Library Charity
A romantic erotic fantasy in three chapters, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Chapter 2 – Charity Desired
Theo hesitated before the weathered brownstone, hand raised to knock. The door swung open before his knuckles could make contact with the wood.
Miriam stood before him in a dark silk blouse and flowing skirt, her hair pinned loosely. A classical statue draped in living silk.
“Theodore, I saw you from the window. Please, come in.”
“Thank you for having me, Dr. Toledano,” he managed.
“Miriam, please, We’re not in the library now.”
She led him into a living room from another era. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. Rosewater and old paper scented the air. From hidden speakers, a melancholy string quartet played.
“Do sit,” she said, gesturing to a seating area dominated by two armchairs and a small sofa. A silver tea service gleamed on a low table.
Theo sank into one of the chairs, trying not to stare at the artwork that adorned the spaces between bookshelves: a framed print of Roman Charity in which a young woman offered her breast to an imprisoned old man; a replica of the many-breasted Artemis of Ephesus; a small bronze statuette of a Mesopotamian goddess whose hands cupped pendulous breasts dripping with stylized milk. It was a gallery of maternal archetypes, a shrine to feminine nourishment and power.
“Lapsang souchong with rose and saffron,” Miriam explained, pouring tea into delicate porcelain cups. “My own blend. And these are pistachio and cardamom cookies. Please, help yourself.”
Theo tried to focus on the pastries, the books, the music—anything but the gentle rise and fall of Miriam’s chest as she breathed, the way her blouse pulled slightly taut when she leaned forward.
“How are your engineering studies progressing?” she asked, settling into the chair opposite him.
“It’s going well. I’m taking an advanced seminar on cantilever systems this semester.” Theo replied, grasping at a neutral topic, then realizing an unintended implication.
“Cantilevered systems,” she said, watching his eyes drawn to her breasts. “Support of projecting structures, the balance of tension and suspension.”
They continued casually for several minutes—his classes, his academic interests, the upcoming symposium on urban infrastructure. But his eyes betrayed him, returning to the curve of her breasts visible beneath the silk
Miriam’s expression set her cup down.
“About the book I loaned you. Especially Chapter Seven? What are your impressions?”
“That part was… illuminating,” he replied, barely audible.
“Did you masturbate to it?” she asked, her tone uninflected, unchanged.
Theo’s hand jerked, sloshing tea onto his wrist. He opened his mouth but his constricted throat produced no sound.
Miriam smiled. “Good. I will take that as a ‘yes’.”
He looked up, confused. “Good?”
“Yes. It was a test, in a way. Not of your desires—those were clear to me from your research patterns. But of your honesty. Shame makes liars of us all, especially in matters of desire. I needed to know if you could speak truth, even when it costs you something.”
The weight of judgment he had expected didn’t come. Instead, he felt a strange lightness, as if some burden had been partially lifted.
Miriam rose and withdrew a volume from the bookshelf. Rather than resuming her place in the chair, she settled on the small sofa and beckoned Theo to sit beside her.
““Come, I want to show you something. This is galley proof of my book. It contains illustrations I couldn’t include in the published work,” she explained. “Too explicit for academic press, though they’re centuries old.”
The illustrations were larger in this volume, and more sensual — artists across the ages presenting the act of nursing with both tenderness and transgressive erotic tension.
The first page showed an illuminated manuscript depicting a noblewoman with one breast exposed, offering it to a kneeling knight. The woman’s expression serene but knowing, the knight’s posture both reverent and desirous.
“From a 14th-century French romance,” Miriam said. “The Lady of the Lake nursing Lancelot to health after a battle. Note how her hand cradles his head—they share an unmistakable gratification.”
Theo found his voice. “In your book, you wrote about this tension—how Western culture tries to separate the maternal from the erotic, but other traditions embrace their unity.”
She turned to an illustration showing a woman with impossible proportions, her breasts enormous and pendulous, offering one to a much smaller naked male at her feet.
“This separation is relatively recent, historically speaking. Earth Mother iconography from a pagan sect in Northern Europe. The dual aspect is clear here—she is both maternal and erotic, life-giving and pleasure-bestowing.” Miriam’s finger indicated the smaller figure’s penis. “Notice the exaggerated prominence of his erection. Lacan might call it our cultural neurosis—the desperate attempt to cleave what naturally belongs together.”
