Just His Type

Just His Type

Subscribe to Penthouse Magazine Print Edition
Subscribe to Penthouse Magazine Digital Edition

A rare book dealer teaches one of her customers about the erotic power of the written word.

Weirdly squeamish was how I felt when I went into the store and requested the dirty book. That was ridiculous, of course. The establishment was run by a respectable dealer in rare editions. I was there to pick up a volume of adult literature that my employer, a corporate exec, had been trying to locate for years.

But I was as nervous as a youngster buying his first smutty magazine.

It didn’t help that the woman who ran the store was conspicuously attractive. She had hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes that smoldered. Her face was sculptural, with high, elegant cheekbones and elfin features that somehow managed not to appear delicate. She wore a loose button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and snug jeans which, when she turned, gave me a view of her rather shapely backside.

She moved easily through the cramped store, where shelves nearly groaned with ancient books. A pleasant scent of aging paper filled the air. She brought a package to the counter and started opening it.

“I had a colleague in London send me this,” she said.

“My employer authorized me to pay any additional shipping fees incurred.”

Her eyebrows rose, and amusement quirked a corner of her enticing lips.

“That’s generous of him, considering what the item already costs. Have a look at this beauty.” She finished opening the box. Inside was a large, leather-bound book, obviously quite old. On the cover was a faded illustration of two naked people entwined.

I squirmed some more and held out my corporate credit card.

“That’ll be fine,” I said hastily.

The amused look stayed on her face as she ran the card. “Do you not like this sort of thing?” she asked quietly.

“My boss has quite an interest. I’m just here as his personal secretary.”

I heard how stiff my words sounded. Under any other circumstances I would have tried to at least make small talk.

“Adult literature has a long, rich tradition. Some of the greatest writers in history have had a hand in it. Have you never read any books like that?”

Before I could answer she bent down and rummaged under the counter for a moment, then came up with an old paperback. On the cover was a nude woman. She handed it directly to me.

“This is for you, free. It’s not worth anything, but it’ll give you an idea of how evocative this kind of writing can be.” She smiled. “By the way, my name’s Jenny.”

I think I actually blushed as I told her my name was Wes. Stammering thanks, I took the items and left the shop. But Jenny’s comely image stayed burned into my mind. I kicked myself again for not chatting her up. I would have liked to see her again.

When I handed over the volume to my grateful employer, it occurred to me that this well-off man, with a nice family, didn’t seem like a stereotypical perv. Yet he was plainly delighted with his new book, which he’d told me in advance was explicitly erotic. It was so salacious, in fact, that it was originally banned, existing only as an underground text. This book was one of those clandestine editions.

That evening, back at my apartment, I considered the paperback Jenny had given me. I told myself that I liked porn as much as the next person, but I was used to photographs and videos — not that I overindulged my taste for either. But erotic literature was something unfamiliar.

Feeling like I was doing something naughty, I poured a drink and opened the paperback.

Within a few pages I knew this wasn’t some cheap piece of knock-off writing. It had been written in the 1800s, and was full of baroque language. Some of the phrases were quite beautiful: “autumn leaves like molten gold caught by the black fingers of oaken branches” and “crisp air abrading the cheek as of a stranger’s stolen stubbled kiss.”

Then the hot stuff started. The main character was a high society woman with an apparently highly active libido. In the first chapter she made her first conquest, seducing a kitchen lad. The sex was amazingly candid, though I had to puzzle over a few terms. She cornered him and sucked him off, swallowing his seed. Then she pulled aside her complex underclothes and had him lick her “quim.”

My cock stirred as I devoured more of the words, really getting into the story. It suddenly occurred to me that the book’s heroine, as described, rather resembled Jenny, with her dark hair and bewitching eyes. After that, I couldn’t help but visualize the woman from the bookstore as the one going through these many and varied sexual adventures.

I felt a little guilty about that, but as I tore through page after page late into the night, I got more and more excited. My cock was throbbingly hard. Unable to stop myself, I undid my fly and started tugging on my meat.

At first it was just a playful kind of toying. But as I reached the final chapter, where the fur was definitely flying, I jerked myself more deliberately. Jenny’s face — and what I imagined her body looked like — kept intruding on my thoughts.

I pored over the last fevered words, and with a cry I shot my load. Another twinge of guilt hit me. But on the last page of the paperback a surprise waited for me. Jenny had written her name and phone number, with a simple message: CALL.

I did call — the very next day, and we set up a date. Dinner at a decent restaurant. I put on some nice duds and went to meet her that evening.

Join To