The Geek Goddess

Admit it; you've always wanted those soft pale lips wrapped around the stretching swell of your manhood, her tangled nest of kinky red hair spilling onto your chest, her bone-white skin pressed firm against you. Her tiny pink nipples, hard and sharp as needles, scraping your legs, your belly, your chest as she rises to mount you.

She is The Naughty Librarian, that rare breed of jungle cat known to inhabit the feverish fantasies of dorky adolescent boys everywhere. And she wants to ride your diamond-stiff dick until the mischievous tickle inside her soft flower erupts into an unhinged sputter, until her bright blue eyes reach for the back of her skull, until her mousy chirps deepen into raspy growls that give voice to every inner passion left unexplored. Beneath this delicate bird roars a lioness that seeks unleashing.

But for now there is only the faint trace of an impish grin peeking through the rosy blush of her frail face.

"Um… come with me please," she says.

And you follow her into an empty room, past the book-littered path of her natural habitat. Her choppy steps soon surrender to gazelle-like strides; her hair snaps free from the grip of a ponytail to frame her face, her neck, her shoulders with an unkempt mane of bright crimson.

With the predatory grace of a stalking puma, she turns. Gone is that awkward glance at the floor; her eyes gently rise to greet you, to tease you, to beckon you closer.

"Let me know if you need anything else?" she offered. Was that a promise? A lingering kiss in the ether waiting to be collected and savored?

And was that a purr that brushed past her lips?

She is begging -- without words -- to be taken. She is dangling the key before you, seeking escape from the tyranny of a good girl's life. With an accidental bump of midsections you are back to the blowjob, back to those soft pale lips wrapped around the stretching swell of your manhood. But now her thick-rimmed glasses threaten to tumble from her nose as her bobbing face gains acceleration. She mumbles and gurgles and slurps. She rises and shoves you into a flat-backed surrender, climbing onto the saddle of your bush-ready rod.

Your body reels and shivers from an excess of contact: her hair sweeping down into your face; her hips and thighs squeezing your torso and seeking an angle for entry; the steady rush of her windpipe's sonata on your chest, rising, then falling, then halting altogether as she plants her burning pussy atop your cock.

And with a wiggle of her wiry frame, you are inside her, somehow finding a place that urges from her soft soprano a barely-whispered groan.

She rides without caution, without fear, without hands. She is all snickers and hiccups, girly giggles and "whoops!" as if shocked but impressed by her own reckless riding skills. And when you take hold of her hips to steady this bucking, swaying, gyrating, spiraling drift into chaos, her half-open eyelids flutter like a frightened butterfly. She is somewhere else. She is lilting above the crushing grunt of her world, above the sad life of a bookworm, above the bad choices, above the despair, above the certainty of a life alone. She is floating, murmuring, easing her spine into concavity.

She is lost in a windswept blur and the teasing vibrato of her trailing voice. She quivers herself through one final spurt of unfettered glee before collapsing into your arms, drained, dazed but somehow still shaking. And in this pool of sticky serenity, she is yours.

Or maybe not.

"Um… sorry," she says for the accidental bump of midsections, her ponytail now back in place, her glance one again, aimed at the floor.

"Let me know if you need anything else," she repeats.

Book in hand, you step away, chagrined.

You exit hunched, angled to conceal the tell-tale stretch of your pants. But this pixie-faced maiden of the Dewey decimal system spies it anyway and bites her lower lip as if tasting something a bit meatier -- hinting at what you've suspected and devoutly hoped for: that there is more to this dainty lady than a lust for literature.