"Would you help me over in Reference, please?"

Richard looked up from his filing. He swiveled his head, looking for the source of the clear, but tiny voice.

"I'm rearranging and I need someone to help move the shelves and lift the boxes of books."

He spied Sylvia, standing a little to the side and behind him. Richard nodded "ok" and filed the last two cards. He closed the card file drawer and followed her to the Reference Room.

Richard's role in this University Library was a small one. He worked twelve hours per week as part of his student's financial aid package. He was new to it in this September of his junior year. He was glad to have this job. Most of his friends were washing dishes in the cafeteria. At the library he would file, shelve, or check out books. He learned a lot about using the library, which he was certain would help him when he moved on to grad school. Mostly, he enjoyed the chance to meet and talk to the many people that used and worked there.

He especially enjoyed the chance to flirt with the coeds of his choosing. He had actually gotten lucky with one of them a few weeks ago. His target of choice was JoAnne, the graduate student's wife and coworker at the Circulation Desk. He sensed that she was lonely and wondered if he could become her lover. He thought that he sensed some return signals from her. He pondered his next steps. At any rate, whatever his conquests and prospects, he tactfully guarded them, flaunting nothing.

Richard was a good student. His sexual ambitions were normal for a young man of twenty years. He was a little unlike most of his classmates. He had a polite and unassuming nature that was not normal for his age. The college girls thought that he was good looking, which explained why his flirtations were seldom rebuffed. He was better groomed than most of the male students, but neither in a "spit-and-polish", nor in an effeminate sense.

He quickened his pace to catch up with Sylvia. He wondered if this new task would be a long one. His shift was nearly over; maybe he could get some overtime.

Sylvia Weinstein was the Reference Librarian. She had charge of all the materials available to students to find statistics, or facts or the sources of information they needed for their research.

If Sylvia's aura had been less drab, she would have been an enticing mystery-lady to a young man like Richard. Her manner of dress was plain, nearly hiding her form. Her skin was pale, but retained an olive tone at the same time. She was not very tall—maybe five-two. Salt and pepper hair suggested age, but her smooth facial features, hair style and slender build indicated youth. Her face was neither pretty nor homely. It had some Jewish features that added to her mystery. There was no hint of makeup. She wore no jewelry except her watch. In the employees' break room Sylvia said little. When she did, it was all business and in a voice that lacked volume but included a hint of condescension. Richard knew that she was unmarried, but nothing more. Yes, she was a real mystery lady. As he hurried to catch up with her, the barely-perceptible sway of her hips had Richard wondering more.

They arrived in the Reference Room together, and Sylvia pointed out the work she wanted performed. There was much to be done. Mostly, it was lugging boxes of dusty books and erecting the new shelves that had been delivered in kits earlier that day. Sylvia left him to it while she busied herself across the room. By the time Richard finished it was eight o'clock, closing time.

Sylvia approached him. For the first time Richard perceived a faint smile trace across her face. "Thank you, Richard. You were a big help."

"No problem, Miss Weinstein," he countered. "I was glad I could help you."

She offered no reply, but stood looking at him for a long second.

"You may call me Sylvia," she said. "Come to dinner at my house on Saturday. Seven o'clock. Here is the address."

On almost any other occasion, a young college man would relish free, home-cooked food. Richard was not all that excited. Saturday nights were reserved for fun, adventure, relaxation. He had been conscripted into reserving his night to dine with this older woman who did not interest him. Still, he had accepted. It was not in him to rudely renege when she was just trying to say "thank you". In the end he just shrugged and decided to go along with it. She would probably become tired and send him home by ten, anyway. He would get back to the frat house in time to tap the keg.

Richard liked to be on time. At last, in the dusk he found the roadside mailbox. There was a narrow driveway that wound up a wooded grade to a destination that was invisible from his vantage point. Richard followed it in his Toyota. After about 500 yards, he rounded a curve and he was at trail's end.

It was a small house in the woods. As he emerged from the car he could smell smoke escaping the chimney. The house was on one floor, but the architecture was too modern to be considered ranch-style. Despite the small size, Richard was sure it had been built at some cost.

He stood leaning on his open car door for a few seconds perusing the mysterious structure. His self-imposed ennui was fading and curiosity filling the void. He snatched up the bottle of Chablis that he brought with him and strode to the door. He rang the bell and waited. A minute passed. As he waited the chill in the autumn night air bit him. He wondered if she had heard the bell. Finally, Sylvia appeared, opening the door to him.

