A shy, conservative librarian becomes the object of his fantasy; but quickly these research afternoons unfold into adventures pressed between the sheets.

A graduate student, I spend a lot of time at the library. My professors are fond of assigning lengthy research papers, most of them on fairly lofty and arcane subjects, but I recently did one that brought me undreamed-of dividends. It was not in the world of scholarship, however, that I unearthed the treasure trove. My research brought me in contact with Myra, a woman only my happiest fantasies had ever suggested might exist.

For several weeks before we actually “met” I had been acutely aware of her: a quiet and efficient assistant librarian gliding among the bookshelves in soft-soled shoes and conservative clothing. In an understated way, she was rather attractive, but even though she was about my age, she was so much a stereotype of the typical librarian, up to and including her owlish, dark-rimmed glasses, I couldn’t help thinking that her appearance must be cultivated, a matter I found amusing.

It was an amusement I was certain she shared. Once or twice we had squeezed past each other in the narrow aisles between the crowded shelves, exchanging smiles as our chests brushed (hers took up a fair amount of room) or as we shifted armloads of books to avoid a bibliophiles’ collision. There was an impishness in her grin that gave her away, for while she seemed a little shy, just right for the environs of a library, her deep brown eyes never failed to command my attention as we passed each other on our errands in and out of the reference section. Though she was the very picture of the demure librarian, complete with a bookish air and a ready blush, occasionally in our encounters with each other among the stacks, she’d give me a glance containing the faintest glimmer of sexual boldness; because it was unexpected, it was quite startling, and so fleeting that the first few times, I thought I might have imagined it. We had reached the point of casual conversation — mainly about library things — but my resolve to invite her for an after-work drink had temporarily been put on hold by an exceptionally hectic semester.

I was researching a paper about pre-media folklore traditions and had hit a snag in finding an important book. As I looked around for help from a staff member, there was my little library assistant, rearranging books in the reference area; as I approached her, notes in hand, my mind was preoccupied with my search for the material I needed. But as I explained to her about the volume I required, I began to notice again those wonderful brown eyes, so dark they were almost black; around the edges of their wide-eyed innocence, they had a smoky look which implied that fire was smoldering beneath the surface. It was amazing how quickly my mind shifted from matters of ethnohistory to matters erotic.

For the next ten minutes, the two of us conducted a search among the stacks, she leading, me following, hunting for the book which, she was certain, had merely been misplaced. As I examined her more closely, I saw that, conservative clothes aside, she was really quite appealing. There was an athletic quality and a glow of enthusiasm to her that belied her shyness, and behind those big glasses was a very pretty girl.

Before long, in the course of our shared project of tracking down the truant volume, we had learned each other’s names and were sharing information. Like me, she was a student at the university, and the library was her part-time job. I also made the happy discovery that we were both enrolled in literature programs — better and better, I thought as I began working up to the long-delayed invitation to have a drink after the library closed. But we were still talking about the missing book.

“What’s your topic?” Myra asked. “What are you working on?”

“It’s a paper on the oral tradition in literature. It’s for a seminar on early folklore.”

And there it was again, that flash of boldness in her eyes, bordering on wickedness, an impish look full of a shy naughtiness.

“Hmm.” She smiled and turned to reach for a book. “My favorite subject.”

“Really? Are you into storytelling?”

“Oh, no. The oral skills I’m interested in are even older than the telling of stories.” This remark was delivered with her back to me, but as she said it she turned, finishing it off with a look that was so clearly an invitation, it made my knees weak.

Though I’m sure I stood there blinking for a moment, I did manage to stutter something. I don’t remember what, but it was a pretty lame response for a guy who prided himself on his sophistication. But she was nothing if not quick — certainly quicker than I was.

So then, do you do fieldwork? Research, I mean, into oral techniques? If you do, I’d be interested in showing you some of mine. I really am good at what I do.”

I hastened to assure Myra that not only was I fascinated with fieldwork, but I would be most interested in studying her techniques.

“Well, you do need the book, I suppose,” she said, grinning at me as if I’d given her a present. “Maybe we can look for it while we, uh, do our research. If you want, we might check the rare-book room. It’s kept locked, but I can get the key. Are you sure you have the time?”

