Studying Late

All characters in this short story are over 18.

*****

I was heading into the library, planning for about three hours reading one sunny Friday evening in early August after a late tea, I headed to my specialist area, where there are a bank of desks. I settled in, and found I was alone in the room except for one lonely figure about 9 desks to my left, with a desk lamp to her left, and two piles of resource books (perhaps previous dissertations) and an A5 notepad in front of her. With the light behind her, her face was obscured, but her silhouette was both striking and mysterious: She closed the book she was reading as I glanced up, and lifted it to the top of the stack to her left, and her profile was starkly described from hip to crown as exquisite. Her brown, shoulder-length hair fell just below the collar of her blouse. Her breasts were full and womanly, and her top was pulled tight across her body showing how her figure curved into her waist - not slender, but curvaceous and firm. My body tightened in response.

I suddenly became conscious that I was staring. I quickly checked myself over, and turned back to my desk. I opened my notes for the titles of the volumes I needed, but knew immediately that I was too distracted for any kind of valuable study.

I took a quick glance up again. Again, I saw only her silhouette, but her posture had changed. She was either facing me, or facing directly away. I glanced away quickly. Had she seen me staring? Was she avoiding me... or was she looking my way?

I looked at the titles. All were in the Ancient Greek Lit section, but I started to flick further in my notes, and yes, I knew it: There were some older texts that I knew would be in the stacks. That would take me right past that shadowy vision. I unclipped the ring binder, and the sound of the click resonated across the hollow, deserted room.

I pushed my chair back, allowing the chair to scrape a little, watching as I did to see if she would flinch. Her indistinguishable form didn't move. I set off towards the door behind her, and as I reached her, I tossed out a 'Hi' in what was supposed to be a library-sensitive public whisper, but came out more as a croak.

Still with the light behind her, the figure in what I could now see what a white and green top turned towards me. 'You're working on a Friday evening?' a thickly accented voice asked. I knew my European accents, and my guess was either Russian or Ukranian. 'I thought I'd be the only one here tonight.' She stood up and stretched, as if she'd been here for hours.

'I'd thought the same. Just heading towards stack 3. Is your mentor working you hard over the summer, too?'

'Mentor? No, I'm resitting one of the modules from by second year, and wanted some quality library time.'

'Have you been here long?'

'Ermm.. what time is it?'

'About 8:45'.

'Oh. Well, about 4 hours, then. I had no idea it was that late. I can get totally carried away when I read these papers. I wish I could take them out but they're reference only. There's something about studies in victoriana that just consume me.'

'Victorian literature?'

'Well, it's quite specialised - I'm actually reading about the... well, let's say the less common kind of literature from that period. Stuff you won't find in Waterstones, anyway.'

'Do you mean porn?'

'Well, it's not like you get nowadays. It's more sensual; more descriptive. Charming, and passionate at first, like a novel. Then, when he gets her submission, he tends to... well let's just say the female character just disappears into fulfilling his desires. It's clearly a male audience, and like most literature, the 'gaze' is male.'

'So you're sat alone in a darkened library, reading porn on a Friday night?'

'When you say it like that, it sounds almost seedy. I'm not sat here masturbating over it, if that's what you mean.'

'You mean this doesn't turn you on?'

'I didn't say that...', she came back quickly, with a new undertone in her voice. I mean, listen to this. It's from 1891, a book called 'The Pearl'.

'Around my form his pliant limbs entwined,

Love's seat of bliss to him I then resigned!

We pant, we throb, we both convulsive start!

Heavens! then what passions thro' our fibres dart!

We heave, we wriggle, bite, laugh, tremble, sigh!

We taste Elysian bliss—we fondle—die.'

As she read, I could feel my arousal build. She stood as she finished, and I could feel her breath had changed.

'We're alone, here', She said, matter-of-factly, closing the distance between us with a stride that brought her within touching distance of me. 'You're clearly an educated man. I'm sure you can read signs. I'm not single, and I'm not available, but I'm here, and I'm alone, and I can see you find me... attractive. If you'd like this evening to be something you'll never forget, then I could come with you to get your book...'

