The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica

by Rose Caraway

  Still, her instincts kept her searching and she finally found a link in a dusty catalogue that drew her full attention. Final Repository of Documents, the description read, of the Oswald Unitarian Church. The date the university received the documents was May 1910, six months after the murders of the last students. She collected favors from a friend in the history department and, after running the gauntlet of permissions, scheduled a visit on Tuesday to the university’s auxiliary archives, way out on the north side of town.

  The church records filled half a dozen boxes. An indifferent graduate student delivered them to her in a reading room furnished in 1950s industrial elegance. She spent hours going through the boxes. No one had opened them in a long time. A single sheet of rubbery paper from an ancient copying machine lay on the top of each one, faintly detailing the contents. Marcia had the place to herself, but she treated the old books and photographs with a scholar’s reverence. She realized almost at once that this trove was exactly what she had been looking for—the papers and records that had been taken out of the seminary after the murders. Handling the material, she felt closer to Mikhael. These ledgers and annotated bibles had belonged to his peers, to his teachers, maybe even to him.

  In the fourth box, she found something she had been specifically looking for, a beautifully handwritten roster of the seminary’s students beginning in 1885 and continuing through the fatal year 1910. She saw handwritten names in columns with admission dates and graduation notations, and a second line indicating if the student had been assigned to a congregation after leaving the school. Starting at the end, looking for Mikhael, she read the names of the last year’s students.

  The last four boys were William, Morris, Abner and Joseph. No Mikhael among them. She looked at the previous year and the one before that. No Mikhael, with or without a K. Maybe Betty was wrong about his name, but the ghost had answered to it, Marcia was certain.

  Maybe Mikhael had been a teacher. She searched deeper and found records detailing the faculty, their years at the seminary, the congregations they had served before and after. As far back as the rosters went, she found no one named Mikhael.

  Who were you?

  Dust in the last box made her sneeze, and her eyes itched. She felt unaccountably tired. A wave of futility swept over her. She needed to know more about him but this path seemed hopeless, a chronicle of mundane lives, esoteric nonsense, a dead end.

  With numb hands, she repacked the last box, listless until she picked up the last item, a plain little book. It opened and she saw elegant handwriting covered the pages. She thumbed through them and read a single word written as though in fire, a name.

  His name.

  The book appeared to be a diary, or a chronicle; it contained handwritten prayers and apparently a record of life in the seminary. She saw what might have been several people’s handwriting, or possibly the same person’s, but sometimes written in haste or in different states of mind. The early pages were dated 1908 and 1909, but the later ones ran on in a stream, with no breaks between the paragraphs.

  …invocato de deo incarnato…within and apart from the firmament…days and nights of hunger… He is here.

  Mikhael venhit.

  Mikhael comes.

  “I told you he isn’t what you thought, Marcia.” Ms. Garrity had been drinking. The gray-haired lady’s words were clear but the inflections betrayed her. She and Amber sat on the sofa in the landlady’s room and stared at Marcia accusingly. They wore house robes, Amber’s ruby and Betty’s smoky black and, as far as Marcia could see, both women were naked beneath their wraps.

  Marcia showed them the diary. She’d stolen it from the archive and doubted anyone would ever miss it. She’d read it—the legible parts anyway—then she’d gone looking for Betty.

  “You think he’s something you can control,” Betty went on. “Something you can call like you’d call up your boyfriend. You probably think he’s in love with you…”

  “Is that what you believed?” Marcia asked. “A long time ago?”

  She saw rage pass through Betty like a brushfire, then it was gone, leaving cold ash behind. “We can share him,” she offered. “All three of us.”

  “Is he what the diary says he is?”

  “An angel?” Betty slumped. “Who the hell knows? But he might be.”

  Betty’s choice of words made Marcia laugh. The journal she’d found was written by all four of the last seminary students. One of them, Morris, had been one of the heretics—part of the splinter sect of the deviant Unitarians, and he’d converted the others, probably the last teachers at the seminary too. “They summoned him,” she told Betty and Amber. “Like Faust summoning the devil. It says here”—Marcia tapped the book—“that he’s an angel.”