She was dressed almost as if at work. There were the black trouser-style slacks, neither snug to her slender form, nor loose as a pajama. Her hair was arranged just as always: parted in the center, brushed back from her forehead, descending to her shoulders. It hung straight down without waves nor curls, but with a slight frizz. She wore the expected shirt-style white blouse. Unlike the usual cotton, however, it was a shiny silk. Richard noticed that two, not one, of the buttons at the top were left undone. He was sure that she was unaware of it. At any rate, it revealed nothing, except a hint of a delicate collarbone.

There was, however, a huge difference in that as she opened the door an inviting smile replaced the usual taciturn exterior. Richard thought that he might have detected a trace of perfume.

"Richard", she gushed, "I am so glad that you're here."

"Sorry to be late," he answered. "It was hard for me to find your place. I don't come this way often."

"That's alright. Come in!" They stepped together into the main part of the house.

Richard glanced to the right end of the house and saw the fireplace crackling.

"I was just admiring your house from the outside before I came in."

"I know," she replied, "I saw you."

The answer was full of mystery. If she had seen him, why had she delayed in answering the door? Had she been angry at his lateness? She did not appear so. It tugged at his curiosity. Recovering, he thrust forward the bottle of wine.

"Richard, how thoughtful you are! It will go perfectly with our meal." She paused. "Most young men would not have the good manners to bring it."

Richard blushed at the compliment and shrugged. "The inside of your house is just as nice as the outside."

"Thank you, Richard. I like it here. It was built for me by a dear friend nine years ago."

"Oh, will there be someone joining us?" He didn't see evidence of anyone else in the small home.

"No, he's been gone a long time."

Richard had the presence of mind to avoid a follow up question.

Another pause intruded. She broke the silence, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable by the fire? I'll finish the cooking." With that she turned for the kitchen, located on the opposite side of the layout, the bottle of Chablis in hand.

Richard strode toward the fireplace. As if in afterthought, she called to him, "The whole house is what you see ... well, except for my bedroom, of course ... so I won't bother you with a tour. Make yourself at home."

What had the 'bedroom' comment meant? At any rate it was deflating, notwithstanding his disinterest in visiting it. Despite the irrelevance, her comment was a challenge that made him covet entry to the forbidden place...

As if she sensed his need to be soothed, she called again, "Fix yourself something to drink. Anything that you can find in the cabinet by the mantle is fine."

Richard found a bottle of Drambouie and poured himself a good one. "Anything for you?" he called out.

"No, thank you. I'll be with you soon."

Richard put a log on the fire and stoked it. As the sparks rose he took a gulp of the liqueur and glanced at Sylvia at the opposite end of the house, preoccupied in the kitchen. Her strange statements confused him. As the alcohol braced him, he turned attention to the appointments in the home.

He stood in a living room-den-dining room in combination. It was dominated by the fireplace, books and wood. The furnishings had an expensive look that told of good taste, and a scale that revealed disdain for large gatherings. There was a settee not far from the fireplace, rather than a sofa, with plush pillows on either end. Small, cozy chairs were set off remotely in intimate pairs. In front of the fireplace, in contrast to the hardwood floor, lay a luxurious-looking white area rug. It was rectangular, about four by eight feet in size. At first, it appeared to be fur, but he saw that it was not. He judged the material to be long strands of silk. It was definitely not designed for walking on. He carefully placed a foot on it and felt that a pad lay underneath it.

The fireplace provided the only light in the room. He saw two unlit candles on the dining room table, which she had set with simple elegance. He perused the many books on the shelves. He found some poetry, classics, Shakespeare, histories. He couldn't browse them all. The sparse light made it difficult to see. As he poured down the last of his Drambouie, she entered carrying a platter to the dining table.

As she lit the candles she called to him, "Would you like to pour the wine?"

His bottle of Chablis appeared, chilled and opened, and he filled both goblets. The meal that Sylvia prepared was Snapper with a cilantro sauce, rice and a vegetable on the side. They sat down, peering at each other through the lit candles. "I hope that you don't mind a light meal." she said. "I didn't bother with a first course. I don't get much practice cooking for guests."

He puzzled at her attempt to offer an apology that was not required.

"I think that this will be really nice, Sylvia. I can't wait to dig in."

"Thank you, Richard." He thought, to his amazement, that he could see her blushing. Her voice reverted to the low volume tone to which he was accustomed at the library. "I wanted to spend some time with you before dinner." Richard leaned forward so that he could hear her. "I'm a poor hostess. I'll make it up to you after dinner."

