Love By The Book

By Mary Tales

Contains several explicit scenes. Over 18s only.

Samantha is in her final year as an undergraduate. She wants to do well, get on a Masters degree and then do a PhD, so she doesn't have the time to start a new relationship. She's got a boyfriend in another city, though he's a bit useless, and a vibrator by the bed. She'll be fine.

But then she meets Greg. He's nearly twice her age, but she can't deny she's attracted to him. Then she starts reading his books, and they fuel her fantasies and have her wondering if she should make the time for a change of lover.

After years of struggling, Greg has struck it lucky with his writing. He's earning more than he could have hoped, so it's a terrible time for writer's block to strike. His muse has started the Christmas break early, it would seem. But at least there is beer, mulled wine, and a gorgeous younger woman to take his mind off all that.

Told by both Samantha and Greg, Love By The Book is sweet, funny and very, very hot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Tales
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311970312

Mary Tales

With a surname like Tales, what else could young Mary do. She's a very naughty lady with a vivid imagination, and she wants to share it with you.

Book preview

Love by the Book

Mary Tales

Smashwords edition

Copyright 2014

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to http://www.smashwords.com/ and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover image: Freckles by Ben Tan

http://www.bentanart.com/

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1

I'm late for the editorial meeting, as usual. It's because my Thursday morning lectures are on the North Campus and the meetings are in the Students' Union and start promptly. I'm going to miss out on all the good gig reviews that are dished out at the start of the meeting.

And it's raining and I don't have an umbrella. My coat is waterproof, but it doesn't have a hood, and everything that runs off it is soaking my jeans at the calves. My hair is plastered to my head and neck so I look like I've got a rusty scalp. What a lovely sight I must make.

I run up the steps of the building on Oxford Road and start shaking out of my coat as soon as I'm inside. I lean forward and try to wring out my hair, but it's a hopeless task. I'll just have to look like a drowned weasel and hope no-one comments. I head up the spiral staircase and along the corridor to the office.

The review scrum seems to be breaking up as I squeeze through the door. Martin, the review editor, is trying to hold their attention for one last announcement. Okay, who wants to interview a local author. Greg.... he checks his notes, Greg Robinson. He's standing on a chair in the middle of the room, and, somehow, he manages to look over everyone's heads right at me. Samantha, you made it. Would you like to interview the guy? On Saturday?

It feels like every face in the room has turned toward me. I'd like to say no, but I owe Martin. Last year, I had his job, and he was the volunteer who most often bailed me out on unpopular jobs like this. I give him a smile and a nod, Okay.

Excellent. Well that's that sorted. Now on to the boring news part of the meeting. Martin hops off the chair.

At the far end of the room, in front of the high windows, is the editor, Miranda. Tall and angular, with short cropped hair, I think she's a lesbian, but I've never asked. It's hard to tell whether she's ever annoyed by Martin's jibes, she always looks mildly pissed off at the world in general.

Already, people are sneaking to the door. They've got their free gigs and they're not interested in stuff like the news. I stay until the end of the meeting, it was rude enough arriving late. I've yet to have anything to offer on the proper journalism and article front, but I always listen in anyway.

When the meeting breaks up, Martin comes over to me.Sam, darling, you've just got to get to the meetings earlier. I'd give you the best gigs if you could just get here on time. I'm sure he says that to all the girls. I'm supposed to be sure he says that to all the boys, but I've known him long enough to realise that the flamboyant camp act is mostly a put on. He hands me a few sheets of paper.

What's that?

A little biography on your author. And he sent along a code so you can download his latest book for free and read a bit of it before the interview. You should email him and confirm times and places today. Cross check with Edie so she knows where to go to get photos. She's only free for, like, half an hour, there's a demo she has to be at Saturday afternoon. Do you want a dicta-phone?

I've got that app on my phone.

Cool. Now, go and get yourself a hot chocolate or something, you look like you need to warm up.

2

The Friday night crowd has been whittled away over time to the single and the childless, with occasional visits from couples who've arranged a baby sitter. Our waists have spread and some of our anecdotes are getting dated, but we're a happy band of regulars.

Since one of my e-books jumped up the sales rankings and made me more money in one month than I'd earned from my job in the previous two years, I've been paying back all the rounds people let me in on when I was poor. Earlier on, Mark had magnanimously announced that we were even now and got the next round in. Until you make your first million, of course, then the drinks are always on you. he declared.

The first million's a long way off unless I can come up with a good idea for my next book. I've started six, but none of them want to be finished. I was exaggerating. One of the ideas was being beaten into a novella, but it was true that the others were just going nowhere.

You just need inspiration. Go and do something interesting you can spin a story out of. Louise suggested.

You've got this interview tomorrow. Mark reminded me, How about you seduce the girl they send to interview you. That should be interesting.

