(Authors disclaimer: Art pictured is not my own, credit goes to the artist (Possibly Triuni). All characters are at least 18 years old and/or considered sexually mature for their species.)

The bell above me jingles as I push open the front door and enter the bookshop. Discovering the bookshop by chance during my wanderings, I had immediately made a beeline for it. At somewhat of a loose end after finishing my visit to the cemetery and with a couple of hours to kill until my Aunt arrived to pick me up, I explored my old hometown, pangs of nostalgia hitting me as I took in the familiar sights of the town where my parents and I used to live. A little while spent wandering had led me into the quieter backstreets, which is where I had stumbled across the bookshop.

Examining the shop's interior, I see row upon row of bookshelves take up much of the floor space. Rather than leaving the room cramped, the close conditions as well as the low lighting and the smell of paper and leather lend the room a cosy feel. A small desk sits just before the first stack of shelving facing the entrance. The desk is currently empty, but a steaming mug on a coaster of what I assume to be tea suggests that whoever is running the shop is close by.

Shrugging, I move deeper into the room, keen to find something new and interesting to read. Some of my favourite books had come from stores such as this, tales filled to the brim with romance and adventure. I spend some time wandering through the stacks, reaching out to examine a book or two that catches my eye along the way before returning them to the shelf. One such book causes a small smile to tug at the corner of my lips from bittersweet, nostalgic memories.

Back when my life had drastically changed, the book had helped get me through some pretty dark times. After the disappearance of my parents 8 years ago, my Aunt had taken me in and looked after me. As my Aunt lived on the other side of the country, this had meant leaving my familiar friends, school, and life behind. Thrust into a new school with its own set of cliques to navigate, it had been the school’s library where I had found solace.

It had been a dreary February day; the rain pelting the windows of the hidden reading nook as I broke down and silently wept. A group of girls in my year had cornered me in one of the school’s quieter corridors. They had mocked me for the absence of my parents, claiming they had abandoned me and other such cruel, childish things until they had grown bored with the game and let me go. The school librarian, an elderly man with a kindly smile, had discovered me. Rather that reprimand me for skipping class he had silently left, returning 5 minutes later with a copy of his favourite book and a promise that I could use the space whenever I needed it.

I had spent longer than I cared to admit there, always buried in one book or another. My teachers had tried to complain about my absence from class, but I was a smart kid and a quick learner, so my grades hadn’t suffered, and they eventually backed off. I had learned later that my Aunt had stormed into the head-teacher’s office and had given him a chewing out of legendary proportions after she had discovered the bullying taking place. After school finished, I had continued living with my Aunt, fully intent on finding my own way in the world. Sadly, with the economy currently in shambles, there is little in the way of meaningful paying work to be found.

Turning a corner at the end of the stack, I discover a little alcove, on which a single book sits on a small pedestal. Curious, I approach. Movement catches my eye, and it takes me a moment to realise that the back of the alcove contains a small mirror.

I study my own reflection as I walk closer. My green eyes stare back at me, my shoulder length black hair kept out of the way and neatly secured in a ponytail.

My short sleeve white blouse, tucked into a pair of tight-fitting blue denim jeans, is mostly fastened, only the top couple of buttons undone, displaying a little cleavage. Smiling slightly, I examine my figure and the results of the exercise regime my Aunt and I had started after I had left school. My stomach is flat and toned under the shirt, the baby fat that I had carried all throughout my childhood now long gone. Under my jeans my thighs are well defined and athletic, but I am most proud of my ass. More than one of my exes, both male and female, have told me it was their favourite part of my body.

I reach the alcove, my attention leaving the mirror and resting on the book. It’s a fairly thick tome bound in leather dyed a deep red. Embossed on the front cover is the title, “Grimoire of the Lust Mage.” Intrigued, I pick up the book and give it a closer look. The lack of a blurb on the back only stands to increase my curiosity. This isn’t my first rodeo with smutty literature, and the idea of a sex wizard tickles me, so with a small smile I open up to the first page.

I am slightly disappointed when the only thing written on the first page is a nonsense phrase scribbled in scarlet letters. My disappointment only grows when I flick through the rest of the book. From cover to cover, every other page is blank. My disappointment now tinged with irritation; I thumb my way back to the first page with the scarlet writing. The letters are English, but the words themselves are from a language I don’t recognise.

I read through the words twice, sounding them out in my mind. A small shop in the middle of nowhere with an unknown phrase written in a mysterious book? I think to myself with a self deprecating smile, I know where this is going, alternate fantasy world, here I come! I chuckle at your own joke, shrug, then read the phrase aloud.

For a few moments, nothing happens. I am about to laugh at my own foolishness when my entire body erupts in the worse pain I have ever experienced. I try to scream, the feeling of thousands of tiny hooks sinking into my flesh, all pulling in different directions washing through me, but no sound comes out. The sensation builds and builds, a few brief moments stretching on and on in roiling fire. The sensation reaches a crescendo, then I am falling, blackness reaching up to claim me.