She is in glasses. She has a skirt on, that reaches just above her knees.
Her hair is in a bun. She looks at you over her glasses, and glares. No words. She knows how to say it with a glare. Her posture. The hand on her chin, and the other one on the table in front of her.
The long fingers teasing the corner of the catalogue cards in front of her. Her absent-minded fingering of the firm edges of the trade paperback, ready to be accessioned.
The asset sticker must be licked and affixed just so, in the inside cover, hidden but available, the barcode carefully unpeeled and firmly rubbed across the back plastic wrapper.
Her high heels click on the linoleum as she walks over to the shelving cart. Her thighs rub against the tweed skirt, making a threshing whisper to and fro like soft machine pistons of flesh on the outside and on the inside of her thighs as they rub back and forth against each other. She has stockings, but I suspect that she has no panties on under there.
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Library Vixen got me thinking along these lines. That sexy late 30s librarian, who's not quite old enough to be your mother, yet not so young that she hasn't been been around, quietly and so efficient behind the desk. Her fingers running over the 10-key, glasses perched perilously on her nose as she looks over them.
Her legs crossed on the metal stool behind the desk, her skirt riding up her thighs. Legs out of sight, and she spreads them to get air up into her privates, up that no-panty cunt.
She looks right into your eyes as she spreads behind the desk, books and cards in front of her. Her skirt raised up her ass, creased back on her buttocks so she can sit straight flat down on the cold metal of the stool, hard silver up on her pulsing pussy lips.
She sighs. Catches her breath. Is it at me? Did I do something wrong?
Her realm is the stacks of books. Leather and pulp pressed against each other row after row, wonderful literature, history and poems. All the way back, some dusty, many forgotten. She knows where it all is, knows how to find it.
She may not know what is in all those books but she knows enough to tease out subjects and categories. Do you want to know about hard labor? This section, sir. How about aerial robotics? Over there is a good place to start.
She hasn't read the books but she knows what's in them. She has an infinite summary of hints in her head of all the information, the subjects, the subtitles, and that's an invitation to explore. I can only point you in the right direction, it's up to you to go deeper.
Go as deep as you like. Research. Broad and wide. Over and over.
Go deeper. She disappears in the back stacks, pulling books off the shelf, and blowing the tops off. Opening and running her fingers across the creases, the backs and tightening bindings. Feeling and smelling.
Running fingers with red finger polish across the letters, raised, embossed. Fingers that were in her naked cunt, earlier in the ancient history section, where no one goes, leaning back against the Plutarch, legs spread 2 feet apart, fingers up in her folds, masturbating and smelling the inky dust of paper around and on her. Now slick, smelling of sex and sweat and shit.
She returns and imagines what it might be like with someone else back there, but she knows no one can match her standards. She couldn't be smarter, or more aggressive, or passive. She would take charge, and maybe know too much.
Or too little. She is happier alone... for now.
So she returns and looks across the men in the library, and imagines them masturbating, like she has done. In the library, alone. How must they finger their own genitals? Do they jerk off here? In the library? In the tile restroom?
They have their own fantasies, and play them out alone, at night, when they get home, or when the lights are out in the library and everyone's gone.
Leaning back against the wood-grain, hair undone, blouse open. Surrounded by the cold comfort of tomes that whisper silently from the dead and fixed past, unemotional and safe. Without unpredictability of real people.
Little does she know that she is my fantasy too. I go home and look at the books she checked out for me, laying flat and open upside down on the bed, spines sticking up. And I fantasize about her, pulling open my pants, and releasing my throbbing cock and rubbing, slowly...
...thinking of her hands, her fingers on my embossed letters, slowly teasing out my ejaculation onto her soft and dusty pulp-and-pussy smell hands...
...and smiling at me, looking over those glasses...winking and sighing...
... while she is fantasizing about doing the same thing to me.
