Library Charity
A romantic erotic fantasy in three chapters, for adult masturbators.
by Richard Lovel – Copyright 2025 – All rights reserved
Chapter 3 – Charity of the Magna Mater
“Before we proceed, Theodore, we should speak about boundaries and expectations.” She touched his wrist. ”I am not offering sexual intercourse. In fact, I will never allow you to have intercourse with me.”
Theo’s expression cycled through confusion to a curious relief. A burden had been lifted.
“I want you to remain a virgin for me” Miriam continued, “For me, and for all the girls at the college. Your urgent virginity is precious—it preserves something in you that intercourse would alter. This purity of your desire, this yearning unsullied by satisfaction. Do you understand?”
“You mean, like celibacy, chastity?”
“More than that. It is like the Phrygian priest castrating himself for Cybele. I want you to always remain unfulfilled as a man.”
Theo’s brow furrowed. “But this—what we’re doing—can I still…?”
“Enjoy sexual release? Oh Yes. But sexuality has many chambers, Theodore. What I’m offering is a different kind of intimacy.” Her hand moved from his wrist to his cheek. “Do you understand the difference? It isn’t rejection. It is an invitation to something deeper. Something few modern men ever experience.”
“Like in your book—the sacred versus the profane. The breast as both maternal and erotic.”
Miriam smiled. “Precisely. Can you accept guidance, Theo? Can you submit to my terms?”
The dampness on her blouse had spread, her body’s response to their conversation. Theo’s gaze returned to it, no longer furtive but openly reverent.
“Yes,” he said, and the single syllable carried both surender and relief. “I can.”
“Lie back. Rest your head here.”. He pivoted on the sofa, lowering his upper body until his head rested in the warm cradle of her lap, his eyes gazing up at her face.
Miriam’s fingers worked at the remainingbuttons of her blouse. The garment parted, revealing first the deep valley between her breasts, then the generous swell of the right one. She slipped the garment off her shoulder, exposing her breast completely.
Theo’s breath caught. Her skin was a rich olive tone, darker at the massive areola that surrounded her nipple. The nipple itself stood erect, and a pearlescent drop of white gathered at its tip, trembling with her heartbeat. Her breast was large and heavy, marked with the faint blue traces of veins beneath the surface.
“You may touch,” she said, her eyes holding his. “Here.” She took his hand, which had been resting uncertainly at his side, and guided it toward her breast. His fingers trembled as they made contact with her skin, warm and impossibly soft. She cupped his hand in hers, showing him how to hold the weight of her, how to cradle rather than grasp.
“Gently,” she murmured. “Feel the weight of it. The fullness.”
Theo’s palm curved around the underside of her breast, supporting its substantial heft. Her skin was warmer than he expected, almost feverish. Her breast moved slightly in his hand, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breathing.
“What do you feel?” she asked, her voice lower now, intimate.
“Warm,” he managed. “So soft, but… firm underneath. I can feel your heartbeat.”
Miriam observed his quickened breathing, the dilation of his pupils, the flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. Most tellingly, the prominent bulge straining against the front of his trousers.
“Your body is responding naturally. There’s no need to hide it.” She reached down and placed her hand briefly over the protrusion, not to stimulate but to recognize. “You may take your penis out, if you wish. You may touch yourself while you suckle.”
Theo looked up at her, startled by the explicit permission.
“There is no shame here,” she whispered. “Only exchange. My milk for your devotion. My nourishment for your release.”
With shaking hands, he unfastened his trousers and freed his penis—small but exquisitely formed, rigid with arousal, the head already glistening with pre-ejaculate.
Miriam nodded approvingly. “Now, bring your mouth to me. Part your lips and take my nipple between them.”
Theo raised his face slightly. The drop of milk had begun to trickle down the curve of her nipple. Her nipple, warmer and firmer than he’d imagined, pressed against his lips.
“That’s right,” she encouraged. “Now suckle. Draw me into your mouth.”
His first attempts were clumsy—too gentle, then too forceful. But then something ancient took over, some primal memory. His lips formed a seal around her areola, he gained latch, and he began to suck with a steady, rhythmic pressure.
The first taste of her milk surprised him—sweeter than he’d expected, with a hint of something almost nutty, warmer than body temperature. It flooded his mouth in a sudden rush, triggering an involuntary swallow. The sensation was overwhelming—not just the taste and texture, but the knowledge of what he was doing, of whose body was feeding him.
His right hand moved to his penis, wrapping around it with the same rhythm as his suckling. Miriam’s hand returned to his hair, stroking it in time with his movements.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Take what you need. There’s more than enough.”
As he continued to suckle, his initial awkwardness gave way to deeper connection. The world narrowed to this moment, to the warm flow of milk, to the weight of her breast against his face, to the exquisite pressure building in his groin. Every pull of his mouth drew not just milk but a kind of acceptance he had never known, an absolution for desires he had hidden for so long.
“That’s it,” she whispered. “Take your nourishment. Accept what I offer.”