“Lacan. You mentioned him in the chapter.”
“Jacques Lacan, yes. His theory of desire centers on absence—what he calls ‘lack.’ The infant’s first experience of desire comes from separation from the breast.” Miriam turned another page, revealing a Renaissance painting of a nursing Madonna. “The lost breast becomes the prototype for all desire—we seek what we have lost, what we can never fully possess again.”
She turned a page to reveal a Renaissance rendition of Roman Charity where milk sprayed from Pero’s breast in an improbable arc. “Moralists presented Caritas as an allegory of filial piety. But artists understood the primal connection, the breast as the first and most profound source of desire.”
Theo stared at the painting, timid, but daring the question. “And… adult nursing? Is that an attempt to recover what was lost?”
“The adult nursing relationship,” Miriam’s voice dropping, “recreates this primal bond within the context of adult desire. It acknowledges the power of oral gratification while transcending mere sexuality.”
She closed the book and placed it on the table, turning to face him directly. Theo’s mouth had gone dry. He was acutely aware of her breasts rising and falling with each breath, and of his own growing erection.
“Do you mainly masturbate to nursing fantasies, Theodore?” Miriam asked, her gaze steady on his face. “Have you ever suckled a breast?”
Theo’s breathing grew shallow, his pulse quickening. The moment demanded honesty, but honesty required vulnerability he had never risked before.
“I—” he began, then faltered. The enormity of confession paralyzed him.
“Take your time, but know that I already see you, Theo. I’ve already recognized your hunger.”
Something in her tone—its certainty, perhaps, or its complete lack of judgment—breached the dam.
“I’ve never… I’m a virgin. I’ve never even kissed anyone. But when I masturbate … I always think of … that”
Once begun, the confession gained momentum. He told her about the hours spent in private masturbation with his laptop, about the images, the shame that followed each release.
“I know it’s not normal. I know I should want… regular things. Sex. Not this… obsession with breasts and milk. I worry that I’ll never be able to have a real relationship. Afraid I’ll be alone forever with just… just my hand and these fantasies.””
The relief of speaking mingled with the terror of judgment. He had exposed himself completely, laid bare the secret architecture of his desire.
Miriam’s hand covered his. “Your needs are valid, Theo. They’re ancient. Primal. There’s no shame in them. “I should tell you something. Something about myself that relates to what we’re discussing.”
She shifted closer, and raised her hands to the collar of her blouse and unfastened the top button. The gesture was not theatrical or seductive, but matter-of-fact.
“I have a condition known medically as galactorrhea—persistent lactation in the absence of pregnancy or childbirth. My body produces milk continuously.”
Theo stared. “How is that possible?”
“In most cases, it’s caused by hormonal imbalances or medications. But mine was intentionally induced, through frequent nipple stimulation.” Her eyes held his. “Yes, Theo. I have my private pleasures, also. The body can be trained, with patience. A conscious choice my body and I made together.”
Another button slipped free; she went no further, only hinting at the deep cleavage of her bosom. Yet the partial unbuttoning unlocked a door not yet opened.
“The breasts require regular emptying. I have a pump, of course. But I prefer… more natural methods. The pump is efficient but… mechanical. Cold. It extracts the milk but provides none of the connection, none of the mutual satisfaction.”
Miriam shifted slightly, and Theo noticed a change in her breathing. “Which brings me to a point. I can feel my milk letting down now. It happens when I feel… needed. When I recognize genuine hunger in someone worthy of satisfaction.”
She studied his face with careful attention. “The body knows, Theo. It’s preparing to feed even as we speak.”
Theo’s eyes widened at a small dark spot forming on the silk of her blouse, just below her right breast. A dampness spreading outward in a perfect circle. He was frozen in his seat, trying to form questions that wouldn’t emerge.
She asked for him. “Would you like to help me now?”
“I… yes. But I don’t know how. I’ve never—”
“I’ll guide you. All you need to bring is your desire.”
~ ~ ~ (continued below) ~ ~ ~
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Library Charity | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-08-16