There she went again. The mysterious language, the ambiguity in her words, made Richard wish for a long pull on the goblet of wine, which he took. With the warm fire, and the recent Drambouie helping, a little buzz relaxed him. He saw Sylvia smiling at him and wondered what she might know that he did not.

Through the balance of the dinner the conversation was small talk—his courses, her books, the new art museum on campus. Richard found her intelligent and interesting.

They finished the meal and drained the bottle of Chablis.

"Coffee?" Sylvia asked.

Richard declined. "Too late in the day for me."

Sylvia spoke again, "I have some ice cream that we can have for dessert, Richard. Would you like some?"

"No thanks, again, Sylvia. I enjoyed the meal, and now I'm a little full."

"But you're not thinking of leaving already?" For the first time she appeared uneasy.

"Oh no, I just don't want any ice cream, but I'm not ready to go yet."

They looked at one another through the candles. Now it was Richard's turn for ambiguity. Sylvia looked back at him through the candlelight, possibly searching for some hint that might clue her as to how to parry this young man's advance.

Sylvia simply rose to clear the dishes. He stood to assist, but she stopped him. "Why don't you tend the fire," she said. "I'll clean up. Make yourself another drink. I won't be long."

He poured a new Drambouie and sat on the settee with the fluffy pillows on it. A book about antiques was on the end table and he started thumbing through it. It wasn't very interesting to him, so he alternately scanned it and stared into the fire. He was pensive, searching for clues to the strange happenings of this night in progress.

In the kitchen she was cleaning the dishes. She was almost done. Richard lifted his head, seeking relief from the fire's brightness. At that moment he saw her do something that perplexed him.

Thinking that she was unseen, Sylvia dipped a spoon in the dish of remaining cilantro sauce. She lifted some of the loose fabric at the front of her blouse and poured the spoonful on it. Richard turned his head away, pretending not to have seen the staged accident.

"Oh, Richard," she called out in feigned dismay. "Look at what I've done to my blouse! I have to treat this spot before it sets."

She rushed out of the kitchen into the great room and pointed to the spot to support her charade.

"I'll just go change. I won't be long. Pour yourself another, if you would like one"

She disappeared behind the door into the forbidden bedroom. Richard was still working on his earlier Drambouie. He freshened it, for he was enjoying its effects on his senses.

In the anxiousness of waiting, minutes seem like hours. Sylvia's absence was ten minutes, but in that interval Richard's thoughts traveled many paths that returned him to his starting point. He could not comprehend this mysterious woman, who was neither old nor young; was plain yet alluring; who spoke in provocative phrases that could be interpreted innocently. Why had she deliberately ruined her silk blouse, and why was this plain, older woman's absence stirring him? The questions were beginning to unnerve him.

Reason urged him to find an exit; excuse himself and leave. The nagging mystery would not allow it. He would remain to the end, until he found his answers. He raised his drink to his lips, looking for its warming effect to summon his courage. He was about to enter a maze with no knowledge of the ending. Youth was slipping away. Maturity endows courage. A younger man might have backed away.

At long last, the bedroom door creaked open. In the semi-darkness, Sylvia slowly emerged from her secret lair. A transformed vision crept into Richard's focus. The conservative garb had disappeared. In its place was a far more exotic ensemble. From her slender hips hung a pair of loosely fitting, unbelted pantaloons that gathered at the ankles like a harem girl's attire. The difference was that the fabric was heavier, a plush velour of gold, piped in crimson. The top was of the same material. It was a halter that mysteriously crisscrossed her with a tied bow at the waist. Her shoulders and arms were bare, as were her tiny feet. A horizontal strip of creamy flesh, a width of only three fingers, showed at the gap between the halter and the pants. It was, indeed, a transformation.

As she advanced with slow steps toward Richard, the moving folds captured and reflected the firelight. The soft velour appeared to caress her, suggesting her desire to be caressed. As she approached closer, Richard strained to discern, to no avail, some outline of her body beneath the drape. There were only the loose pantaloons, and the halter, whose lack of form indicated there was no bra underneath it.

She continued her silent, measured procession until, stopping on the white silk rug, she stood facing Richard still sitting on the settee some feet away. Motionless, arms loose at her sides, she beckoned him to her.

"Richard, come stand with me here on my silk carpet. Take off your shoes and socks first so you can feel the fabric."