  “Maybe so,” Betty smirked. “But he has the devil’s appetites.”

  The room grew chill, colder than Marcia had felt before from Mikhael’s presence, but unmistakably him. She saw that the other two women felt it too. Betty and Amber on the sofa, Marcia standing over them, all rooted by a common feeling, the imminence of miracle.

  “Bring him,” Betty said, and took off her robe. She really had taken good care of herself, Marcia saw. Small breasts that had hardly sagged, with carmine nipples that, as Marcia watched, stiffened and reddened exactly as though someone was tweaking them. A breeze blew Betty’s soft gray hair like a veil around her as she rose in place to kiss the ineffable.

  Amber too. She’d shed her robe entirely. Marcia had seen her friend nude many times, but never like this. Amber embraced something unseen. She flushed and—on her neck and shoulder—she bruised with Mikhael’s bites, blue and purple flowers blooming on her ivory skin.

  Betty put her hand on Amber’s pussy, fingers sliding in, and Marcia saw Mikhael’s hand too riding like a glove on Betty’s hand, shining. Amber cried and pulled Betty to her, pulled Mikhael to her.

  Marcia’s pussy ran like a river. Her clothing could not come off fast enough, blouse torn, panties and skirt in a single roll. Amber went down on Betty, eating her like a cat lapping cream. Marcia remembered what that felt like; shivering and naked now, she moved nearer to them, reaching out to touch a shoulder, a breast, feeling Mikhael’s aura around them like musky oil.

  The spirit ran from Betty and Amber onto Marcia.

  She understood the caress, Mikhael’s hands tender but absolute and claiming, chill then warming, as he ran them down her shoulders, her arms, over her breasts, tweaking. Just as the essence of Mikhael’s grace reached her pussy, Amber turned and began to lick her.

  Marcia felt two tongues, one on her clit, the other impossibly deep inside her. She was dimly aware that Betty had produced a dildo and was working herself to a climax. Marcia reached out and found Amber’s pussy and began to finger her, her hand gloved now with Mikhael’s essence.

  They came, all together, Betty crying like a bird, Amber moaning and Marcia calling Mikhael’s name, worshipping him.

  She found herself on a sort of plateau; the orgasm had been absolute, but Marcia knew Mikhael was not finished with her. As though Betty and Amber understood it too, they moved away from the sofa and knelt, watching Marcia.

  Awaiting Mikhael.

  Mikhael venhit.

  She saw him shining then, standing beside her, tall and lean. How could she not have seen his radiance before? The other times, she had seen him as a man, golden curls, mustached, with deep-brown eyes, but now she saw him whole, in his truth. The golden curls were scales of a sort, the mustache a whipping tendril, and the depthless, dark majesty of his eyes opened into starry nighttime skies.

  What was he?

  Tatters of sanity blew through her brain in the gale of Mikhael’s storm as he took her in his arms. She gasped, feeling the pressure of his torso, his hips thrusting, but she felt no hardness there. The length she had expected was missing.

  She remembered then and giggled a little, her sanity lost. Angels have no cocks, no pussies. That much at least was true.

  She
stepped back to look at him—she still thought of him as male—and saw in the space where his legs came together, where his cock should be, a light, a pulsing radiance that drew her closer, on her knees before him.

  Mikhael rested his taloned hand on her head, blessing her, then he lifted her up, spread her legs so she was open to him. She felt helpless in his grip, ready for whatever he would do to her. The angel pressed against her cunt and flowed into her, changing her flesh to joy, bringing her to divine climax all over, mind and body exploding into light, into knowledge that passed understanding. The final orgasm ripped through her, eternal, cresting and transforming her, until it consumed even her soul.

  Divine ecstasy rolled off her skin, out of her mouth, her eyes, her nose and pussy. She didn’t care that her screams tore at the walls and the foundation of Elysium House, didn’t care that Betty and Amber curled tight at her feet, insane with the waves of their own divine pleasure. This was the end of their world. Marcia understood that. And the beginning of a new one.

