The Stacks
"He needs access to the restricted archives. She's denied him three times. Tonight, after hours, he discovers what the university librarian has really been protecting."
The rare books room has been locked for three hours.
I know because I've been watching the door since 5 PM, waiting for Dr. Eleanor Vance to leave so I can try again. Beg again. Grovel for access to the Ashworth Collection, the only primary sources that can save my dissertation.
She's denied me three times. No explanation. Just that cool, dismissive gaze over her reading glasses and a stamp on my request form: DENIED.
My advisor says I need those documents or I'm finished. Two years of work. Gone.
The library closed at eight. The lights went out at nine. But her office light is still on—a warm glow behind frosted glass—and I've been pacing the dark stacks like a ghost, working up the courage to knock.
At 10:15, I hear music.
Jazz. Soft, slow, coming from the restricted section.
The door is ajar.
I push it open.
The rare books room is different at night. The long oak tables are pools of shadow. The glass cases gleam with leather spines and gilt edges. And in the back, under a single reading lamp, sits Dr. Vance.
She's not what I expected.
The cardigan is gone. The severe bun is loose, grey-streaked auburn waves falling past her shoulders. She's in a silk blouse—cream, unbuttoned to show the swell of her cleavage—and she's holding a glass of red wine like she owns the room.
Because she does.
"Mr. Reeves." She doesn't look surprised. "You're persistent."
"Dr. Vance. I didn't mean to—"
"You've been in the stacks for five hours." She takes a sip of wine. "I heard you pacing. Smelled your desperation." She gestures to the chair across from her. "Sit."
I sit.
She studies me. Without the glasses, her eyes are sharper—brown, flecked with gold. She's older than I'd thought, maybe fifty-five, but it suits her. There's a weight to her presence, a gravity.
And I'm finally seeing the body she hides under those layers.
Dr. Eleanor Vance is fat.
Not chubby. Not curvy. Fat. Her breasts are enormous—heavy, soft, straining against the silk. Her belly rounds beneath them, a soft swell visible through the blouse. Her hips spread wide in the leather chair. Everything about her is abundant.
I realize I'm staring.
She realizes it too.
"The Ashworth Collection." She swirls her wine. "You want it badly."
"I need it. My dissertation—"
"I know what you need it for. I've read your proposal." She leans forward. Her breasts shift, heavy and liquid. "It's good work. Original. The kind of scholarship that actually matters."
"Then why—"
"Because I wanted to see how far you'd go." She sets down her glass. "Most students give up after the first denial. You came back three times. And now you're here, after hours, in my private space."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"I didn't say I was upset."
She stands.
The silk blouse is untucked, flowing over the curve of her belly. Her skirt is long, professional, but it clings to hips and thighs that could stop traffic. She moves around the table, and every step is deliberate—a slow sway, flesh in motion.
"Twenty years I've guarded this room." She stops beside my chair. "Scholars beg. Administrators demand. I decide who enters and who doesn't."
"And what do I have to do to enter?"
She smiles. It transforms her face—makes her look hungry.
"You already know."
She leans down.
Her breasts are inches from my face, barely contained by silk. I can see the edge of a lace bra, cream against pale skin. I can smell her—wine and old books and something warmer underneath.
"I've watched you," she says. "In the reading room. At the circulation desk. You're polite. Focused. But your eyes wander."
"I don't—"
"To the reference librarian when she bends over. To the grad student with the yoga pants." Her hand finds my chin, tilts my face up. "To me. When you think I'm not looking."
My mouth is dry. "Dr. Vance—"
"Eleanor." She straightens, reaches for the top button of her blouse. "In here, after hours, I'm Eleanor."
The button opens. Then another. Then another.
The silk parts, revealing a cream lace bra struggling to contain her. Her breasts are massive—each one bigger than my head, heavy and soft, the kind of breasts that would spill over any hand. Her belly is a soft cascade of flesh, pale and smooth, rolling gently to the waistband of her skirt.
She's magnificent.
"Well?" She lets the blouse fall to the floor. "Is this what you were staring at?"
"Yes." The word comes out hoarse. "God, yes."
"Then take it."
I'm on my feet before I know what I'm doing.
My hands find her waist—so much softness, warm and yielding—and I pull her toward me. She laughs, low and throaty, and her arms wrap around my neck.
"Eager boy."
"I've wanted—"
"I know what you've wanted." She reaches behind her back, unclasps her bra. "Everyone wants something from me. Access. Approval. But you—" The bra falls away. Her breasts drop, heavy and free, nipples dark and already hard. "You want this."
I cup them. They overflow my hands, impossibly soft, impossibly heavy. I lift them, squeeze them, watch her eyes flutter.
"Two years," she breathes. "Two years since anyone touched me like that."
I lower my mouth to her nipple. She gasps. I suck, and she moans—a sound that echoes off the old books, the leather spines, the centuries of collected knowledge.
"More," she demands. "Take more."
