Library Charity
Wherein a young masturbator receives charity flowing from the bosom of the eternal mother goddess, and learns a wisdom not found between covers of books.
A romantic erotic fantasy in three chapters, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Chapter 1 – Charity Explored
~~~ Miriam ~~~
Miriam Toledano sat in her office, surrounded by shelves filled with bound volumes, folios, and scholarly texts—a fitting environment for a classics scholar and the Chief Librarian at a small liberal arts college. On her desk rested a small bronze statue of Cybele of Phrygia. Behind her hung a large reproduction of Léon Bonnat’s “Italian Woman with Child.” Two leather chairs positioned across from her desk invited visitors for conversation while encouraging subtle comparisons between the nursing mother in the painting and Miriam’s own striking Sephardic beauty and notably generous bosoms.
September brought the familiar rhythm of returning students and with them, Miriam’s annual ritual. She logged into the restricted section of the library’s circulation analytics portal. Most patterns were predictable—business majors gravitating toward case studies, literature students cycling through the canon according to their syllabi.
Then one student’s pattern caught her eye. Miriam leaned forward, her breasts pressing against the edge of her desk as she examined the titles: Macromastia: Historical and Medical Perspectives. The Iconography of Roman Charity in Renaissance Art. Lactation in Non-Western Cultures. Wet Nursing Through the Ages. The library searches diverged inexplicably from his major field of engineering.
“Quite the scholar of the female breast,” she murmured.
Miriam opened his student profile. Theodore Alban, rising sophomore, exceptional grades. The file photograph showed a pale young man with dark eyes that seemed to look everywhere but at the camera. His social discomfort showed even in this official documentation.
“So it’s you,” she said softly.
She remembered him from the library orientation for new and returning students. At the periphery of the audience of bored students, Theodore had listened intently while furtively gazing at her chest. She was used to young men staring at her breasts with a sense of entitlement or a crude evaluation. Theodore’s looks, however, held something else—a kind of wounded yearning, almost like a sacred admiration. When their eyes eventually connected, Miriam gave him a friendly smile. He quickly averted his gaze, feeling confused and embarrassed by her recognition.
Miriam opened the video surveillance archives to the dates that corresponded with Theodore’s most recent visits. The pattern was unmistakable: late evenings, always after nine, in empty rooms. Theodore in a corner alcove, lingering over certain pages, periodically checking his surroundings. Occasionally he shifted in his seat, his hand dropping briefly to his trousers to adjust himself. The hint of his arousal was unmistakable. Theodore Alban displayed all the qualities she sought in a candidate. The intellectual curiosity to frame desires — the shame that makes acceptance precious — the need that surrenders to guidance.
She would plan a meeting that appeared professional but allowed for deeper conversation. Perhaps discussing access to restricted texts or inviting him to view her personal collection. She would assess his openness to the unspoken.
“He will need careful handling,” she told the image of Cybele, the Magna Mater. “But I believe he’s ready.”
At the thought of what might develop, Miriam felt her breasts grow even heavier, the familiar pressure building beneath her skin. Her nipples tightened against the silk of her blouse, and she placed a hand over her left breast, feeling the warmth there. Soon she would need release. The timing seemed auspicious—her body preparing just as a suitable candidate emerged. The pressure would soon become uncomfortable, then painful if not addressed. Miriam glanced at her office door—locked. She had privacy.
She eased her chair back, turned, and gazed at the Bonnat reproduction, mirroring the nursing woman’s knowing expression. Miriam’s left hand remained on her breast, applying gentle pressure, and her right hand drifted downward slipping beneath her skirt. She closed her eyes as her fingers found their sought-after destination. She lingered in that moment, her mind conjuring the vivid image of Theodore Alban—his intense, furtive concentration, the palpable sense of his evident shame, and the delicate, reverent manner in which he handled the pages of books that spoke to his most profound desires. When her release finally came, it was a quiet, tender moment.
She straightened her clothing, adjusted her posture, and returned to her computer. She would send him an email — something appropriately academic yet personal enough to intrigue him. The ritual of selection had begun.
~~~ Theo ~~~
Theo arrived for his sophomore year filled with hope. After a freshman year with a roommate, he had his own space, thanks to the housing lottery. For a chronic masturbator, a private room was heaven: no more careful maneuvering around his roommate. Now, he could masturbate openly, no panic at the sound of footsteps or key turning in the lock, no holding his breath under the covers or angling his screen away from prying eyes. In the first week alone, he set a personal record for frequency, each time more urgent than the last, each time more elaborate in its executions.
And, inevitably, he indulged the shameful center of his fantasy: the female breast. His fetish extended beyond the ordinary to the monumental, the mythical: vast, pendulous, motherly, heavy with milk or at least the memory of it, always paired with hands or a mouth that adored them.
He had cultivated a rich taxonomy of mammaries, collecting painting, sculpture, and blurry snapshots. Last year he had stumbled upon the topic of Roman Charity during a late-night Wikipedia spiral, and from there it metastasized, drawing him into libraries and image archives, even into obscure corners of JSTOR.
The basic myth was simple: a woman, caught in act of breastfeeding her starving father in prison, redeeming the forbidden with the sanctity of care. Moralists presented the tale as an exemplar of filial piety, a testament to Roman virtue and familial devotion, but artists across centuries recognized its transgressive power. They rendered the scene with undeniable sensuality, transmuting moral allegory into erotic tableau. In their hands, Roman Charity became a sanctioned vehicle for depicting the forbidden – a woman’s breast offered to a man’s mouth, nurture transformed into the fever of desire.
