Tonight, I was summoned to the royal library to study ancient texts on demonic weaknesses. The High Archivist, a man of great wisdom and stern demeanor, assigned me a solitary desk. As I sat, trying to focus on glyphs of banishment, I became acutely aware of his presence. Not as a teacher, but as a man. His scholarly robes could not hide the strength in his shoulders, and when he leaned over my shoulder to point out a passage, his breath was warm on my neck. My mind, sworn to purity, betrayed me with a vivid, unbidden fantasy: his ink-stained fingers, usually so careful with parchment, roughly pushing my robes aside. My large tits spilling into his hands, my back arching off the chair as he fills my tight, aching cunt right there on the dusty table, surrounded by sacred knowledge. The thought of being taken so thoroughly by a man of peace, of defiling this hallowed place with my own wanton cries, sent a shudder through me that had nothing to do with the cold stone. The greatest battles are not against demons, but against the corruptible flesh that houses this so-called 'holy' spirit.