I had no hesitation. I took her hand as I passed her, and she turned to follow me silently. As we moved past the light I saw her face clearly for the first time. Her eyes were deep-set and either green or blue. She had rigorously plucked eyebrows, and her face was young and fresh. Her hair was dark, but her roots were lighter, as if she'd dyed it black and a thought ran through my head as to why any blonde would want to do that. Her top was white with a tight green pattern, making it look green on approach, and as she stood and moved, I saw the fabric flare away from her at the hips, and I realised it was a charming, playful summer dress. There was a deep v between her full, almost pendulous breasts, and I saw a wealth of cleavage held up by the fabric which joined into a knot behind her neck. She was simply beautiful. Not slender, not even slight. A strong woman with shape and bounty, and I was imagining her naked with every step as we headed towards the darker, closed section of the reference area.

We came to a closed door, and she reached out to the collar of my polo shirt, and pulled me closer to her.

'I can open this door if you like. No-one will disturb us in there', I offered.

'No-one will disturb us here.' she answered, louder than before, and with an impatience and thirst in her voice I hadn't expected. She kissed me, and I reciprocated, allowing my tongue to dance around her lips, and dueling and massaging hers as she tilted into me, and pressed her delicious body into mine.

I reached down to her, my right hand stroking down her lascivious body until I took her generous buttock firmly in my hands, and found the hemline of her dress.

My fingers danced on beneath it. I reached down to stroke her thigh, expecting tights or legging beneath, but feeling soft, responsive, warm flesh instead. My arousal built with every breath as I knew this would be an encounter I would never forget, and knowing my fantasies were paling into insignificance by the instant in comparison to the sensations of this Athenian goddess that was holding me; kissing me with abandon, and determined to have her lust-sating way with me.

I scooped her leg up, pulling her body against my now raging erection, cursing the thick fabric of my jeans and caressing the smooth, soft skin of her calf. I found she had no shoes on, and I stroked her heel, the soft skin beneath her foot and her toes in turn. As I began to bring my hand back up, her own hands fell to my jeans, gripping coarsely and demandingly at my erection through the now hated cloth, then searching for a belt. When she found none, she began to reach for the fly, as my hand rounded her inner knee, and began its steady, memorable journey up the underside of her thigh towards her.

Impatient, lusting and restless, I reached past her thigh and up, under her dress to the front of her pussy, allowing my fingers to hand down as I slowly drew my fingers on to her pussy. The fabric of her underwear was soft, warm, wet... wait, this isn't fabric.

'No knickers?' I gasped, puzzled, but with glee and enthusiasm shining in my eyes and blatant in my voice.

'I've been reading porn in a public library all day. They were so wet, I took them off hours ago. They're in the bin in the toilets. I took them off after I came for about the second time.'

'You came just from reading those books? You are full of surprises', I almost moaned.

'Well, reading... and secretly touching myself under the table. Do you know how hard it is to cum silently? At one point I was sure the elderly guy across from me knew what I was doing, but he didn't have a heart attack, so i'm guessing he didn't.'

Unable to help myself, I fell to me knees, determined to know just how wet and ready she must be after hours of lust and anticipation. I closed my eyes and let my fingertips guide me to the hem of her dress and up into the soft folds of her core. The scent of arousal was strong and sweet, and her pussy dripped with her salty moisture as I added my saliva and followed the lines of her engorged lips with my tongue. She pushed herself back against the door and lifted her hips as she pushed her left hand against the door handle, opening herself to me, and my gentler, tender licking became an onslaught, as I determined to hear her cum for me before I fed her my now raging erection.

Her moans started quietly, but built and built as I touched new areas. Her clit stood proud from her labia, and my tongue danced around it for what felt to me like hours of teasing but was probably only seconds, until I massaged it firmly like a bee on pollen, flicking and stroking across it. Her response was immediate, both vocal and biological as she moaned, low and hard become louder until she was almost shouting, and a fresh dose of her wetness salted my tongue once more.