Theo’s favorite rendition was by Rubens. The painting was baroque, dramatic in its chiaroscuro. Pero’s face was partially shadowed, but her expression carried a complex mixture of emotions—compassion certainly, but also power. Her hand cradled the back of her father’s head, guiding him to her breast with firm tenderness. Cimon’s posture was one of complete surrender, his aged body bent in supplication, his mouth latched to her nipple with desperate gratitude. The composition placed Pero in the position of strength despite her ostensible act of submission—she was the giver, the sustainer, the one with the power to nourish or withhold.
Tonight he sat naked at his computer and called up the images. His penis throbbed as he stared at the maternal figure, nursing the man’s hungry mouth at her bared breast. In his imagination the face of Reuben’s Pero dissolved, replaced by one he knew—Ms. Toledano, the university’s head librarian.
He recalled during orientation how her breasts strained in a cream-colored silk blouse. She had caught him staring and offered the slightest smile, leaving him confused and burning with embarrassment. Ever since, he fantasized her in place of Pero, and himself suckling at her bared breast.
He fondled his erection, a small damp drip already oozing from the tip. As he began to stroke, the image transformed. The elderly Cimon became younger, his features shifting toward Theodore’s own. Pero’s body changed, her breasts growing fuller, her posture more commanding. The prison cell dissolved, replaced by a warm, dimly lit room with soft furnishings and the scent of something floral and clean. His breathing grew ragged. his mind lost in the fantasy of nursing, of being held and fed and accepted in his deepest desire.
The rhythmic movement of his right hand accelerated. In his mind, the woman murmured encouragement, telling him he was good, that his hunger was natural, that she had been waiting for him, had prepared her body specifically for him.
Orgasm seized his body, intense and immediate, spilling over his hand. For a few transcendent seconds, Theodore existed outside of judgment, outside of shame, connected to something primal and perfect. His mind emptied of everything but sensation and fulfillment.
Then, as always, in post-climax let-down the fantasy vanished, and the familiar shame returned. The image on his screen seemed to stare, witnessing his guilt without absolution.
The chime of an email alert drew eyes to a notification banner. His heart stuttered. He grabbed tissues and brusquely cleaned himself. With trembling fingers, he clicked to open the message.
From: M. Toledono
Subject: Meeting Request – Research Interests
*Dear Mr. Alban,*
I’ve taken note of your recent database searches on classical iconography and maternal symbolism in Renaissance art. Your interests seem quite far out of your major, but do align with some specialized collections in our rare books section that aren’t catalogued in the general system. I would like to discuss these research interests further with you. I’m available tomorrow at your convenience. Please reply with a time that works for you.
Cordially,
Miriam Toledano
Chief Librarian
The fleeting idea that she had somehow known he was masturbating to her and timed her message accordingly was was absurd. What could her invitation mean? Was it really about research, or did she suspect his purient intent? Anxious and vulnerable, he gathered the tissues and disposed his residue in the small waste bin.
~~~ Invitation ~~~
Miriam Toledano’s pen hovered mid-signature as the 4:10 knock arrived. Theodore Alban appeared in her doorway—a portrait of academic penitence with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. He clutched his bag against his chest like armor.
“Mr. Alban. thank you for coming.” She gestured to the antique leather chair opposite her own. He settled, swallowing audibly, and looked everywhere but at her. Miriam let a silence grow, just long enough to clarify but not punish. “You’re not in trouble, Theo. Far from it. Please relax.”
He looked up, and she saw the desperate hope that made boys like this dear to her. She reminded herself not to savor it too much.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you in. I review our search logs, particularly for the special collections. Sometimes, interests… stand out. I noticed your repeated requests regarding the Roman Charity motif. The Caritas Romana.” She let the words hang; Theo’s eyes widened in fear.
She raised a hand. “No—please. I did not ask you here to censure. Quite the opposite. In fact we share an interest in this fascinating subject. Misunderstood, often maligned. The line between sacred and profane is… a porous one, don’t you agree?”
Theo nodded, shifting in his seat. He avoided Miriam’s gaze,
She indicated the statue on her desk. “Take for example the Cybele. The Phrygians worshiped her as Magna Mater, the Great Mother. Her priests castrated themselves in her service, surrendering their manhood for her maternal care. Remarkable, no?”
She reached into the leftmost drawer of the desk, withdrawing a slim, clothbound volume, and slid the book toward him.
“The nexus of the sacred and the erotic has been my area of special study.” He read the title: Transgressing the Maternal: Sacred Nourishment Across Cultures — by Miriam Toledano, Ph.D.
“I thought you might appreciate something a bit more focussed. It is a work of my own, a limited publication. I’ve marked Chapter Seven, which deals with Roman Charity. It goes beyond standard art criticism to discuss the expressly sensual, one should say sexual, dimensions of the motif. I believe you’ll find it engaging.” She watched his trembling fingers receive the volume and hunger and terror battle in his face.
“There’s much more to say, but some things are better discussed… informally. Perhaps over tea. If you find the material meaningful, let me know. I make a rather good rose-saffron blend.”
He rose, clutching the book, nearly toppling the chair. He managed a choked “Thank you, Dr. Toledano,” and retreated, colliding with the doorframe on his way out.
Miriam watched his departure, and turned to smile at the nursing Italian Woman. She permitted herself a moment’s reverie and then returned to her paperwork, humming a faint melody from her childhood.
~ ~ ~ (continued below) ~ ~ ~
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Library Charity | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-08-16