librarian’s face. She was always coolly professional, to the point of being stonily serious. An overdue book meant a real scolding and I often felt her eyes were scouring over me as I left the library for lunch, checking perhaps that I wasn’t smuggling out one of her precious books.
She was strikingly tall and slim, with long dark hair that was usually restrained in a tight bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were dark, her skin was pale and she spoke with an unplaceable foreign accent, though she dominated the English language as well as she did all the students. She was known for her severity and this reputation was enforced by her appearance, for her clothes were dark and formal and she wore a pair of glasses which served to keep a very close eye on all around her. I was quite sure that when her hair was released and a smile unleashed, she would be most beautiful. However, I could only imagine this as I’d never seen it happen.
I would often stare at her as she whizzed through the aisle, determined in her classificational pursuit. There was something very enigmatic about her that fascinated me. Perhaps it was my desire to see that her apparent severity was simply a mask behind which she hid a bubbly and outgoing woman, a little like myself. Or so I liked to believe. Maybe she was simply moody and unpleasant. Or else sexually frustrated. Yes, I could spend hours dreaming about what she may or may not be like. Though I hated to admit it, for the first time in my life I had been captivated by a woman and as she wiggled past me in those long, tight skirts, she seemed to be almost amused by my frustration.
Please don’t misunderstand me; I had had my fair share of men. I knew that I was an attractive young woman. When I looked into the mirror I would be greeted by my almond-coloured skin, my thick shoulder-length brown hair, my soft feminine curves and some twinkling emerald eyes shining back at me. I knew that I exuded a certain aesthetic charm on those who beheld me. I frequently dated different boys, usually those from a sports team or else those from some band or other. I was attracted to all types of boys, as you can see. I had never seriously contemplated a woman before, but as I watched her day after day that summer, going about her daily business with a perfect silence and severe demeanour, I recogniszed that I was somewhat mesmerized.
Occasionally she would offer me a half-smile here or a raised eyebrow there and I would feel my pulse starting to race and would practically start to tremble with nerves. How could I have been so intimidated and especially by a woman? This was all so novel to me and I put it down to the fact that I had been so chaste of late, spending too many hours studying and I really needed to get out.
When I did manage to get out, I might fool around with the odd boy or two, the librarian far from my distracted mind. However, as evenings drew in and the fun drew out, I would find myself in a compromising position with a guy, searching desperately to extinguish the ravaging flame that had started burning in her presence. With my eyes closed and legs parted, I would feel a probing tongue devouring my sex and I would imagine for just a few seconds that it was her. Then my eyes would open widely in the realisation of what I was fantasising about. Within seconds I would be coming over my lover’s tongue, filled with guilt yet infused with a secret desire. I knew I wanted her.
So I found myself in the library at every available opportunity. My academic prospects may well have been flourishing, were it not for the fact that I was far too preoccupied by thoughts of her. To the rest of the world I was a conscientious student doubled over her French literature and motivated in my studies. What I was really seeing on those pages, though, were images of her and me here in the library, consumed by mutual passion, and exploring every inch of each other with our hands and mouths. I was so absorbed by
She was strikingly tall and slim, with long dark hair that was usually restrained in a tight bun on the top of her head. Her eyes were dark, her skin was pale and she spoke with an unplaceable foreign accent, though she dominated the English language as well as she did all the students. She was known for her severity and this reputation was enforced by her appearance, for her clothes were dark and formal and she wore a pair of glasses which served to keep a very close eye on all around her. I was quite sure that when her hair was released and a smile unleashed, she would be most beautiful. However, I could only imagine this as I’d never seen it happen.
I would often stare at her as she whizzed through the aisle, determined in her classificational pursuit. There was something very enigmatic about her that fascinated me. Perhaps it was my desire to see that her apparent severity was simply a mask behind which she hid a bubbly and outgoing woman, a little like myself. Or so I liked to believe. Maybe she was simply moody and unpleasant. Or else sexually frustrated. Yes, I could spend hours dreaming about what she may or may not be like. Though I hated to admit it, for the first time in my life I had been captivated by a woman and as she wiggled past me in those long, tight skirts, she seemed to be almost amused by my frustration.
Please don’t misunderstand me; I had had my fair share of men. I knew that I was an attractive young woman. When I looked into the mirror I would be greeted by my almond-coloured skin, my thick shoulder-length brown hair, my soft feminine curves and some twinkling emerald eyes shining back at me. I knew that I exuded a certain aesthetic charm on those who beheld me. I frequently dated different boys, usually those from a sports team or else those from some band or other. I was attracted to all types of boys, as you can see. I had never seriously contemplated a woman before, but as I watched her day after day that summer, going about her daily business with a perfect silence and severe demeanour, I recogniszed that I was somewhat mesmerized.
Occasionally she would offer me a half-smile here or a raised eyebrow there and I would feel my pulse starting to race and would practically start to tremble with nerves. How could I have been so intimidated and especially by a woman? This was all so novel to me and I put it down to the fact that I had been so chaste of late, spending too many hours studying and I really needed to get out.
When I did manage to get out, I might fool around with the odd boy or two, the librarian far from my distracted mind. However, as evenings drew in and the fun drew out, I would find myself in a compromising position with a guy, searching desperately to extinguish the ravaging flame that had started burning in her presence. With my eyes closed and legs parted, I would feel a probing tongue devouring my sex and I would imagine for just a few seconds that it was her. Then my eyes would open widely in the realisation of what I was fantasising about. Within seconds I would be coming over my lover’s tongue, filled with guilt yet infused with a secret desire. I knew I wanted her.
So I found myself in the library at every available opportunity. My academic prospects may well have been flourishing, were it not for the fact that I was far too preoccupied by thoughts of her. To the rest of the world I was a conscientious student doubled over her French literature and motivated in my studies. What I was really seeing on those pages, though, were images of her and me here in the library, consumed by mutual passion, and exploring every inch of each other with our hands and mouths. I was so absorbed by
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