His mouth on her breast and his hand on his penis formed a circuit of pleasure. Miriam’s milk continued to flow. The sound of his suckling filled the quiet room—a giving and receiving.
“Let me, now.” She reached down and gently removed Theo’s hand from his penis, replacing it with her own. “Use both hands to hold my breasts,” she instructed. “I will take your milk while you take mine.” The words created a link between his semen and her milk that transcended ordinary sexual contact. He brought his other hand up to cup her left breast while continuing to suckle from the right. Miriam’s fingers encircled his penis.
Her hand moved with deliberate slowness at first, establishing a rhythm that matched his suckling,, attentive to his responses, adjusting pressure and pace with intuitive skill. For Theo, the sensation was overwhelming— the profound reality of another person touching him in this most vulnerable place.
Theo’s hands grew more confident on her breasts, the left one still covered by the partially unbuttoned blouse. He pushed the silk aside, revealing its twin—equally full, the nipple already erect and leaking in sympathy with the one he suckled. The sight of both breasts exposed to him, heavy with milk and possibility, intensified his arousal. His penis pulsed in Miriam’s hand.
“In ancient Sumer,” she began, her voice taking on a storytelling cadence, “young priests would offer their seed to the goddess Inanna, spilling it upon her altar while priestesses expressed milk into their mouths. The masculine essence given up to feminine power, the feminine nourishment bestowed in return.”
Her hand continued its steady motion, each stroke punctuated by a slight twist at the top that made Theo moan against her nipple. The vibration of his voice against her sensitive flesh caused a fresh flow of milk to fill his mouth.
“The offering was never about pleasure alone,” she continued, her free hand stroking his hair. “It was about surrender—the surrender of the self to something greater. The seed was not wasted but transformed, made holy by its purpose.”
Theo’s right hand massaged her breast as he suckled, instinctively applying pressure in a way that aided the flow of milk. His left hand cradled her other breast, thumb passing over the nipple, coaxing forth drops of white that ran down the olive curve of her flesh.
“Yes,” Miriam encouraged, responding to his touch. “Just like that. Feel how the milk responds to your hands, how it offers itself to you.”
Her hand on his penis quickened slightly, responding to the subtle tensing of his thighs, the increased urgency of his suckling. Her palm was warm and slightly calloused—the hand of a scholar, familiar with books and papers, now applying its learned dexterity to his flesh.
Miriam continued her telling of ancient stories. “In Phrygia, the priests of Cybele, the Great Mother, underwent a ritual of surrender that demanded the ultimate sacrifice. By their own hands, they performed the act of self-castration, offering their manhood to the goddess in a display of unwavering devotion.”
Theo’s suckling paused momentarily, the weight of her words sinking into the depths of his mind. He could almost envision the solemnity of the act, the priests standing before the altar, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and exaltation, making their commitment to the divine feminine. The disturbing images strangely excited him. His mouth worked more hungrily at her nipple, and his hand on her other breast became more insistent, fingers kneading into the soft flesh.
Noting his excitement, she continued her story. “They believed that by relinquishing their manhood, they were not losing something but gaining access to a deeper power, a connection to the nurturing essence of the goddess herself.”
Miriam guided him deeper into their shared fantasy, Theo’s mind imagined the neutered priests, their devotion etched into their genitals.
“Cybele embraced her eunuch priests as her beloved children,” Miriam whispered, her breath warm against his ear, “and in return for their sacrifice, she granted them the gift of her milk—an elixir of strength and healing, transforming their very essence into something holy.”
Miriam’s masturbation of his penis became more focused, her grip firmer, her pace finding the precise rhythm that kept him balanced on the edge of climax without pushing him over. She studied his face as she worked, noting the flush across his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the flutter of his eyelids.
“You see, my sweet Theo,” she said, her fingers never ceasing their rhythm, “your virginity is not absence; it is offering, akin to the self-castrations of the Phrygian priests.”
She coaxed him further into this shared reverie as she stroked his penis. “Remain a virgin, Theo, your tribute to the maternal essence I offer you. You are surrendering your manhood to the care of someone who understands the essence of your longing.”
Theo’s heart raced, the weight of her words settling over him like a heavy mantle. He felt the gravity of the moment, the significance of his choice. His virginity like an offering laid bare upon an altar, a vow of fidelity to the maternal power embodied in Miriam. He understood the devotion the priests, neutered before the goddess, in testament to their faith.
“Just as those priests became children of the goddess, so can you become a cherished recipient of this milk, this nourishment,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the tumult of his emotions. “In your choice to remain unsullied by conventional sexuality, you will unlock an intimacy that others never know—a connection that is pure, free from the expectations and burdens of the world outside this sanctuary.”
The building tension in Theo’s body was unmistakable—the tightening of his abdomen, his penis swelling in her hand, the trembling in his thighs. His suckling grew desperate, almost frantic, as if he sought to draw not just milk but salvation from her body.
Miriam responded to his urgency, her hand moving faster now, with purpose. “Give yourself to me,” she commanded softly. “As I give myself to you. Complete the circle.”
