It was my librarian, quietly putting books away. And yet I caught her stealing glances in my direction, casting me a Cheshire smile. I am not a beautiful man, but work has hardened my body, thickened my arms with muscle. My hair is long and graying, my chest is broad and sprinkled with hair, some of which jutted from my shirt. And so when I knew she was looking I stood, so she could clearly see the bulge inside my jeans. Her eyes widened and she smiled shyly before turning back to her books. I watched her long fingers wrap around each volume, and carefully place it back in the stacks. And soon she looked again, head held submissively low, but her eyes locked in upon mine. She did not move when I stood and walked over to take her hand. "Come," I whispered and she followed, eyes delightfully downcast. I knew of a restroom in the back, small and well hidden. So I took her to that room, it's walls painted in the promises and fantasies of gay men. How many men had used this room as I. Each nipple responded to the heat of his mouth, the implied danger in his teeth on my sensitive flesh. I shuddered and struggled out of my clothing. I found myself astride his hips leaning up to press my breasts to his mouth as his hands pushed me down on his lap. I could feel his cock under me and it was obsidian. To shift atop him drew involuntary whimpers from somewhere in my chest. My heart raced as I struggled to create space between us so I could release his button and draw back the zipper. My skirt gave reasonable cover to anyone passing close enough who we might not notice and the missing panties allowed me to slide down on him as soon as I was able to force his clothing aside. I felt him tense, relax, and tense again as his cock slid all the way in. I leaned back slightly and his hands captured my shoulders to allow distance between us but only at the top. I worked my hips on his as my body leaned back. The stretching created ripples in my stomach that made breathing.
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