As her orgasm subsided, I helped her sit on the industrially carpeted floor. Her eyes shone out at me, a thin veil of sweat across her body. I could see, now, that she's undone the knot of her top, and the straps had fallen down, loosening her top to the cusp of her nipples. I pulled the fabric away, and revealed her breasts. Her nipples were wide and dark, almost credit-card sized, and with large, full, firmly erect nipples stood up, crowning each one. I leaned down and took each in my mouth for a few seconds, flicking, sucking, caressing for a moment each, then moving on to the next.

As her pulse slowed, and her glow subsided, she began to kiss me, again. She fought my polo shirt over my head, and began to undo my fly. I stood up to help her get my jeans off, and my boxers went with them, leaving my cock, no longer chaffed and crushed by its painful incarceration springing out at full alert, not quite six inches, but thick and the hardest I'd felt it in a long, long time.

As she got my jeans past my knees, she lifted first one hand then two to my shaft, and began to lick the tip.

'If you spend too long on this, there'll be nothing left to give you. I've never been so aroused, and i want to make love to you, right here on these tables, for as long as possible.'

As if reading my queue, her speed changed from hasty and impatient to languid and luxurious. I felt her calm down as she stood, her dress slipping past her languid waist to the floor soundlessly. She stepped back and looked at me, then knelt down and helped me free my feet from the crumpled jeans.

I pulled the wallet from my jeans pocket and slipped on the condom it contained, grateful for the extra time it would buy me. I kissed her again, realising I didn't even know this beauty's name and I was going to ravage her pussy with the biggest erection I'd ever had, and it was going to be steady and passionate and mutual and oh my God this was the stuff dreams were made of.

The wooden tables were hard and firm. She sat me down on the edge, and took my sheathed cock in her hand, stroking it firmly yet appreciatively. She placed her hand on my chest, and pushed me backwards, climbing onto the table above me as she did. As my back found the smooth wooden surface beneath me, she lifted herself on her knees and hands, and kissed me again. I lost myself in the tawdry beauty of her kiss, my right hand finding her breast, until a sudden tight and moist pressure at the tip of my cock told me she had lowered herself to touch me. She pushed a little further, and I felt her body part and envelop the thick top of my cock. She sighed into my mouth as she lifted her head away, bringing her back up and her pussy down hard on my now raging penis. She sat astride me, upright on my erection, her full breasts echoing her movements for an age after each stroke, and the sound of her pussy rippling and dancing down my cock, opening and growing with each stroke filled the room with the sounds of sex and satisfaction and lust and abandon.

I grew close, and tried to slow her down, feeling her excitement build as I grew nearer and nearer, determined to make the moment last. I tried to distract myself, declining Hebrew nouns and counting backwards from 10 in Arabic, but the sheer beauty of this imperfect yet paradisaical paradox on my penis drew me back every time, until it was all I could do to look her in the eye, and know I was going to explode into her any instant with every fibre of my body.

Her moans increased again, and this time the deep voice won out, and the library stacks filled with a stirring, roaring invocation of sheer, rampant delight and both she and I came in cacophonous harmony.

She lay on top of me there, on a dark, cold library study table, late on a Friday night, and I wanted her to stay. I wanted her to come back to my house. I wanted to look into her eyes and tease and delight this pussy in every imaginable way, morning, noon and night, again and again for as long as we both shall live.

She stood up, stepped into her dress, and looked into my eyes as she lifted it up, over her sultry hips, past her now sweat-christened breasts, and deftly knotted the fabric behind her head.

'Bye', she chirped in her mythical accent, and walked away.

By the time I'd got my jeans back on and made it to the main room again, her chair was empty. I searched her desk, her chair, anything for a sign of who she was, and where I could find her; praying for a note with her phone number, her room number, even her name. I found nothing. I returned no less than 17 Fridays in a row, and never saw her. I hung out around Victorian Literature, and found the dissertations she had been reading. She hadn't booked them out, and they gave no record of her, although I fancied that some of the steamier pages carried her aroma still, perhaps where her pussy-tainted fingers had turned page after page in excitement.

I do not have my dream girl. But I have a perfect, irrepressible dream of the night I studied late.