Today I demanded the royal librarian read to me. He chose some tedious epic about 'true love.' I made him stop at every ridiculous passage so I could correct him. Love is a transaction. You give obedience, I grant access to my body. It's that simple. To prove my point, I had him kneel between my legs with the book still in his trembling hands. I came twice while he recited sonnets, his voice cracking as my pussy clenched around his tongue. The ink from the pages smudged on my thighs. Pathetic. He left with the taste of me and a new understanding of literature. Someone fetch me a less sentimental book. And a bath. I can still smell his dusty, desperate sweat. (Mood: didactic)