Mature Chics

Opening a library book gives me a hard-on. I slip my finger between the pages, tight with weight, and feel the cool texture of the printed page as I gently pull apart the crease and smell the musky smell of a well thumbed volume. The hope is always that there will be something erotic within, some fantasy, or story, real or imagined, of beautiful people drenched in Eros. Slender sexy bodies lightly brushed with sweat, lips swollen and slightly bruised, nipples tweaked and aching for more, cocks turgid, tumescent, and straining for mature chics more. One glorious long fuck always on the verge of crescendo.

But the reality was usually a book on job hunting.

I was a thirty five year old career changer in the library of a mid-town school preparing a portfolio for a copywriting job. I took evening classes and spent the days in the library reading manuals, books on job hunting, studying award mature chics winning ads and thinking of ads. It was tedious and toilsome and all I really wanted to do was masturbate. So I would take breaks by going to the bathroom and sit on the toilet and slowly silently stroke my stiff prick and fondle my balls. Gently and lovingly I would stroke myself being careful not to come so as to elongate the pleasure and pain, frustration and fulfillment.

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