I switch to the other breast. Bite gently. She grabs my hair and pulls me closer, suffocating me in flesh. I don't want to breathe. I want to drown.
Her hands find my belt. Skilled, quick—she has it open in seconds.
"I need to see," she pants. "Need to know if you're worth it."
She pulls me free. Her hand wraps around my cock—warm, soft, certain.
"Oh." She strokes slowly. "Oh, yes. This will do nicely."
She pushes me back into the chair.
I watch as she unzips her skirt, lets it pool at her feet. Her panties match the bra—cream lace, soaked through, stretched over hips that make my brain short-circuit.
She's fat everywhere. Thick thighs dimpled with cellulite. A belly that hangs in a soft apron. An ass that looks like it could break furniture.
I've never wanted anyone more.
"The Ashworth Collection," she says, hooking her thumbs in her panties, "contains twenty-three boxes of primary documents." She slides them down—slowly, revealing herself inch by inch. "Letters. Diaries. First editions."
The panties hit the floor. She's shaved smooth, glistening wet.
"I'm the only one with a key." She straddles my lap. The chair groans. "The only one who decides who enters."
"Eleanor—"
"Shh." She reaches between us, positions me at her entrance. "You want access? You'll earn it."
She sinks onto me.
The world ends.
She's tight—impossibly tight for her size—and wet, and burning hot. Her weight settles onto me, three hundred pounds of woman driving me into the leather, and I can't move, can't thrust, can only sit there while she consumes me.
"Yes." She throws her head back. "That's what I needed."
She starts to move.
Not bouncing—grinding. Rolling her hips in slow circles, clenching around me with every rotation. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts sway inches from my face. I grab them again, squeeze them, pull her nipples into my mouth.
"Good boy." She's panting now. "Worship me. Show me you deserve it."
I suck harder. She clenches tighter. The chair creaks beneath us, ancient wood protesting as she rides me faster.
"Twenty years," she gasps. "Twenty years of dried-up professors and married administrators who want a quick fuck in the archives. None of them—ah—none of them looked at me the way you do."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like you're hungry." She grabs my face, forces me to meet her eyes. "Like you'd crawl through those stacks on your knees just to taste me."
"I would."
"Prove it."
She lifts off me—a wet, obscene sound—and turns. Bends over the reading table. Her ass rises in the moonlight, two massive globes that make my vision swim.
"The Ashworth Collection is in the vault behind me." She reaches back, spreads herself open. "Earn your access, Mr. Reeves."
I don't remember crossing the distance.
One moment I'm in the chair. The next I'm behind her, hands on her hips, cock finding its home.
I thrust in and she screams.
The sound bounces off the books, the glass cases, the portraits of dead scholars on the walls. I pull out and slam in again and she screams again, louder, not caring who might hear.
"Yes—fuck—harder—"
I give her harder. The table shakes. The lamp rattles. Her ass ripples with every impact, waves of flesh that hypnotize me. I grab handfuls of it, squeeze, spread her wider.
"I've watched you too," I grunt. "Every day. That cardigan hiding these curves. Those glasses making you look stern. I wanted to bend you over your desk and find out what you were hiding."
"Now you know." She pushes back against me. "Now you—ah—now you have full access."
I reach around, find her clit. Circle it while I fuck her. She bucks, tightens, moans into the oak.
"I'm going to—" She's shaking now. "Going to—"
"Come for me, Eleanor. Come on my cock in your precious archives."
She shatters.
Her pussy grips me like a vice. Her body convulses—all three hundred pounds of her trembling against the table. She screams my name—not Mr. Reeves, my actual name, Daniel—and the sound of it breaks something loose in me.
I follow her over.
I pump into her, filling the university librarian with my cum while she shakes through her orgasm. My vision whites out. My legs buckle. I collapse onto her back, both of us panting, the table groaning beneath our combined weight.
We stay like that for a long moment.
Then she laughs—warm and satisfied and nothing like the cold gatekeeper I've faced for months.
"Well." She shifts beneath me, and I slip out of her. "That was certainly worth the wait."
Later, we lie on the reading room floor, on her discarded cardigan, staring at the ceiling.
"The vault combination is 23-17-84," she says. "The Ashworth Collection is in boxes fifteen through thirty-seven. The fire damage in 1892 destroyed some of the letters, but the diaries are intact."
"Eleanor—"
"Wednesdays." She turns to look at me. "The library closes at six on Wednesdays. I stay until ten. Alone."
"Every Wednesday?"
"Every Wednesday." She props herself up on one elbow. Her breasts pool against the floor, soft and heavy. "Your dissertation will take... what? Another year?"
"At least."
"Then we have time." She traces a finger down my chest. "Plenty of time for additional research."
I pull her toward me. Kiss her—slow, deep, tasting wine and secrets.
"Dr. Vance," I say against her lips. "I think this is the beginning of a very productive academic relationship."
She laughs.
In the rare books room, surrounded by centuries of collected knowledge, we begin my real education.