I locked the library door and turned off all but the security lights. The rest of the library’s staff had gone home and the library itself would be closed until Monday. That left me alone with the building all to myself. No one would even know I was there.

Returning to my office, I retrieved the key to the rare books room in the library basement. One of the privileges of being the Public Services Librarian was control of that key. Really, there wasn’t much of extreme value in there but someone apparently thought some degree of security was needed.

I descended the stairs in semi-darkness, counting on my intimate knowledge of them to avoid stumbles. At the bottom, I switched on the basement lights. There were no windows down there so there was minimal risk of the light being seen from outside. Tense with excitement and anticipation, I unlocked the door to the rare books room. Once inside, I quickly switched on the lights and shut the door behind me. Feeling more relaxed and secure, I walked straight over to the cabinet holding the Turcotte collection.

The papers of notoriously decadent poet and artist Paul Turcotte had come into the library’s possession a few years earlier. Turcotte had been openly and flamboyantly gay in an age when fewer gay men were “out” and his work reflected that. He was infamous for his hedonism, enjoying endless parties and a string of lovers, mostly young men. Rumours abounded of orgies and other wild sexual activities. Even darker ones spoke of ritual sex and consorting with strange, perhaps supernatural, creatures. Those rumours were less credible, at least to me, for obvious reasons.

The artist had gone missing in 1990 and had never been found. Family had eventually come out of the woodwork and managed to get him declared dead on various bits of evidence. Once they realized there wasn’t much money to be made, they had sold what they could and then donated the rest to the library.

Almost shaking with excitement, I unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the book I sought. It was a large, dark brown, leather-bound volume with no title on it, just some Greek letters vaguely scratched into the leather. This was not the first time I had delved into the collection, but it was the first time I had looked at this particular book. From hints and accounts in Turcotte’s journals and the reports on his disappearance, this strange book should be the manuscript of his unpublished final work. It was possible that no one but me had seen what was inside since Turcotte himself.

The other manuscripts and sketchbooks from the collection that I had perused were filled with erotic poetry and drawings of his lovers, some of them very explicit. One of my favorites was a drawing of two young men, maybe in their twenties, making love. Turcotte had perfectly captured their moment of ecstasy and used it to illustrate an erotic poem on the joys of anal sex. His work was far better and more arousing than any porn I had consumed.

Taking the book over to the desk provided for researchers in the collection, I put it down and opened it. The Book of Pyrogismos was the title, written on the first page in Turcotte’s usual ornate calligraphy. Who was Pyrogismos? It sounded Greek but I had studied a bit of ancient Greek in university and this name didn’t seem quite right. I eagerly flipped the page, expecting to find out about some previously unknown lover of the artist.

The first page of the book was a lengthy bit of poetry, claimed in a note to be a translation from an ancient Greek original. I suspected that was just a conceit on the part of the poet. It described, graphically and at length, a wild gay orgy in the woods involving human men, satyrs, and centaurs. The name Pyrogismos came up several times. I began to get aroused as I read the poem and my mind filled with images of the woodland orgy.

Turning the page, I found myself face to face with one of the most attractive men I had ever seen. He was a satyr with a beautifully muscled body. As one might expect of such a being, his legs were hairy and ended in hooves. The satyr’s face was handsome, if a bit bestial, with a neat little goatee adorning his chin and horns erupting from his forehead.

It was another long, pointy appendage that caught most of my attention, though. A large, beautiful erection rose from between his legs with a big scrotum hanging below. I immediately wished that lovely cock was real; that I could touch and taste it, or even feel it in my ass.

Along the side of the page, a poem sang the praises of satyrs and sex. As I read it, I noted again the name Pyrogismos. Was that the name of the satyr portrayed in the drawing? The poem seemed to imply that there had been intimate relations between the poet and the satyr. Was the satyr’s look based on one of Turcotte’s lovers?

On the following page, I found an image of the same satyr engaged in a very erotic kiss with a young man. At the bottom was a nice sonnet on the beauty of a kiss. My hand strayed to fondle the swelling in my slacks as I savoured the sweet scene of the two men kissing.

