The acrid smell of the rotten books assaulted Rochester Big-Smith’s nostrils. His local library’s laudable collection of decomposing literature lined up in stacks, in neat linear rows of dewey-decimal order, always got him into a good mood. No one could bother him here. Even students like Willy Wilcocks – valedictorian and class presidents – ambitious, brainy, suck-up, know-it-all, little bitch…
Irene Stickwell heard someone enter the “Ancient Books” section of the library. She didn’t want to be disturbed as she reached Ancient Persian Aquaculture (the topic of her third dissertation.) “Tis not easy to read of the ancient Persian tongue when one is surrounded by buffoonery!” she whispered to herself.
But then, like a soldier sweaty and delectable from battle, Rochester appeared, ambling slowly, his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring. They hadn’t encountered each other since… since…
Dirty images of Chaucerian manuscripts used for dirty deeds danced before her eyes. The memory of her body covered in clotted-cream aroused her. 19th century wine bottles used for such dirty deeds made her feel dirty…
“Hello, Mr. Big-Smith,” she uttered. Rochester snapped to attention. “How are you on this fine day?”
“Feverish and sweaty from physical exertion. I’ve been fleeing, you see.”
“From whom?”
“Willy Wilcocks…”
“He’s such a little bitch!”
“Indeed he is, Irene.” Rochester had a distant look in his eyes as he recalled his previous encounter with Irene.
Irene pretending to be a jockey riding his sod-iron replication of Sea-Biscuit. Her naked body pressed against his life-sized reproduction of George Washington… her misuse of his massive bust-collection… oh, how dirty it was when Caesar’s severed head was pinned between her milky thighs.
Rochester’s prick perked. Irene’s nether-regions softened. They each recounted their 19 hour sexual-adventure, ending in the largest, longest mutual orgasm since Paris pinned Helen of Troy. “I pine for you… you sexual MacGyver – I’ve never seen a woman use a set of Russian Nesting dolls like that before. Oh, I remember the way you sullied my set of ancient-Greek silverware with your sexual organ.” Rochester was touching himself.
“I remember how you whipped me with your famed 14th century horse whip while singing a falsetto opera cantata to me! Your clever use of that astrolabe! Oh my!”
“I am aroused,” Rochester leaned over the table where she worked.
“As am I.”
Little did they know that Willy Wilcox (that little bitch) had followed Rochester all the way to the library (out of a desire to ask Rochester questions he couldn’t answer.) Then he saw what was going on from between two books. He slid another book out to get a better view from behind the stacks.
The poor, young virgin… of course he had fantasized about Irene Stickwell! What 18 year old boy doesn’t fantasize about a 47 year old Ancient history teacher wearing bulky, argyle sweaters?
Rochester, catlike, pounced on the table. He picked up Irene’s Persian Aquaculture book and shoved it in her face. “Smell it…”
“Mmm!” she moaned.
“You’re an ancient muse… and I am your beleaguered, war-warn traveler searching for inspiration. Inspire me, you dirty muse!” Irene shoved the book from her face and pushed Rochester over the table. He slammed hard to the floor.
“Take off your flannel jacket, you naughty, naughty war-warn traveler!” Irene jumped on him, holding him to the ground with her Herculean strength.
Willy Wilcox (that little bitch), after witnessing the hottest sex the ancient-book section of the local library had ever seen (and that is saying something), would never be the same.