In the velvet hush of the municipal library’s rare books wing, I lingered long after the angelus bells faded. This wasn’t just work. It was my private ritual, a sanctuary of leather-bound tomes and polished mahogany shelves that whispered of forgotten empires. The air thick with aged vellum and my own rising heat. As an insider in the world’s most exclusive circles, I turned this public space into my elite boudoir. Champagne flute hidden in my desk drawer, its bubbles sharp on my tongue like crystal from a penthouse bar. I climbed the ladder, gray pencil skirt hiking up my thighs, the fabric taut like fine Italian leather against my skin.
Cambrée, ass arched high, I parted the heavy volumes. My finger, wet with spit, traced down. Slid inside. My pussy lips swelled, pink and slick, blooming open like a rare manuscript. No one should see. But the thrill of exposure, in this gilded cage of knowledge, made me drip. Legs spread wide, heels digging into rungs, I fucked myself slow. Deep. The city lights flickered through high windows, a distant penthouse vista mocking the ordinary world below.
The Privilege
Then, eyes on me. From the shadows, he emerged. Rat in the stacks. Tall, commanding, reeking of power and cologne worth a fortune. Our gaze locked. Seduction unspoken. He knew my game. I bolted, skirt flapping, heart pounding like a thoroughbred at Ascot.
Through endless aisles, his pursuit electric. My heels clicked on marble floors cool as Carrara. He cornered me in the dead-end audiovisuals nook. Seventh heaven. Grabbed my hips. Spun me. Skirt up, panties ripped. His cock, thick and veined, slammed into my ass. No lube but my juices. Burning stretch. I gasped, tits out, nipples hard as diamonds. He indexed me with his finger, probing my codex, annexes fluttering. My pussy clenched empty, begging. He laughed, dark promise in his eyes.
To the photocopier room. Machine humming like a lover’s breath. I bent over it, breasts on glass. He hit ‘bright.’ Light flashed, searing my skin. My tits scanned, perfect copies emerging. ‘Ready to copy,’ it beeped. ‘Paré to thrust,’ he growled. His dick plunged recto-verso. In my cunt now, then ass. Alternating. Crashing. My button throbbed red, screen green. Flashes stripped me bare. Pussy stretched wide, lips gripping his shaft. Juices smeared the glass. He printed me inside out. Braille on my clit from his thumb. I screamed, braille-reading his balls slapping my thighs.
The Excess
Words crude as knives. ‘Take it, slut.’ I reversed, ass up for his recto pour. Aquarius mark on my mound, his cock in my rectum. Envers et contre, I came back. His hard pig in my tough hide. Pussy hard to cum? No. It gushed. Rut built. Juice recruited. Rotative under us, thrusting back. Pan-pan in my ass. His balls clapped.
Vigile’s steps. Panic. I fled, falcon ass clenching, false cheeks quivering. He chased, fire in his loins. Courtes courtes. We bolted like rabbits. Malle made, but damage done. Copier door ajar, our private prints public bait.
Days later, headlines screamed. ‘Librarian’s Obscene Copier Romp.’ Gérontocrats chuckled at youth’s decay. But in my penthouse retreat, walls of glass shielding secrets, I sipped vintage Dom. The scandal? Buried by connections. Absolute comfort. Discretion sealed. Our elite pact intact. Leather sofa cradling me, city sprawling below. The thrill lingers. Exclusive. Mine.
