The whispers in the library

It was supposed to be quiet.

A private library, hidden behind the velvet-paneled lounge of an old hotel, the kind of place only whispered about. Mahogany shelves stretched to the ceiling. Antique lamps cast golden halos. The scent of old paper, leather bindings, and wood polish lingered in the air. Sacred. Intimate. Timeless.

Aleksandra lived for places like this—where silence had texture, where desire didn’t need volume to burn.

He followed her in, hesitant but unable to stay away. His footsteps echoed on the parquet floor, betraying him. He'd left his phone at the front desk as she asked.

“You won’t need it,” she’d said, voice low, almost a purr. “I want all of your attention.”

And now she had it.

She didn’t lead him to a chair this time.

She wandered instead.

Down the aisles, fingers brushing the spines of books like they were lovers. He watched her, eyes tracing every movement, every sway of her hips beneath her dress.

“This one,” she said, pulling a hardbound novel from the shelf and handing it to him. “Read it. Aloud.”

He opened it with unsteady hands.

She was already turned away, scanning the lower shelves. Then, deliberately, she bent down to retrieve another book. The dress lifted.

No panties.

He stared—frozen. Her bare ass perfectly curved, her pussy glistening between her thighs.

Goosebumps bloomed along the back of her neck. She felt him staring.

“Read,” she said, without looking.

He fumbled through the first line, barely audible.

She stood and turned. Still facing the shelves. Her hand reached back—found the zipper of his pants. Lowered it slowly.

“Keep reading,” she said.

She pulled his cock free, already thick and throbbing.

Then, without warning, she leaned forward, palms pressed against the shelves, and pressed her hips back—slid his cock into her dripping pussy.

He gasped. Nearly dropped the book.

“Read the damn book,” she growled.

He tried.

He mumbled. Stumbled. Words breaking apart as her body gripped him tight, as she pushed back onto him, riding his cock deeper, harder.

She moaned—low, close to the spine of a Shakespeare volume. “God, you feel good.”

She moved faster now, hips slamming into his. Wet sounds echoing between the rows of literature.

His hand gripped the book like a lifeline. His voice was barely coherent.

Then she reached back, slid her hand between his legs, found his balls, pulled them gently free from his pants and massaged them in rhythm with her thrusts.

He lost it.

“I—Aleksandra—I—”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Cum for me.”

He exploded. His knees nearly buckled. His cock pulsed inside her, flooding her with heat. She moaned softly, like satisfaction itself.

Then she slipped off of him, turned around, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

She tucked his cock back into his pants, zipped him up.

“Ready for dinner?” she asked with a smile.

He blinked, stunned, dazed.

“I’m starving,” she said.

And just like that, she walked away.

His hands still trembled around the book.

And the scent of her clung to the pages.