn. Except this fantasy… God, this fantasy encouraged the couple to act out the porn they watched. Move for move. Stroke for stroke. Thrust for thrust.

  I looked at him again, into eyes that sparkled brightly. His cheeks had flushed from what he was reading and his cock, beneath his jeans, nudged my wrist—his hard and wanting cock.

  “You fancy trying this?” I asked casually, knowing he would, needing a quick answer because I couldn’t wait to get up there into our room. “With our DVD from Amsterdam or the new movie I bought over the internet the other day?”

  “A new movie? Jesus, Karen, you just keep on surprising me.” He eyed me, head tilting. “You watched it already?”

  “No. I thought we could watch it together. Do what this book says. I read the back of the DVD, and it’s about some guy who uses a hammer to… We never did get to use the handle of the one we bought when we stayed in the hotel that time.”