And then we can enter into a contractually binding abusive relationship? I think that one's been done. And I don't like nipple clamps.

We're talking about porn aren't we? Paul slid into our conversation, having found the one to his right involved shoes.

My husband is trying to convince Greg that he should go and ravish a student journalist for inspiration. Louise told him.

That's sound advice. Would it inspire you to write more porn? I think you should do another one of those dirty Dan Dare stories.

I.... It's disconcerting when your friends tell you they've read erotica you wrote.

Oh yes, I like those. Louise said. I loved the bit where the whole of the Mekon's head was an erogenous zone, so Danielle D'Ayr stripped off and oiled herself up and squirmed all over it. I laughed so hard I squirted milk out of my nose. Having bits of your erotica recounted to you by your friends is even more disconcerting.

I thought I'd have to send my Kindle back and have it replaced, there was so much milk on it. Mark added. More sex, less comedy in the next one.

Yeah, I'd like to do another Dani D'Ayr story. I can't think what it would be about, though.

So what was that about shagging a student? Paul asked.

I'm not shagging any students.

Greg’s getting interviewed tomorrow for the university paper by a girl student. Mark thinks he should try to seduce her. For inspiration. Louise said.

Oh, right.

A girl that age isn't going to sleep with a guy my age unless he's got a yacht. I claimed.

You could buy a yacht now you're rich. Mark told me.

I could buy a dinghy, maybe. I wouldn't have a yacht if I could. I get seasick.

He'll have to lose the beard if he wants to sleep with teenagers. Paul told Louise.

What's wrong with my beard? I like my beard. I ran fingers through my beard, the product of several months of being too lazy to shave.

You look like some hipster's dad. Paul said.

I thought he looked like a tramp. Mark countered, But he does own a fixie.

It's not a fixie, it's a single speed. Fixies are fucking dangerous.

What's a fixie? Louise asked.

A fixed wheel bicycle. Paul told her, It's got one speed and no free-wheel. And usually no brakes.

Oh, right. Is his fixie going to impress the young reporter girl?

It's not a fixie. And I'm not a hipster.

But you do want to sleep with this student reporter. Mark suggested.

I don't know, I've not met her yet.

So you have thought about sleeping with her.

Part of me is still seventeen, and always thinking about getting laid. But I'm not going to try to sleep with the student reporter girl. If nothing else, her name is Samantha.

Paul was confused. You were bitten by a rabid Samantha when you were a child?

My niece's middle name is Samantha. It would be.... weird.

Louise laughed loudly. My dad's name is Mark. It's not weird. Her brows lowered and her lips pursed as she considered her own statement. Is it weird?

If she starts screaming the next time we're having sex, I'm hunting you down and beating you. Mark said.

Maybe I should get the next round in. I offered.

* * *

It's Friday night. So I'm spending it staying in with some wine and Yvette. She's been stood up, but she doesn't seem too put out about it. At least, not now we've nearly finished the first bottle.

I guess she wasn't serious. Yvette says, finally bringing the subject around to her missing date. I really thought she was into the idea.

Yvette's been on four first dates so far this semester- three guys, one girl. None of them has come to anything. Maybe some girls really only are bi when they're drunk. I suggest.

Aah, but she had such lovely long legs and dark hair. And perfect little tits. Yvette is short and blonde and gorgeous, and has awesome C- verging on D- cups. Her perfect woman is almost exactly her opposite.

You like little breasts? I lay an arm across my less than ample chest, pretending to suddenly be all coy.

Exactly like your lovely little nubs. Not that I've ever seen them in the, erm flesh. Aware that this could veer into the uncomfortable very quickly, Yvette adds, But you've got a boyfriend, so I would never come on to you.

I guess I've got a boyfriend.

You guess? What's wrong?

Oh, it's just that we've hardly talked in weeks. We hardly even text.

Yvette pours me the last of the wine. Oh baby. Long distance relationships are really tricky. Or so I'm told. I can't even start a short distance one. Do you not talk on Facebook? You must be both on at the same time sometimes.

Carl doesn't have a Facebook account. He closed his down.

What sort of person isn't on Facebook?

He said he didn't want Zoidberg having all his personal information.

Zucker.

A little paranoid, I guess.

No, Zucker. Zuckerberg's the Facebook guy.

What did I say? I shake my head, to see if that clears it. The wine sneaked up on me there.

Zoidberg.

Who's Zoidberg?

I think he's from that cartoon with the spaceships and the Simpsons. Anyway, where were we? Is he still coming up next weekend?

The weekend after next. I don't know what we're going to do. Do you know what he did when I went down to see him in London?

Not what you wanted?

It was my birthday. Well, two days after my birthday. I was looking forward to romantic shit. A bit of wining and dining, that sort of thing.

And....?

