She sat quietly behind the circulation desk, gently tapping her terminal screen with a pencil. She seemed almost the stereotype, with wire-frame glasses, fair skin and red hair cut in a pageboy. Her blouse was gray, with puffed out sleeves and collar so high that you cold see almost none of her neck. Her long, plaid skirt was woolen, though it hugged her hips in a most sensual way. Her jewelry was plain, only a single gold band worn on her left hand identical to the one on mine. So engrossed was she with her work, that she barely noticed my approach, not even looking up until I stood almost above her. 

As she looked up her blouse parted, and for an instant I caught a glimpse of her breasts, full and tightly confined within her overly tight, green lace bra. 

Such an incongruous picture, the high-collared librarian wearing a push-up bra. Normally a woman who wears such an item wants to be seen, with low necklines and skin-tight blouses. But not this woman. She dressed as if she feared her passion, or needed to keep it tightly leashed. Or perhaps a secret reserved for her husband. 

"I was looking for the diaries of Anais Nin," I asked. "The computer says they're in stock." 

She smiled and, and innocently flapped her eyes in feigned innocence. "We do have that item, sir, but keep it behind the counter. There are so many who think such things do not belong in a library. And there are the teenage boys." 

I smiled and nodded. Reverend Phelps's decency crusade strikes again. Phelps opposed anything that mentioned sex in any form, much less in the more exploratory passions of Anais with Henry and June Miller. Nor had I forgotten my teenage years. Such a book would have been shown to my friends, and quickly become dog-eared as we thumbed between 'good parts'. 

Of course I had not lost my interest in the 'good parts'. But as a man I had learned the virtue of sexual tension, that a furtive glance, a finger tracing the length of ones spine or parted skirt could do much to fire the mind. And while this woman kept her voice low and eyes down turned when she handed me the volume, her fingers lingered upon it, and slid across mine as she placed it in my grasp. 

I thanked her and headed back to my kiosk, located deep in the third floor stacks. There I began to read, and take notes, comparing the life of Anais Nin to those of her characters. What a shocking libertine she must have seemed in her day, so free when women were not permitted the pleasure of touch. And as I read, I grew hard, my penis swelling with desire. 

Lost in my notes, I almost missed the sound of someone in the stacks. It was my librarian, quietly putting books away. And yet I caught her stealing glances in my direction, casting me a Cheshire smile. I am not a beautiful man, but work has hardened my body, thickened my arms with muscle. My hair is long and graying, my chest is broad and sprinkled with hair, some of which jutted from my shirt. And so when I knew she was looking I stood, so she could clearly see the bulge inside my jeans. 

Her eyes widened and she smiled shyly before turning back to her books. I watched her long fingers wrap around each volume, and carefully place it back in the stacks. And soon she looked again, head held submissively low, but her eyes locked in upon mine. She did not move when I stood and walked over to take her hand. 

"Come," I whispered and she followed, eyes delightfully downcast. I knew of a restroom in the back, small and well hidden. So I took her to that room, it's walls painted in the promises and fantasies of gay men. How many men had used this room as I intended to? Her chest was heaving as the lock clicked shut behind us. 

"I shouldn't," she whispered, but her voice was laughing and her fingers traced my hip. I took her hair in my hands, and pulled her head back, covering her mouth with mine.