  She wanted to worship him as he had gifted her, to bring him to a climax that would obliterate wood and stone, lay waste to cities and the works of man. Mikhael would come as she had. She stroked where his cock would be, she bit at flesh she could not see, clawed with each growing orgasmic wave, drawing unseen blood under her nails, pulling him closer to join her in that white-hot bliss he’d bestowed.

  Yes, Mikhael would come, she would see to it. He was close, so close even as her lips and tongue worshipped the space where his cock would be, where such divinity swelled beyond flesh.

  He would come, and when he did—he was so close, she could feel it—the world would know his joy, his pleasure.

  His glorious, burning fire.

  The Mating Chamber

  Rose Caraway

  The cold morning breeze whipped through her tightly coiled black hair, across the swell of her small, dark breasts and licked between her exposed thighs. The sun rose above the jagged eastern horizon, warming the valley with its toasty golden rays. Dozens of women dressed in short robes absorbed the thin heat of New Spring; all brimming with sexual anticipation as they watched the most honored Hunters of Patriia assemble. At the queen’s signal, the Hunters parted the crowd and in single file, walked toward the Hill, their captives’ thick chains clanking heavily with each step. A collective rumble sounded from the entrants who looked on the shapes of the ten shrouded individuals in tow: this year’s captured Donum. Even Patriia’s youngest daughters ineligible for motherhood stood in awe, their games temporarily forgotten as they observed the procession of shackled men.

  As the Hunters paraded the Donum, the women behind Shresha gathered in tighter, pressing and pushing against her, but she firmly stood her ground just enough to lift her nose to each of the men as they slowly walked by. A spicy, masculine brew drifted on the breeze. She wrapped her arms around her middle and pressed her thighs together as lust surged through her blood. An undeniable, physical confirmation that she fiercely desired a man to impregnate her.

  The valley-dwelling Patriians were a formidable Matriarchal race that had no use for men except for once every year during the dawning of New Spring, when ten elected Hunters returned with breedable men to honor their Goddess, Shaiia. Handpicked by Queen Teshii herself, Shresha and nearly a hundred other women waited in the frosted grass. They were this year’s entrants selected as potential mothers and all vying for their chance to bear Patriia’s next daughter.

  The Hunters were forced to slow and then eventually stop as women crowded in around them. Shresha suddenly felt closed in, and the air seemed too thick. Too many women shoved at her back, stepped on her unprotected feet. It felt like she was trying to hold back a herd of wild beasts. She jabbed her elbows into someone’s ribs, forcefully shoved a woman off her poor foot and was fighting for space when an immense shadow fell over her. The frenzied chaos, halted. Shresha looked up and up. Her jaw slack, her mouth open. The last shrouded Donum had stopped just in front of her and looked as tall as a mountain. He towered over all the other men in line. With the tenacity of a spring flood desire rushed through Shresha’s body. She wanted this man. She knew that beneath the shroud stood a Dalkivian. The excited whispers around her backed her suspicions.

  The Dalkivian were an elusive race. A high-chinned breed of man, hardy and rumored to have hair that was the color of the sun—a glacial titan. No Patriian Hunter had ever brought one into their valley. A heavy jangle of chains at the massive man’s wrists brought Shresha’s attention to his hands. She gawked at their pale color but found herself enamored by their size! She could almost feel them caressing her flesh, could imagine how his thick fingers would move between her thighs and fuck her with nice slow thrusts. Those incredibly large hands promised a kind of power that Shresha shamelessly found herself wanting to experience even more than motherhood.

  It would take a moment to grow accustomed to a man’s body, she knew that, especially one of this size, but she didn’t care. She would willingly spread her legs wide for this man. With giddy desperation, she wanted to inspect the rest of his body, to see the other more fabled part of him, but the formless shroud prevented her even the slightest hint of what was hidden beneath it. The precession made its way toward the Hill again and several throaty growls of frustrated longing sounded from the disappointed women.