On the Saturday morning he told me he had an important meeting with his.... I can't remember what group. He gave me his Oyster card and told me to go and have a look around the city. I celebrated my birthday riding around the Underground and visiting tourist traps on my own. And then when we had got into bed he'd been useless. A few thrusts and a spurt and that was it. But I don't want to tell Yvette that bit, I'm not quite drunk enough yet.

Oh baby.

I had thought about dumping him, but he'd been all apologetic in his phone calls the next week. Then the calls became less often and became texts and now I wasn't so sure. We'll sort it out when he comes up in a fortnight, I tell myself.

But I don't want to think about that right now. My mind backtracks to something I wanted to ask Yvette earlier. Have you ever had a relationship with a woman, Eve?

As many as I've had with men.

How many's that?

Yvette holds up her index finger, and looks a little embarrassed to admit it. I'm surprised. She may be nearly three years younger than me, but she's so.... precocious, so sure of herself. I was certain she'd have had more sex than me. Both at sixth form. she says. In fact, I left her for him. And then he turned out to be a dick. I found out later that he'd boasted to his friends that he'd converted me from being a dyke. Prick. And she hasn't talked to me since.

I reach across and gently stroke Yvette's arm. She tuts. That's why I'm vetting them all- men and women- more carefully now.

Do you think you'll pick a boy or a girl? Which do you prefer?

I don't know. I'll love who I love, and I'll know them when I meet them. What about you?

I've got a boyfriend.

You guess.

I've got a boyfriend. If I didn't.... I've never thought about it.

We're quiet for a while. I finish my wine. Yvette's pulled her legs up and put her lovely face on her knees. She has a little smile and a faraway expression. If.... I tell her, If I ever feel a bit bisexual when I'm sober, you'll be the first to know.

The smile becomes a big grin. I should hope so.

Anyway, I have to get up early-ish tomorrow. I've got that interview in the morning. So I should go to bed. I stand, less steady than I'd expected.

Oh yes, your interview with the guy who writes porn. Yvette grins.

He.... I don't think he writes porn.

You said he's an e-book writer, didn't you. I read an article.... somewhere, that said that all the most successful e-book writers make their money from writing porn.

I lean against the wall to think about this. I'll ask him if he writes porn. But I've read some of his latest book, and it's not porn.

Oh, that's a shame. I won't ask to borrow it then.

That makes me giggle. I stop at the door. Eve. When she turns her head, I grab the hem of my T-shirt and raise it, knowing I'm not wearing a bra. In the flesh.

The grin gets a bit bigger. Perfect, you naughty girl. Now I need to go to my room as well. For a little....

You keep looking for miss or mister Right. You deserve the best. With that cheesy assurance, I head to my room.

3

I had a hangover, which was a suitably decadent state for an author to be in for an interview, I guess. I was functional and coherent, but fuzzy enough at the edges to be glad that I'd arranged to meet in the local. The Weavers is only three doors down from my building, which is far too convenient sometimes.

I ordered a virgin Mojito, a pint of water and a black coffee. Would you like some paracetamol with that? Rob asked with a smile.

No, I think I deserve to suffer.

Ice and lemon with the water? Rob asked.

Please.

I'll bring the coffee and cocktail over. Rob said as he handed over the water.

Thanks.

I took a seat in one of the booths by the windows, settling back into the cushioning. With half a pint of water in me I began to feel human again. I took out my phone and opened the text editor app. I do about half my writing on it nowadays, it's more convenient than carrying a laptop around. I'd managed a sentence by the time Carl brought over the coffee and alcohol free cocktail.

I really was having a hard time producing new work, which was frightening now that writing was my livelihood. All the stuff I'd already published still sold quite well, but sales levels drop off with time and the best sort of promotion is more material. Hopefully my muse had just started its Christmas holiday a few weeks early and would come back to me in the New Year.

My interviewer arrived just as I finished my coffee. I spotted her as she shrugged out of a big, heavy winter coat. It was her red hair that caught my attention, a shade somewhere between copper and rust, hanging in thick twists down past her shoulders. I've an unrequited attraction to red heads, so I wanted her to be the interviewer more than recognised that she must be. She was about my height- in flat shoes, too- and slim, with a pale, pretty face. Behind her was a taller, skinnier girl with cropped black hair and a square face, sporting rings through her upper lip, left nostril and both ears. They spotted me and headed over.

I slipped out of the booth and stood up as the two girls approached. Greg Robinson? the red head asked.

That's me.

I'm Samantha. She held out a hand and I shook it. This is Edie. Edie wasn't forthcoming with the handshake, but she nodded a greeting.

Would you mind doing some photographs before we start? Samantha asked.

In here?

It is his natural environment, after all. Rob said, having sneaked up to put a menu on the table. Acting as straight man to the landlord, a great start to the interview.

Maybe outside. I suggested. I think I know a good place. Oh, before we go, as Rob's here, would you like drinks when we get back?

"I have to go