The Art of Femininity in "jotting"

Library after hours, only emergency lights. jotting finds her perched on the oak table between stacks of ancient books. Skirt rucked up, no panties—because planning. She trails a leather-bound volume down her chest, then uses its spine to part her folds in jotting. The blasphemy makes her wetter. Pages rustle as she grinds against centuries of knowledge. When she trades the book for a crystal wand hidden in her bag, the silence of jotting breaks with her unrestrained cries echoing down corridors of literature. Coming surrounded by millions of words yet unable to form a single one, she marks her favorite volume forever—proof that jotting is the most dangerous story ever told.