A moment before, I had been completely frustrated at not being able to find the book I wanted; now it didn’t matter in the least. I told her I had all the time in the world.

Fishing the key from behind the check-out desk, Myra let us into a book-lined room filled from floor to ceiling with old manuscripts and ancient tomes with leather bindings. Heavy oaken tables, overstuffed furniture and a plush, wine-colored rug were gently lighted by shaded lamps strategically placed for reading. At any other time I would have been eager to examine the contents of the room, but right then I had other things on my mind. The room was unoccupied, of course, and I couldn’t help notice that she locked the door behind us as we entered.

“You’ll probably find that wing-back chair quiet comfortable if you feel like sitting,” she said gesturing towards a huge old armchair in the furthest corner of the room. I sank into it with something like wonder and watched my little librarian kneel on the floor in front of me. There was no doubt that Mayra was a remarkable girl, one who could take charge of a situation. I couldn’t help thinking of her as an impossible fantasy come true, a dream strangely awakened into flesh. The unreality of her was, for a moment, overpowering, but when her smooth hands reached up to touch my face, their warmth and softness were real enough, and her voice was deep and throaty.

“Look, I don’t feel as if I have to explain anything, but I like you. I’ve been watching you in the library for over a month now, and I’ve thought of the two of us a lot. I’ve been wanting the chance to do this for a long time.”

Her hands explained what she meant by “this:” Pulling them away from my face, she proceeded to unbuckle my belt and tug my trousers over my hips and down my legs, slipping off my shoes and socks and calmly folding my pants neatly by the chair. I was less calm than she was and already erect, almost painfully so, and when she stripped away my shorts, my cock shot up like a pole. Tentatively her fingertips touched it, just brushing the flesh. Her brown eyes stared, full of delight, as if she were a child being offered some wonderfully unthinkable and unhoped-for treat. Then she gazed up at me — and removed her glasses. This gave her eyes a liquid look as her hands gently closed around my stiffness.

“Oh, I love this,” she purred. “I love your penis — it’s so hard! I want to kiss it. I want to take it in my mouth and suck it. Can I?”

Not trusting my voice — I was afraid it would crack like an adolescent’s — I managed a nod.

For a while, though, Myra seemed content with just touching it with her hands. Slowly, with exquisitely light brushing motions, she stroked its stiffness, teasing, enticing, bringing me to a state of mind approaching delirium. It wasn’t just her touch; it was the image she presented: shy, worshipful, excited, pleased — a veritable collection of all the fantasies I’d ever had about the perfect woman. She seemed to savor my hardness, as if it were some gift I had given her, a plaything to delight and thrill.

When she leaned forward to flick the underside of my cock with her tongue, I shivered with a spasm of need and desire for this delectable girl. As she licked up and down the length of my shaft, it was like being loved by hummingbirds. Her lips touched my thighs, then my balls, and finally nibbled their way up my cock to plant a kiss on its crown. Then her full lips parted to allow just the head to slip between them; it was as if her mouth was full of olive oil, so soft and liquid did it feel.

She held me there for a moment her tongue working magic on the sensitive flesh, and then, with a movement so gradual it was barely perceptible, began lowering her moistened lips onto my cock. I watched my stiffness disappear into her mouth, inch by inch, millimeter by millimeter, until I could feel it pressing against her throat, and still she didn’t stop, forcing my member in and in until every inch of its length was engulfed.

Sensations of earth-shattering force enveloped me, and for the longest time she didn’t move, just held me there buried deep in her throat, looking up at me with those big brown eyes. Then, just as slowly as she’d taken me in, she began to pull away, letting my saliva-moistened prick slither from her mouth with agonizing slowness. It was like being expelled from paradise, and I’m sure my eyes communicated a plea. With a final kiss from her pouting lips, she slid me out of her mouth.

“That’s so good,” she murmured. “Do you know I could feel you pulsing in my throat?”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “In another second or two, you’d have felt more than that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I want you to come in my mouth. But not yet. Let’s play for a while. May I play with you?”

I thought it a silly question; for a crazy moment, some bizarre and humorous impulse suggested a “No, you may not, what kind of guy do you take me for” speech, but that thought evaporated as her tongue went to work again.

