Wherein, to make use of his incorporal time, Captain Mission reminds the youth of the pleasures of learning, and their certain benefits for the inception of knowledge deep within the womb of the mind.
I think the most important thing you should be considering is if you’ve ever been fucked in a library. And not just fucked, but thoroughly roughly taken and fucked and left dripping and dewey in the 600s. In the rather larger libraries, while there might be rules against noise, there’s also a vast depth of endless, identical shelving, differing only in what each contains. They loom like so many men’s speedo’s, jutting out at you thick and fat and full of rock hard certainty. If you tried to get your head around all those thick volumes the juices would drip out your ears.
You reach up on a little portable stool for a book high on the shelf, when the tomes spill out behind you, reaching up under your short skirt. They’re hotter than books should be, and rounder. Veiny rods of French and English masters tear away your flimsy silk panties, forcing themselves against your tight quim. You moan, falling open armed into the opposite shelf where cockmonster books twine down your arms like vines, tying your body open to the literary invasion at your rear. Looking down at the seven or eight rods bound in black, red, green, pink and even blue leather, you gasp seeing not blood pulsing through them but words.
Too bad for you sweet heart, ’cause Shakespeare just shoved his entire opus into your mouth. You can’t tell if its merely octavo or the full quarto because all you notice is how sweet his words are on your tongue. You literary whore, you’ll pick up anything that’s good for you.
Short stories and sweet little sonnets have banged at your closed doors of imagination, but something of your personality is seeping out hot and sweet. You knew there was a reason you shaved before browsing, its because a thousand words have told a sticky hot mixture all over your pussy. You need that because taking all of Voltaire in during one sitting is a bit of a stretch. Oh god what a stretch, double teamed by the British and French, their fat opuses fucking you suspended above the shelving, in mid air, with minor poets’ cocks caressing your legs and spurting hot ideas on your inner thighs.
You’ll read anything once, and anything good twice until it really sinks in deep. Literature has made you her slut and you love it. Thick short crude genre works rip open your bodice and spill pirate treasures down your tits, making you their sloppy thinker. But it all comes back to Shakespeare in your mouth, and Voltaire working your cunt. Every time they spurt out something, it seems like their final work, but instead they renew their efforts, the creamy excess of William’s sonnets drooling down your chin.
You push your legs together, its too much, especially as the Uni Students and eager young reshelvers gaze down the aisle of leathery dicks fucking you, watching you come until you’re screaming, muffled, on As you Like it. You couldn’t take it all, you couldn’t fit it all in, but the books have been rubbing their thrusting heads up against each other, eager to get inside you and fill you up, and when the great Masters of Western Culture drop you cum drenched to the floor, your hair dishevelled and well conditioned, your short skirt lewdly hiked up over your red beating cunt, your bruiséd lips uttering little white iambs, the minor authors spill their white ink all over your prone body, and you clutch their meanings to your chest.
Still smelling of musky tomes, old sweat and tears, and scented fingers, barely dried knowledge showing itself across your face, you face the desk librarian who shares a secret smile with you as you check out books to your limit for more study at home.
