She was reading by the soft glow of a lantern in the back corner of the Library, surrounded by stacks of books and papers in front of her.
I suspect I've always had a " thing" for bookish schoolmarm sort of women. Well, I am a dusty academic type myself, although in my imagination , I'm like Indiana Jones- mild mannered professor , until called on for a great adventure , to save the world. Oh , yes, and to get the girl. But I wasn't even a professor yet. I was still a student, toiling away in the Research Library, shelving books to earn my tuition. I suppose subconsciously I also figured that since lots of girls study here, I might meet the perfect one. Fat chance. That would require being brave enough to actually speak to them. And, they all seemed to go for the jocks. Sigh. At 22, it seemed I might be a virgin forever. My anxiety was heightened by having rented the video of "The Mummy Returns" last weekend. My attraction to researchers had blossomed watching the delectable , voluptuous Rachel Weisz portray a librarian at the beginning of the first film. Although is just a brainy adventuress in the sequel, it stirred my longing.
My sexual frustration was compounding by the publicity for the forthcoming Gwyneth Paltrow film, Possession, in which she plays a researcher in a Library. Gwyneth was simply my favourite actress, despite her clothes hanger thinness- her lustrous eyes and elegant bone structure played my heartstrings like a symphony. Anticipation of a fresh film featuring Gwyneth distracted me, at the same time focusing me on the tightness of my groin. Daydreaming in the stacks was common amongst the staff, but masturbation was likely a firing offence.
Imagine how I felt, then, after hours, coming upon a beauty ensconced in a back corner, a woman who combined the full lush ripeness of Rachel Weisz with the fine fair features and cheek bones of Gwyneth. Even her hair had the body and volume of the Mummy charmer ,combined with the wheatfield golden hue I associated with visions of La Paltrow.
I was actually aware of her before I saw her. As I approached the end of the last set of shelves, I heard a soft whisper, not recognizing it as silk against silk- the secret sound a woman's thighs make as her stockings collide, then slide. I had no time to consider the sound. Perhaps I would have thought " mouse", despite the Physical Plant insisting we were vermin free ( except for the snake in my trousers). I was not startled to find a researcher hard at work. I was warned on hiring that several " scholars in residence" had their own keys, for all hours unlimited research access. A few times before, I had found curmudgeons dozing in dust alcoves, asleep atop ancient manuscripts. However, coming on a beauty like this- young, ripe, and awake , even, was a first.
She was dressed in a white blouse made from that shiny material, with a wide notched collar dropping into a deep " V", plunging between her burgeoning breasts. Instantly, I recalled a comment I had made to a friend after watching The Mummy Returns: "I'm sure the wardrobe people were told to see how low they could cut those tops without her breasts popping out, and they must have used invisible two-sided tape to achieve it."
She sat sideways, her feet tucked underneath her pear shaped bottom, in a mangy old wing chair, work spread about on teeny side tables better suited to Victorian tea than research, and a big oval low table in front. Her skirt was as sensible as I was insensible- below the knee, straight cut in a plum colour. Which meant, of course, that as she sat, it curved temptingly taut around the contour of her hips. She had cat's eye lens creeping down, balancing perilously on the upturned end of her perfection of a nose . I say perfection, but, as I caught my breath, I thought "perfection, confection", my amateur poetic sensibilities combining , intertwining, with my instant insane insatiable lust.
My cart bumped a corner, not surprisingly, given that I was not watching where it was headed. The thump started and distracted the woman, causing her to sit upright. Another silken rustle drew my eyes to the sound of her brassiere rubbing under the fabric of the shirt. My eyes, so far unaffected by years of study, perceived a flowery white lace pattern beneath the shine of her shirt. I raised my glance just as her gaze found me as the source of her distraction. "I'm sorry", I muttered, apologizing for the breach of Library etiquette- staff shall always respect the solitude of scholars. I blushed slightly. I felt a warming in my groin. That made me blush crimson. "Oh, please god, don't let her see that," I prayed. The first time in days I spoke to a new woman, and it was mortifying. I wanted to crawl back to my dank airless basement apartment and eat a bag of cookies. If I did that , of course, I would just end up dejectedly stroking my erection , imagining what I regretted not doing with this woman. Sigh.