It had been too many years since the last time I enjoyed the erotic company of my own sex, a desire I had indulged frequently in my twenties. I had married a woman in the end, who I did love in my way and to whom I had managed to remain faithful for a decade. However, those old desires still simmered beneath the surface.

After examining the picture more closely, I realized that the human male in the drawing was a young Paul Turcotte. I had only ever seen pictures of the artist in middle age just before his disappearance, never in his youth. Even so, from the facial features, I could recognize that this was Paul Turcotte, perhaps in his late teens or twenties. Like the satyr, he was naked and sported an erection. The artist’s cock was not as big as that of his lover, but it was beautifully shaped and proportioned for his body.

Becoming more eager and aroused, I went on to the next page. There was another picture of the satyr, this time with his eyes closed and mouth open in ecstasy. The reason for the ecstasy was obvious. Paul Turcotte was going down on him. There was no poem on this page, unless you can call a chaotic paragraph of unabashedly sexual prose about the joys of fellatio a poem.

“Oh God, this is all so beautiful,” I said aloud.

Undoing my fly, I pulled my cock free. It was almost fully erect, aroused by the scenes I had been perusing and the fantasies they provoked in me. There is nothing like a good book to inflame the erotic imagination and Turcotte’s last book was doing the job extremely well. As I turned the page again with my right hand, my left was wrapped around my stiff prick, slowly rubbing it.

The next page was one of the most stunningly perfect drawings I had ever seen. It was a close-up of the satyr’s cock. The detail was almost photographic with every fold of skin and blemish visible. Below hung the copious bag of flesh that was the man’s scrotum. A short, rather vulgar, ditty about male genitalia adorned one corner of the page.

I licked my lips. The thought of getting close to such a cock, close enough to touch and suck it, excited me.

Then, as I savoured the picture and played with myself, I became aware that the cock before me actually seemed to be rising up from the page. At first, I thought it might be a trick of the light, some special technique of the artist. But I quickly realized that there really was now a long, thick, uncut cock rising from the page.

“Suck me,” said a husky, heavily accented voice.

I stared for a moment, wondering if this was all some trick or dream.

“By Zeus, don’t just stand there,” the voice said more insistently, “Suck my cock!”

It was like my fantasies were becoming real. I stared at the cock for a moment, then gave in to the lust I had been feeling for it. Bending over, I took the cock in one hand and pulled back the foreskin. I tentatively put my lips around the swollen head and gingerly sucked a bit while teasing it with my tongue. A strong, animal taste of sweat and flesh filled my mouth.

“Oh yes, that’s it. Take me in. Suck me more,” the voice groaned.

By that point, I did not really need more encouragement. I eagerly took the cock in deeper, sucking all the way. The erection was too big for me to take in all the way without gagging, but I still managed to get the head back to my throat. As I worked on the big cock, my left hand was working vigorously on my own.

“By Hercules, that feels good!” the voice roared, “You are master of fellatio, a cock-sucker to end all cock-suckers!”

Pleased that I was pleasing the… Who was I pleasing, anyway? The book? Paul Turcotte? The satyr to whom the cock apparently belonged? Not that it mattered to me at that point. Just knowing that someone or something connected to the cock in my mouth was enjoying my fellatio was enough to arouse me to new heights.

A loud groan echoed through the whole room and the cock began throbbing between my lips. Before I could think to do anything, a massive wave of semen flooded my mouth and throat. Swallowing desperately, trying not to gag, I kept sucking, drawing out more and more of the man’s cum. The taste was heavenly; nutty and salty and sweet all at once. No cum I had tasted before was as delicious or as thick and creamy.

When the stream of cum stopped, I stood up straight. My own cock, still unsated, stood at attention where it emerged from my fly. No longer was there a book on the desk. There was a man.

