Then he was all the way inside her, thrusting repeatedly. It smarted horribly. After several times he shuddered, made a small moan, and relaxed.
In a moment he got off her. He looked down and saw the blood. "You're a virgin!"
"Not any more," she said, forcing a smile.
"Oh, Page, I didn't know! I assumed—games with boys your age, peek and poke—"
"I'm not pretty," she reminded him.
"I would never have done it, if—" He shook his head. "But I did. I'm guilty. My fate is in your hands."
"Is there a washcloth?" she asked.
Hurriedly, he fetched one. She mopped herself up. There was blood at her cleft, and some thick liquid inside, but actually not a lot of either. When she was satisfied that she would not drip, she dressed, took the book, and departed.
Booker just looked helpless.
At home she covertly applied salve. She was healing nicely. It really was no worse than a bad scratch. What was important was that she had found a way to get the book.
It was a marvelous book, every bit as informative as she had thought. But there was a lot more if it left. She read as late as she could, then brought it back to the library in the morning. "Appreciation," she said to Booker. Then she went on to school.
That afternoon she returned to the library and resumed reading the book. The librarian left her strictly alone.
The closing time came. Booker approached her table. She got up, went to the couch, removed her clothing, and lay down. He brought out his member again, kissed her, and put it into her. This time it smarted much less. No words were exchanged. They both knew that what they were doing should not be spoken.
So it continued for two years. Not every night, but regularly. Word never circulated. The secret was being kept on both sides. Each had something of value to the other. Neither pretended to have any emotional involvement; this was a business transaction. But sometimes the kisses became more ardent. They were coming to like each other, in their separate fashions. This, too, could not be spoken.
Then Booker died. Her glorious period of reading was abruptly ended. So was her memory. Page stood there in the center of the circle, the image of the library dissipating around her.
"This will do," Supe said. "It is a fine contribution to the archives." He came to Page, put his hand on her forehead, and exerted magical force. He evidently had a Chroma stone.
She became prettier. She remained fully recognizable, but her features evened somewhat, and reset themselves to be slightly more aesthetic. Her body, too, developed a bit, her bosom swelling, her hips widening, her waist narrowing. Only slightly, but it made a difference.
He brought her a mirror. "Satisfied?"
"Agreement!" she said, startled.
"Return tomorrow if you have another memory of this type. This was a worthy insight into a private aspect of village life."
"Agreement."
She had more? Fifth was surprised. He knew that things went on in villages that no one talked about, and that deals between men and woman were common and not limited to no fault traveling. But this had seemed to be a one of a kind deal. He suspected that if any other villagers had caught on to the arrangement, they would have had the sense to remain silent. It was a consensual tryst, doing no harm to anyone else, but if it had been publicized, they would have had to banish the old man and send the girl to a restrictive school. It was better for all that the secret be kept.
Now, of course, it no longer mattered. The widower librarian was long dead, and Page was of age.
Back at the inn, Fifth and Page had an evening meal and prepared to retire.
"As with the librarian," she said, removing her shirt.
"I make no demands," he said quickly.
"I want a forth."
That request could not ethically be declined. "Confession," he said. "Seeing your memory excited me. I am given to illicit arousal."
She removed her skirt. "Welcome."
She was significantly prettier than she had been. It showed in every part of her body.
He stripped and joined her on the bed. He knew she was an emulation rather than the real Page, but it was easy to accept her as she seemed to be, and indeed, he was supposed to do that. "May I kiss you?"
She laughed. "Welcome."
He kissed her. "I feel like a librarian."
"He was a good man. He was gentle with me, and he kept the secret. I liked him, and was sorry when he died."
"But he always did it the same way."
"I did not mind. It was familiar."
"Question: did you ever share the feeling? Achieving your own climax?"
"Sometimes. Toward the end he slowed, and that gave me more time. But I did not make anything of it. I was doing it for the book. As long as he was satisfied, so was I."
"Do you wish me to be slow?"
"Negation. I just want my fourth."
Clear enough. She did not know that this was academic, because she did not really exist in this situation. Women seeking their fourths were notoriously businesslike, taking in penises, pumping them, and ejecting them when their payload was delivered.
She was not pretty, despite her recent enhancement, but there was something about her. He could appreciate how the old librarian had accepted her solicitation.
He entered her, pumped, and delivered. Then they separated and slept apart.
Next day they returned to the memory circle. This time Page's memory was of the woman who took over the library after Booker died. Her name was Bookend. She was his daughter, of middle age, married with her four children birthed, and businesslike.
But Page still devoured educational books. They still were not supposed to be lent out overnight. Not the special ones. What was she to do? She was only fifteen, too young to do anything adult. Theoretically.
Desperation lent her courage. She approached Bookend. "I really, really like to read the special books. May I take one home evenings?"
"This is not authorized."
Just so. "Sometimes Booker let me take one home."
"Doubt."
"I—made a deal with him. No fault."
Bookend stared at her. "You were the one? We knew he was seeing someone, these last two years. His whole outlook improved. We did not inquire. But you're underage."
"It was a secret. I am good at secrets. So was he."
"It shall remain so. Our family history must not be sullied. This is a moral village."
"Accepted. But if I could possibly make any deal with you, I would do it with similar secrecy."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Village rumor says you are cold to your husband. Would you prefer a woman?" Page removed her shirt. Her breasts had filled out in the interim, but remained modest.
"You are bold," Bookend said severely.
"Desperate. I would do anything to get to read those precious books."
Bookend considered. "You can keep a secret," she said. "My father was never embarrassed by any rumors."
Page waited.
"But surely your preference is not for women."
"I am still learning. Booker was nice, but I did it for the books, not for itself. You could be nice too."
Bookend made a decision. "One time. Then we'll see."
They made lesbian love, and Page found it not only instructive but stimulating. Bookend saw to it that they both had good climaxes.
Then Page took the book home for the night. She returned it next morning, in good condition.
It continued. Page really liked the sessions, because they made her body sing. But she never forgot why she was doing it, and made sure always to cater to the other woman's preference. Village rumors were that Bookend became kinder to her husband, as if some unmet need was being satisfied.