The Library

It always gave her a shiver as she walked in. It was something about the atmosphere that she couldn't quite pinpoint. It was partly the history; the thought of the thousands of people who had preceded her. Partly it was the appearance, a throwback to a time past when things were different, and her window to another world. The smell was unmistakable, row upon row of books bound by leather, mixed with the varying scent of people as they passed in narrow corridors. The air didn't circulate well, leaving the residue of each person over a century. And then there was the learning. New light cast on old problems, personal enlightenment and for every bright idea a thousand flaws. So many people, so many ideas, yet somehow a place so personal. For her it was the place she came to be alone. To be lost in her own world, where her ideas could develop, however fantastical they may be. No one would hear most of them, no one would comment, or criticise, or chuckle cynically. Her place.

Her exact place was a small desk near the back of the entire complex. As she wound around the narrow page filled corridors she hoped as she always did, that the desk would be free. Why did she worry? It was always free. For a start, there weren't many interested in her topic. Who would venture to the depths of the archives to explore a world nearly one thousand years before the birth of Christ? She often reflected on this. Her world had to be individual, for finding a shared mind, a shared intellect and interest, was difficult. She had bright friends, friends with whom she could relax and enjoy a good time, so it wasn't loneliness she defined. More it was a lack of intrigue and challenge.

The desk was, of course, free. Tucked away in an enclave behind the final row of books. Someone would have to know of its whereabouts to find it; such was its obscurity in the place. It was made of solid wood, with a high back leather chair, reflecting the quality and austerity of the period in which it was constructed. There was a small desk lamp, which, when the new motion sensitive lighting went out, would be her only light source. Sometime she would turn the light off and sit in utter darkness and silence, the lack of sound reflected all about her.

She sat down, and switched the lamp on. She was sure that no one had opened this particular volume for years; such was the stiffness of the paper and the musty smell it produced. For an hour she applied herself to her learning, the light and last signs of human activity long since passed. But her mind wasn't playing today. Her thoughts filled with memories, and try as she did, she couldn't shake them. She tried to remember the field trip that had just past, to apply her visual memories of the latest site of exploration on the south-western coast. She hoped to find relevance in something actual rather than another academic theory, but all that came to mind was the other characters in the group, eccentrics from across the country.

She remembered the party on the last night, full of technical speak and none of it revolutionary or stimulating. She hated being away, being told where to go, at what time. She had craved her own time and space. She remembered particularly the attractive couple at the bar towards the end of the night. Obviously holiday makers, care-free and not tied to a routine or schedule.

She smiled to herself bashfully as she remembered her outrageous actions that night. She hadn't intentionally followed them upstairs. As she emerged from her room after a quick comfort break they had passed her in the corridor, laughing and giggling. Then she had followed, around the corner, and observed them entering their room. It hadn't been her intention to loiter, but her fascination had grown, and for an hour she had stood listening, as their banter became more playful, and eventually more forceful. The corridor, much as the library was empty, so public, yet no one else was in this place and her private thoughts reigned.

She had no way of knowing exactly what went on, but her imagination told her everything. She imagined his pleasure as she nibbled and licked her way downwards. She heard his breathing as she expertly manipulated him in her mouth. Everything in her vision was perfect. His torso was toned and his legs sculptured, but it was the way that he seemed to read her that really captured her. He had massaged her for some time, with her exclusive noise emanating untold pleasure. He had talked huskily as she imagined him kissing the inside of her knees and working his way upwards. In her imagination he described in detail what he was intent on doing and the words were considered yet explicit. He loved the way her neck reddened, as she was aroused and the power in her thighs even as she relaxed herself. He loved her nipples when they hardened. He loved the smell and taste of her pussy, and loved to watch it twitch as he pleased her. He would fuck her slowly; he wanted to hear her panting, moaning and screaming.

In the library she could do nothing but touch herself. It was her private place, invaded by the most private of desires. She put her hand under her hooded top and brushed the flat of her palm across her stomach. As in her mind's eye, she writhed at the touch, tensing and relaxing simultaneously. She squeezed her breast through her bra, and could feel the hardness in her nipples. She imagined him between her legs, with his hand outstretched toying with those nipples, and rolled one between her fingers. The sensation was overwhelming and she let out a short moan.

Her other hand slipped effortlessly inside her jogging pants. She has started to get clammy, the slow moving air of the library and the intensity of the heat coming from her already aroused pussy. Her fingers ran through her hair and onto her moistened lips. She remembered the visual twitch of which he had spoken and felt her own contraction. As she moved her fingers onto her clitoris her arousal was complete, and she exhaled strongly. Now she imagined his cock, hard and definite. He had shifted himself upward and she knew with anticipation what was happening. That noise, of entry, when they had both moaned and kissed each other, had been her tipping point, the point in which she had come, there, in the hostel. But today, in the library, it was her entry point too, as her index finger slipped from her clitoris into her slick depths. She shifted her weight on the old leather chair, pulling her pants down slightly so she could clearly see her hand working. The leather had an instant impact on her skin as she sank backwards, and she slowly pulled herself on and off the sticky leather, in time with her hand movements.

Her breathing was ragged now, and her movements more urgent. She was drawing her palm across her clitoris and she moved in and out, finger fucking herself. Her mind raged with images, past experiences and fantasies all merged together. She could see his flesh softened by gentle lighting, and hear him now lost in a faster, less controlled passion. His cock was filling her, still rhythmically, but now deeply and strongly. She was biting his arm, scratching his back, pulling his hair. In the library she went into spasms, arching her own back, her pussy tightening and forcing her fingers out. She groaned loudly, only once and the the mustiness, individuality and age of her surroundings hugged her as her bliss subsided and her racing heart gradually faded to silence.

But then, from somewhere to her left came a noise. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but a footstep. And again, another, slow cautious steps breaking into a quick walk and gradually faded out. She looked at herself, still spread, with the small desk lamp illuminating her skin, as the consequences sank in. Someone was there, someone had seen!