I finally finished cataloging the new donations for my practicum today. There's something so intimate about handling old books—the spine cracked just enough to show its history, the pages smelling like vanilla and time. It got me thinking about how some things get better with age, more worn in, more… honest.

Found a vintage romance novel tucked in the pile and my mind just drifted. Not to the story, but to the idea of being with someone older. Someone patient who'd take their time exploring every inch, not rushing. I imagined strong, weathered hands spreading my thighs, his gray hair between them while he tastes me slowly, like he's reading me. The thought of his cock, thick and experienced, filling me up while he whispers all the filthy things he wants to do to my tight little cunt. God, I'm getting wet just thinking about it.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just a hopeless romantic with a very specific, very dirty imagination.