  The Hunters led their captives and neatly gathered behind Queen Teshiie, who stood at the top of the Hill patiently holding her wooden box. Teshiie was an older woman, well beyond the years of childbearing, but she watched as the Hunters settled the Donum into place with a look that suggested she wasn’t too old to still appreciate what was hidden beneath the shrouds. After the line settled, the queen spoke in a loud authoritative voice that easily carried over the crowd of eager young women.

  “Daughters of Patriia! It is New Spring and we have gathered once again with our most eligible women to celebrate our land’s sacred tradition!” Queen Teshiie lifted the black wooden box high above her head. The older woman smiled with great pride when the entrants threw their hands into the air at the same time, cheering in exultation. With careful reverence, the queen set the ancient box on its dais and added an extra flourish of her hands eliciting another round of excited cheers from the crowd. Caught in the moment, Shresha felt the sting of tears. That old box held her destiny. Silently she prayed to Shaiia for the thousandth time that morning and wiped the tears from her eyes. Instead of listening to the queen, she scanned the ten waiting Donum. Goose bumps returned hot and rough over her skin. Though she could have all of them if she won—that wonderful bounty of unexplored male flesh made her pussy slick with the need to conquer it—she knew there was only one man she truly desired.

  The big Dalkivian.

  The women nearest her deliberated as though at market deciding on the best cut of meat, openly discussing their thoughts on what the size of each man’s cock would be, especially the tallest one. Queen Teshiie lifted her hands to quiet them.

  “Settle down. Settle down, hush now, please. We have quite an exceptional selection this year and just like all of you, I want to see them revealed!” The women crowed good-heartedly at their queen. The older woman enjoyed the playful jeering and patiently patted the air. The old queen’s bright shining eyes looked on the mothers-elect. “That’s more like it. Now then, our Hunters have safely returned with an exceptional bounty and I think it particularly worth mentioning that Captain Shrom, our most honored Hunter, should be applauded for returning from the harsh Great Northern Glacier and successfully bringing back our very first Dalkivian!”

  Shrom stepped forward with a wide smile, her towering trophy standing behind her with no slack allowed in his chain. It occurred to Shresha that the man might be resisting but quickly dismissed the idea. The Mage always administered a tonic that made them easier to control. Shrom bowed deeply, accepting her due praise.

  “Before we begin, let us honor last year’s blessed mother—Darniisha!”

  The crowd erup
ted in a loud chorus as the woman removed her short robe and then walked up The Hill and proudly presented her three-month-old twin daughters, Zetsha and Rushii. Darniisha was a squat little woman and even from where she stood, Shresha could see the beautifully feathered lines that pregnancy had tattooed into her thighs and belly. This time Shresha felt tears of envy threaten to fall. There were so many entrants. Her heart plummeted.

  As Darniisha returned the awarded Key back to the queen the crowd stilled and quieted itself on its own accord. The Key of Patriia would be passed on to the next woman that would bear a daughter to honor Shaiia.

  “Before we begin, I must remind all of you that when I call your name, I want you to calmly approach the box, take one piece of parchment, keep it folded in your hand until all entrants have drawn. Then, when I say, you may unfold it.” The queen’s eyes narrowed as she then warned all of them, “Remember, motherhood is the greatest honor you will ever be blessed with and anyone flippantly disregarding that honor will be punished.”

  Shresha swallowed the lump in her throat as a heavy feeling came over her. She had witnessed a total of four stonings. She squeezed her eyes tight, sent another hasty prayer to the Goddess and waited as the queen began calling names. One by one, women strode up to the old black box, reached inside and plucked a folded paper from it.

  The minutes passed.

  Shresha’s eyes darted left and right as more and more women around her excitedly held a folded piece of parchment to their chests…

  “Shresha!” The queen announced.

  …And she wondered which one held the Key…

  “Shresha!”

  She didn’t think she could bear the gut-wrenching disappointment…

  “Shresha! For Patriia’s sake child, get up here!” The queen laughed. She could count fifty-seven daughters born under her reign, but the excitement never grew old for the old woman.