The pressure building within Theo reached its inevitable peak. His body tensed, his mouth latched tight around her nipple, drawing milk with desperate need. The first pulse of his orgasm was a white-hot current of pleasure that shot from the base of his spine through his penis. His semen spurted over Miriam’s fingers in rhythmic pulses, each one accompanied by his deep pull at her breast.
As if in sympathetic response, Miriam’s milk flowed more abundantly, not just from the breast he suckled but from the other as well, thin streams running down his hand and wrist. His mouth could not contain it all—milk spilled from the corners of his lips, trailing down his chin and neck, mingling with the sweat of his exertion.
For a suspended moment, they existed in perfect communion—his seed flowing into her hand as her milk flowed into his mouth and over his skin. It was, as she had described, a circle completed, a ritual consummated not through the joining of genitals but through the sacred exchange of bodily essences.
As the final pulses of his orgasm subsided, Theo continued to suckle, though more gently now. Miriam’s hand slowed its movement but remained in place, cradling his softening penis, containing the evidence of his release. With her other hand, she stroked his hair with tender approval.
“Good,” she murmured. “So good, Theodore. You’ve done well.”
The praise washed over him, as nourishing in its way as the milk that continued to flow, though less urgently now, from her breast. In the aftermath of pleasure, something else bloomed within him—a sense of acceptance so profound it brought tears to his eyes. Not of sadness, but relief—the relief of being known, being seen, being welcomed with all his strange hungers intact.
~~~ Aftercare ~~~
In the hushed aftermath, Miriam held him, one hand stroking his hair, the other still cradling his softened penis with tender nurturing. Milk and semen cooled on their skin—temporary evidence of their communion, already beginning to dry. Neither spoke for several minutes, allowing the weight of what had transpired to settle around them like dust after a revelation.
Finally, Miriam reached toward the side table where a small cloth lay folded, as if she had anticipated this need. With deliberate movements, she began to clean the spent ejaculate from her hand and from Theo’s penis. Her touch was precise, gentle—the cloth soft against his sensitive skin.
“This too is part of our ritual,” she said quietly, noticing his gaze. “The cleansing after communion. The return to ordinary existence.”
When she had finished with his genitals, she helped him adjust his clothing, restoring a semblance of conventional propriety. Then she turned the cloth to her own breasts, wiping away the trails of milk that had spilled down her torso. She cleaned the nipple he had suckled, which remained darker and more prominent than before. Finally, she tended to his face—the gentle pass of cloth over his chin and neck, removing the traces of milk that had escaped his mouth.
When she had finished, she set the cloth aside and adjusted her blouse, covering her breasts but leaving it partially unbuttoned, as if to acknowledge that what had been revealed could not truly be hidden again.
Theo struggled to find words adequate to the moment. “I never thought…” he began, then faltered. “I always imagined it, but never believed…” Again, language failed him.
Miriam nodded, understanding the gap between his experience and his ability to articulate it. “What we’ve shared is ancient, Theo. Older than shame. Older than the divisions we create between mother and lover, nurture and desire. The breast has always been both—the first source of pleasure, the first experience of dependency, the first knowledge of another’s body sustaining our own.”
They sat in companionable silence for another moment before Theo found his voice again.
“What does this mean?” he asked. “For us, I mean. Going forward.”
“It means we have begun something significant,” she replied. “Something with its own structure and boundaries.” Her hand moved to his cheek, a brief touch that emphasized her next words. “I will see you twice weekly, if that suits your schedule. Tuesday evenings and Saturday afternoons. We will meet here, never elsewhere. What happens within these walls remains between us alone.”
Theo nodded, absorbing the parameters she established.
“There is one more condition,” Miriam said, her tone shifting subtly toward the maternal authority she had displayed earlier. “You may masturbate freely and often when you are alone. In fact I encourage you to do so, to the images that reinforce your need.
“But you will not pursue sexual relationships with other women while we maintain our arrangement. This is not jealousy—it is about preserving the purity of your response to me, about maintaining the particular quality of your virginity that makes our exchange possible.”
Theo considered this restriction, finding in it not limitation but relief. The prospect of navigating ordinary sexual relationships had always filled him with anxiety. This condition offered a sanctuary from that pressure.
“I understand,” he said. “And I accept.”
Miriam nodded, satisfied. “Good. Then we are agreed.”
Theo nodded, understanding that their first session had concluded. He rose from the sofa, gathering himself—not just his belongings but his sense of self, altered now by what had transpired between them.
As he moved toward the door, Miriam remained seated, a classical figure at rest, her partially buttoned blouse suggesting both concealment and accessibility. She watched him go with the satisfied expression of one who has initiated a worthy candidate into sacred mysteries—neither possessive nor indifferent, but attentive to the careful unfolding of potential.
~ ~ ~ end ~ ~ ~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Library Charity | by Richard Lovel | Copyright 2025 | All rights reserved
RL-2025-08-16