The library. Not the general library, where the fiction is and the dvds are. This one is the special local studies library. Ssshhhh. It is very quiet in here. It’s inhabited by serious people, quiet people. You might call them anoraks: they’re interested in family history and the origin of a particular kind of lily that’s common in these parts – that sort of thing.

I’m in here quite often. I’m a local journalist and this place is a goldmine of old facts. The internet hasn’t caught up with it yet. It’s full of old newspapers and books that you’re amazed ever got published, so obscure and specialized are the subjects.

Today I’m on a mission to find out about sport in the 1910s, specifically a young man who did great things in athletics in his teens, then joined the British army and was promptly rubbed out by the Germans.

The staff in here are an odd bunch. The head honcho is sixty-something, a hawkish woman who must be an ex-schoolteacher. She’s got that old-fashioned authoritarian way about her. Her two lieutenants are a nervous, irritable, skinny woman of about 40 and a fat, grey, gruff woman who is the boss’s friend. Nora, she’s called. She scowls at me when I come in, not just this time but always. I’m no trouble, I don’t think, but I always need someone to help me and the library has three floors plus an attic.

Today’s request sends Nora’s eyebrow shooting to the ceiling.

“Try the newspapers on the first floor,” she says hopefully.

I creep upstairs (it’s hard not to creep in here; anything bolder and you seem like a hooligan). I spend half an hour immersed in the newspapers and find nothing, but time passes because they’re full of interesting tidbits from times past. Even the adverts: exotic oils that are supposed to cure this and that. You wouldn’t get away with it now, but in those days they could make unsubstantiated claims, no problem.

I tiptoe back downstairs and tell Nora there’s nothing there. She’s probably not as old as she looks, because she’s so overweight and so pasty, starved of sunlight and probably of joy too. She sighs and hopes I won’t pursue it, but I’m under pressure from the Features Editor.

“Nothing else at all?” I ask persuasively. “You’ve got some magazines in the attic.”

“Yes, yes,” Nora says, and as she shakes her head in annoyance, her large breasts tremble like leaves in the wind. She heaves herself onto her overloaded feet and I follow her up the stairs. The public are not allowed in the attic unsupervised, so she has to make the exhausting climb with me and hang around while I search.

It is hot, stuffy and dusty up there, but there’s another sensation in the air today. As Nora closes the door behind us it has the feeling of a sexual opportunity. Suddenly I see her as the girl inside the poor old body. At some time, maybe not so long ago, she may have been sexually active, but through circumstances, that door was shut and she allowed herself to go to seed. Today, if it is not purely my imagination, the door has creaked ajar and she is remembering what it used to be like.

“Walter Willis,” she says. “You look for him in that lot and I’ll look over here.”

After five minutes she says, “No luck?” and comes over to stand next to me. Her large right breast rests against my elbow. Women have a way of doing this and it’s usually deliberate, but Nora? I await further evidence. She turns away from me and bends to pick up a box from the floor. As she does so her arse touches my knee, but she doesn’t flinch. She stands up, turns towards me and smiles for the first time I’ve ever seen her.

“Here,” she says. “This looks more like it.”

We go through the box together and eventually I find a mention of old Walter.

“Yay,” Nora says, and touches me on the wrist. “Didn’t I see you at the castle last week at the Bach concert?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I wrote about it for the arts page but they didn’t use it because there wasn’t room.” Nora touches my arm and leaves her hand there.

“That must be frustrating,” she says.

“Yes, can’t be helped. Probably be in this week,” I say, smiling at her. There is now an unmistakable electricity in the air.

“You into classical?” she asks.

“Some” I say. “I play a bit, well I used to, haven’t got a piano now. You can’t in a small flat.”

“I’ve got one,” Nora says. “What do you play?”

“I like Erik Satie,” I reply.

“Oh god,’ says Nora. “I love the Gymnopedies.” That’s Satie’s most famous piece; you’d know it if you heard it.

“Why don’t you come and use my piano some time,” Nora says, squeezing my arm. She obviously sees me as a kindred spirit or something. “Tonight if you like. I live up the road, number 23.”

To be honest, it felt a bit weird going to Nora’s house. If she had been someone else, less burly, less fierce, I would have been looking forward to a bit of music followed by a bit of playing her body. But I was pretty sure I was barking up the wrong tree.

She was wearing a red dress. Crimson. Very nice. Very slimming. And she smelled of Chanel Number 5. She poured us a glass of Chablis each and showed me briefly around the house. Quite a big place. Victorian. The piano was in a sort of sitting room at the back.

Nora sat on the stool and gave me the start of Grieg’s Piano Concerto, then stopped.

“No,” she said. “Never was very good. My husband used to like me to play and said nice things, but… you know. You play. The Gymnopedies.”

I played rather nervously but relaxed when I saw she was genuinely enjoying it. When I had finished she refilled our glasses and sat beside me on the stool, her war, soft, fragrant flesh squashed against me.

“Sexiest thing in the world,” she said. “A man with artistic hands.”

She took my right hand in hers and kissed my fingers, then looked up at me slyly, begging me to kiss her. I still thought it was wrong, but I leaned down and kissed her. She responded not like Nora the librarian but like young Nora the sexual being. She was all over me. She was out of that dress in a flash, revealing a matching flesh coloured bra and pants. She seemed unabashed, even when completely naked, and confident this was going where she wanted it to go. She was 20 years older than me and very out of shape, but I could tell she was confident the old sexual charm was there.

Nora quickly unbuttoned my shirt and unzipped my trousers, and soon I was naked too. She had a chaise longue rather than a settee, and she sat on it, pulling me along with her. We kissed overanxiously, clumsily, and she pulled me on top of her. Her tongue was up and down my neck, in my ear, on my temples. Her hand was gripping my cock and her thighs were parted to allow my hand in. I fingered her roughly, which seemed to be what she wanted, perhaps expected.

Nora pulled me right on top and spread her legs wide. She was sucking my tongue as I thrust my cock into her. I felt her huge breasts and sucked her unloved nipples. I kissed her neck and she shuddered. I fucked her hard and she pressed back. She gripped me by the buttocks and I did the same to her. It was as if we were trying to squash each other. My hands were in her cleft and I squeezed my middle finger into her anus.

“Oooh yes,” she said. “More of that later. Come inside me.”

I didn’t need any further encouragement. Nora was like an animal. Years of frustration were flying from her, from her pores, her excited tongue, her fast-leaking vagina. I gripped her hard as I came and she held me tight and had a furious, cathartic orgasm.

We cleaned up in the bathroom together and then she wrapped her arms around me.

“The old cow’s not so bad, is she?” she said.

“You’re great,” I said, stroking her back. “I want to do lots of things with you.”

“Such as?” she asked teasingly. “Tell me in detail.”

“Lick you,” I said.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Everywhere?

“If there is a part of you you don’t want me to lick, you’d better tell me now,” I said.

“Do you want me to suck your dick?” she asked quietly.

“Fuck yes,” I said. “Suck my dick, sit on my face, piss in my lap.”

Nora slapped my bottom playfully. “Kinky,” she said. “I like a naughty boy.”