The man’s lean, muscular body was covered in fine hair save his legs, which were covered in thick brown curls of what looked like wool. Hooves instead of feet terminated those legs. The face, clearly that of Pyrogismos, smiled at me. The horns were bigger than they had seemed in the pictures; the face both more bestial and more handsome. His cock was still at full mast in spite of having dumped that huge load in my mouth and was wet with a cocktail of my saliva and his cum.

“Are you who I think you are?” I asked, moving back. I was nervous but excited.

“You read the book. You know who I am. I am Pyrogismos. Pyro to my friends and lovers. And you are now one of those lovers. I shall have you.”

“You shall have me, indeed,” I agreed in a distracted, dreamy voice, consumed with lust for the satyr.

As I gazed with fascination at Pyro, I undid my pants. After slipping them and my underwear off, I turned my back to the satyr. I bent over using the chair that had been under the desk for support. My body quivered with anticipation of what was to come.

Firm hands took hold of my ass cheeks and fingers opened my crack. Pyro’s tongue slid along the crack and rimmed my hole. It even penetrated me a little, teasing me with its gentle probing. As he rimmed my ass, the satyr stroked my balls and cock with a hand. The touch was light, almost casual, but helped keep me in the state of erotic excitement that had begun with the first poem.

Then the hands and tongue were gone. Something else pressed against my anus. I knew instinctively that it was the head of the satyr’s cock. While I wanted that cock in me more than anything in life, I also worried about how it would feel when it entered. Would it hurt much? I was willing to handle some pain, though. All that mattered to me in that moment was being fucked by Pyro’s big, beautiful cock.

“Here it comes, my friend. Here it comes,” the satyr intoned, almost chanting, as he entered me.

His thick member stretched my hole to the brink of pain and slid into my ass inch by inch. Slick with saliva and cum, it went in with surprising ease and didn’t seem to need any other lubrication.

“Ah, yes,” I gasped, delighted at the intrusion.

It was uncomfortable at first, but not as bad as I expected. In fact, I quickly got used to the size of the satyr’s cock. It began sliding in and out, the pace and depth of the thrusts increasing. Behind me, the satyr grunted and groaned as he fucked my ass.

“You have a tight ass. A good ass for fucking,” he muttered almost inaudibly, giving my ass cheek a hard slap as he did.

I felt fingers enfolding my own cock. Pyro began vigorously pumping my cock with his hand in time with his thrusts into my ass.

The pressure from the enormous cock in my ass combined with the stroking to send me soaring. An inarticulate howl that I realized was coming from myself filled the room. My body shook and spasmed as my cock poured a load out onto the carpet and my ass clenched around Pyro’s member. That seemed to set Pyro off. The satyr’s cock began pulsing in my rear as he groaned and cried out. For a few moments, I was conscious of nothing but my orgasm and Pyro’s cock.

When the satyr finally pulled out, I slumped to the floor, utterly expended. For a while, I just lay there drifting in and out of consciousness as satyr cum leaked out of my ass. Pyro had vanished but I couldn’t muster the strength to get up and look for him. Eventually, I drifted off to a fitful, dream-haunted sleep.

I awoke early the next morning and picked myself up. My body was stiff and bit achy from sleeping on the floor. It was Sunday, so the library was closed. A couple staff usually came in to clear out the book return bin but that wouldn’t be for a few hours. I figured I was safe from discovery until then.

The book, which had vanished when Pyro appeared, was back. It sat on the desk still open to the drawing of Pyro’s cock. I ran a finger along the shaft but it just felt like paper, not flesh, and didn’t respond. I thought I heard a faint sigh and chuckle. That could have been imagination, though.

After visiting a washroom to clean up, I dressed and picked up the book. I started to carry it over to the cabinet but paused. The collection wasn’t fully catalogued and I wasn’t sure if there was even a record for this book. Grinning, I locked up the case, then took the book up to my office.

Logging into the library system, I found the records for the Turcotte collection. There was a record with no information beyond “brown leather-bound book, no title” in the title field. I marked that item missing, then slipped the book into my briefcase.

My cock was already twitching with anticipation as I rode the bus home.