Ada liked books. She liked the feel of them in her hands, turning over that fresh leaf smell, marvelling at the book binding, the covers that could be works of art. Not all of them promised good reading. Some were a disappointment, all fussy artwork and nothing to show for it. Sometimes the plainest books could be the real treasure trove. Indigo Morgana was one such author. Her books were artless, black and embossed with nothing but the title, author name and a single silver star. Ada admired such simple style, even if it wasn't her own personal aesthetic.
Today she placed the seventh book on the shelf with the others. She was looking forward to winding down at the end of the week with it. Thank the universe for a pre-ordering system. She wondered what delights she would find in this one. The last book had been marvellous, Ada wished she could have experienced some of it for herself. She'd had to replace the batteries in her vibrators a bit faster this time, she thought wryly. It had been a while since she'd been able to share the books with. Book four, if she could recall correctly. Her partner had started to get bored of it by then. Spooning cosily while reading together had lost its allure after book three. Ada never tired of slipping her fingers in-between her lady's legs and playing with her cunt while absorbing the delights of the raciest bits of the chapters. Adored it when it was done to her. She often masturbated at the thought of being tended to, wanted to feel her lover's fingertips tease and glide all over her while they read something particularly delicious happening to the protagonist between the sheets.
She wondered if she was ever going to have the chance again.