Richard obeyed, so that he was barefoot, as she was. He stepped onto the white silk rug, immediately felt the sensual effect of the rich fabric on his skin. He stood inches from her.

She looked up at him. "This is my special rug," she whispered. "It is too precious to display all the time. I only bring it out for occasions like this."

She closed the remaining gap, creating the first contact between them. It cued him to embrace her and they shared a kiss. It was long and unhurried. It was neither a kiss of friendship nor of passion. It was an introduction as they explored the softness of their lips upon the others'. Richard looked at her face, eyes closed, nose twitching slightly as she manipulated her lips to caress his.

Breaking the kiss, but still embracing, she said, "Doesn't it feel wonderful?"

Her ambiguity stirred him anew, for he had enjoyed the kiss but also remembered her invitation to stand barefoot on her silk carpet hadn't escaped him. He would test the double meaning. He strengthened his embrace and bent his head down to her. They resumed. She purred her approval, the reward for his courage. This time the kiss had more passion, was more urgent. Tongue probed one another. Inner defenses softened and relaxed.

"I hope that you are not too full to be comfortable," she said, or maybee asked.

"No, I'm just right."

"Good, I like to serve a light dinner just for that purpose." Her tone portrayed some playfulness.

She pulled slowly back from him with a knowing look in her eyes and a wry smile. She placed her palms on his shoulders, and then ran them down the length of his chest, his abdomen, finally hooking her thumbs in his belt. Richard remained motionless in anticipation. She sank to her knees on the white silk rug. With delicate fingers she eased down the tab of his zipper.

Richard braced himself for the experience that he sensed was approaching. His shallow trysts with deflowered coeds did not match this erotic journey. On her knees before him was an experienced siren who knew how to unlock the instincts of a man. He trembled a little, fearing the unknown.

"Richard," she proclaimed in a whispered, but projected, voice that rose over the crackling of the fire, "I am going to blow you." She was not asking permission, nor did she say it with lewdness. It was her announcement of the path. She was leading him; he would follow.

Richard lost control of his breathing. He gasped in a breath as his excitement threatened to induce a further loss of control. He looked down at her and she gazed back, with a look that made Richard feel that she understood.

"Do you know this pleasure?" she asked him in her lilting tone.

Richard, unable to speak, could only shake his head 'no'. She smiled, as ifto tell him that she had known the answer in advance.

"Then I will teach it to you," she said as she rose to face him.

Richard trembled as she removed his clothing. She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders. His undershirt followed, which he obediently allowed her to lift it over his head. She tugged his belt buckle next and opened it. She grasped the button of his trousers. Richard became dizzy. He thought that he might ejaculate and struggled to hold it back.

She released the button, placed her hands on his bare shoulders. She kissed him tenderly, which served to calm him a little. Her subdued voice crept into his crowded thoughts.

"Perhaps you are afraid of..." she asked and then hesitated as she searched for the right words, " ... erupting too soon with the excitement of this new experience?"

It was a statement more than a question. He was relieved that she understood his struggle. He uttered a gasped "yes"; an answer that Richard knew that she had already predicted.

She raised up on her toes, leaned into him, her lips brushing his earlobe. He felt the velour halter on the bare skin of his chest. She whispered to him, "I will tell you how to avoid that outcome, and you will be successful if you allow me to teach you."

"Yes, tell me!"

She bent back to her task, unbuttoning his pants, pulling them to his ankles along with his underwear. She tapped his ankle; he stepped out of the pants; she cast them aside. Sylvia stood again. She stretched her bare arms around his neck. She did not crush herself into him, but stood so that her velour-covered frame was brushing his naked body. The soft fabric felt good. The fire warmed his flank. His senses were sending signals of pleasure to his brain. He even forgot to imagine her as-yet unseen body cloaked in the velour. She turned her face up towards his and spoke to him.

"Don't fight with yourself," she began. "Savor every feeling. Feel what is happening in each moment. Anticipate nothing. It is expectation that blocks your senses in the present and brings you to your destination before your arrival. Let me guide you. I will do everything."

She pressed her arms down gently, still entwined around his neck. He obediently sank down, kneeling on the silken rug. Another gentle push at his chest and he was on his back, facing up to her as she knelt beside him. He was parallel to the fireplace. It warmed his naked body. The silken rug was soothing. He felt his erection pointing at the ceiling. She reached out to take one of the pillows from the settee and placed it under his head.