Myra was good — very good. Her tongue, lips, mouth and hands worked in concert to bring me to a state of arousal I wouldn’t have thought possible. Again and again she pushed me to the very edge, then pulled me back by holding completely still. She sensed my thresholds with unerring accuracy and manipulated them with consummate skill. Her hands were like birds, at first gentle, then aggressive, her mouth an eager, hungry animal, manifesting an enthusiasm that was vivid and yet deferential. Such images haunted me as she knelt between my legs, licking, sucking, kissing. She was every fantasy I had ever dreamed, absolutely perfect in every move, every touch, even in the sounds she made. As she crammed my cock into her mouth, she began to whimper, and as her little cries rose up out of her, she seemed to lose some of her control, until she was burying me deep in her throat with every thrust of her head. She was on fire! And I lost control along with her: As the tempo of her sucking increased, I began to tremble and felt a flush warming every part of my body. It was as if I were being tempered in a furnace, my flesh turning into a huge pool of molten metal that surged and then exploded in the very roots of my phallus, rushing upward to soar out into the universe. I was all prick and pulsation. I came in her mouth with incredible intensity; my whole body felt as if it were being siphoned off into her throat. It was a totality of climax I had never experienced, a gushing, heaving and expansion of orgasm that spread and grew and carried me with it, wave after wave. I don’t know what sound I made, but I could hear someone uttering deep, guttural groans, and through it all I heard Myra’s sharp little cries of pleasure as I watched her thrusting face through a white fog, a fog containing leather-bound books and rare literary flowers.

Normalcy was slow in returning, but I gradually regained some sense of my whereabouts. Myra’s head was on my thigh, her face an image of contentment. I pulled her to me, kissing her mouth and tasting the slick saltiness of my own orgasm on her lips. I tried to pull her all the way up, to undress her, I suppose; I had some notion, in my post-orgasmic haze, of parting her shapely librarian’s legs and burying my face between them, but she wouldn’t let me.

“No, not here, not now. I want you too, but we’ve been locked in here too long. If you like, though, after I get off, we can go to my place and continue this. Okay?”

Given my urgent desire to see her naked, to spread her thighs and taste her femaleness, it wasn’t okay to wait, but I figured that she knew best. With her help I was soon clothed, and after a quick clinch, we were back in the main library. She was again a librarian, I a scholar. I wandered back to my table to stare blankly at my notes-it was as if they were written in Sanskrit, for all the sense I could make of them.

The hour it took for the library to close seemed to last forever, but then, so did the rest of the evening, in a different sort of way. What followed was, in the language of the old dime novels, the beginning of a wonderful relationship. Myra, it turned out, was completely oral, but she also liked to be eaten as much as she liked sucking. As I’ve always had a strong orientation toward the oral myself, I had no objection at all to burying my face between her legs and bringing her to shuddering, crashing climaxes.

Oral sex excited us both, but  to Myra it was an art form. It also made her wetter than I’d known a woman could become. At the prospect of sucking me, or me her, her juices positively flowed, and nothing brought her to a state of fevered excitement faster than taking my cock in her mouth. She also showed me something I’d never experienced: Putting me on my hands and knees, she’d get behind me and lick and kiss my balls while “milking” my dangling cock with her hands. The climaxes that position produced were astonishing in their intensity.

For the next few weeks, we were inseparable. If she hadn’t worked in the reference section, I’d never have gotten my paper finished, and as it was it was late and incomplete, the grade barely satisfactory. But in the course of my research at the library, Myra twice managed to suck me to quivering orgasms among the dimly lighted bookshelves. And once, while I leaned over a pile of opened books in one of the study carrels, she got under the desk and gave me a blowjob that proved to be the ultimate challenge in decorum  ¾ my swallowed groans almost strangled me and I was left sweating and exhausted when she crawled out to go back to work.

With the end of the semester, we completed our plans for her to move into my apartment, an arrangement we have enoyed. Myra and I have begun to explore many other forms of making love, but oral sex is still one of our favorites. There is something about the passivity of being Myra’s oral toy that I like; her fondness for taking control of the situation so completely allows for a kind of role reversal I haven’t found with other women. And I’m convinced that there’s no one in the world, absolutely no one, who could possibly give better head than Myra — or who enjoys doing it more. But as time goes by, we are also discovering many other things we both do well.