PART ONE
It was my first year back at the Institute in fifteen years and I was miserable. Having lost both of my parents to the whims of fate over the last years, and struggling to maintain the family business in their absence, I was running out of options. And it seemed, now that I turned 35, running out of time. So what did I do? I dropped it all. Sold the business, settled my debts and ran. Ran back to the place I had originally run from. The Institute. I'd finish what I started- an engineering degree- and get a fresh start. What I hadn't counted on, though, was the loneliness and isolation I would feel as an adult man surrounded by these, kids, really. Although my classmates were for the most part kind, my age and experience created a social rift that set me apart. Outside of classes I had very little contact with others. My old friends had moved on, married or moved away. So to quell the loneliness, I threw myself into study and getting fit. And for months that's how it went until one unique day.
The campus library has a strange section called the Annex. It contains archival materials and obscure odds and ends located on a subfloor that can only be reached by a single narrow staircase found in an unlikely corner of the main collection. I found it only with directions from the Librarian, who sent me to the Annex for schematics for a 200 year old clock I was replicating for a class project. Climbing the steep staircase, I strolled down the chamber scanning the rows for the right section. The Annex was empty and silent, my running shoes muffling the beat of my footfalls. At the last row, I identified the section and turned, perusing the shelf when I spotted the portfolio at the bottom.
This is the moment everything would change, my world turned upside down and inside out. As I knelt down and retrieved the folder, I unmistakably heard a soft feminine cry. Looking up, I saw its source. Through the three inch gap between the tops of books and the shelf above I saw a shapely pair of legs, splayed gently apart. A gray skirt had been raised to the waist of the seated figure and there under a table, slender fingers gently kneaded a moistening vulva. I froze.
Part of me wanted to leave quietly and let the girl do her business in peace. But the other part of me, the part that hadn't been with a woman in seven years, was running the show. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I was transfixed, watching her as my cock rapidly stiffened in my pants. She was stroking her middle finger up and down the split of her vulva, underwear pulled to the side. After a minute of this, the finger dug into the soft fold and her labia separated under the touch. Another sweetly feminine cry. My cock throbbed in my jeans. The freshly moistened finger began to circle her clit, slowly at first and then with increasing speed and pressure. She inhaled stutteringly. Her legs began to shake, hips grinding back and forth in the chair. A moment later, the hand stopped kneading and she came, stifled cries of pleasure escaping through closed lips. She settled into her seat, breathless. A moment passed. My mouth was dry and I swallowed as I backed away, intent on retreating before she saw me. It was, at the time, the most erotic thing I'd witnessed.
As soon as I got to my room I jerked off. Imagining as I came, spilling my load deep inside that beautiful wet pussy. Later, the event played over and over in my mind relentlessly, all of the details branded onto my brain. The gray pleated skirt pulled up over those slim but shapely legs. The nicely trimmed bush. The white canvas grandma shoes. I became obsessed with her and finding out who she was. I wanted to see her again. All of her.
So I kept a look out for that skirt and those shoes. I visited the Annex everyday at the same time everyday waiting. Hoping to get a look at her. Hoping she would return. A week went by and I was starting to lose hope, which in retrospect was probably good because my classwork was suffering. I slogged my way into the library, slumping into a seat to work on a paper and that's when I saw her.
It was the white canvas shoes, the kind grandmas wear when they're gardening. I saw them first, that's when I knew it was her and I drank her in. She was petit, but not skinny. Curvaceous but just so. Long brown hair. Brown eyes. One of those mischievous faces that have a permanent smirk, like they are holding back laughter at everyone and everything. The grandma shoes were goofy, but they looked cute on her small feet. She wore a form fitting red sweaterdress. Though she was just walking, she moved like a dart, effortlessly in a straight line toward the Annex stairs. My cock throbbed hungrily as I rose to follow.
PART TWO
I was bored. Now solidly into the third year of my English degree, I was running out of inspiration. The works of literature and the mechanics of language had, at first, been stimulating. Over time, the repetition of reading, analysis and writing had numbed that interest. And now, my mind was wandering and I needed fuel to continue.
Likewise, my social life had become stale. My friends, while wonderful human beings, were painfully conventional and unimaginative. The drunken house parties and casual hookups had become rote and ultimately unsatisfying. The boys I slept with were selfish and unskilled, unable to bring me to orgasm, often only lasting for a couple of minutes before climaxing and drunkenly passing out. I was frustrated, sexually and otherwise. And in that frustrated malaise, I began wandering the buildings on campus, exploring, searching. I'm not sure what I was looking for, but I found it. And partially, it found me.
It was in the library when it all started. I was wandering up and down the aisles when I first felt bibliophilia. Not just the love of books or reading, an erotic affection for books. A lust for books. It began as I was musing to myself about the lives and thoughts and events and struggles all contained in the myriads of books on the shelves before me. Life itself, contained on the page, bound in paper and leather. And what is life, but sex? That relentless desire to thrive and multiply and be satisfied. The thought took root in my mind first, then in my body. A warmth was building in my abdomen, wetness building in my underwear as I ran my fingers over the spines of shelved books. I inhaled lustfully and snapped out of my reverie. I needed to find a place to get off.
Immediately, I thought of the Annex. Having discovered it in my wanderings, I knew it would be perfect. There was a single study table at the far end of the room, approachable from only one direction and obscured by shelves. And most importantly, it was surrounded by books.
After carefully scanning all of the rows for interlopers who would spoil my fun, I did the deed, easily and effortlessly fingering myself to orgasm. It was difficult not to cry out and it was a delicious torture to cum so hard without making a sound, my lips and mouth clenched shut to stifle any sound. I was terrified of being seen and that heightened the experience immeasurably.
Soon this would become a ritual and I found myself climbing that steep and narrow staircase at least once a week, if not more. This had a profound effect on my schoolwork and my output rose dramatically. Holding my textbooks, turning their pages now felt like the sensuous caress of a lover. Each character of text tapped out on a keyboard felt like a soft impact on my clitoris. I felt supple and fertile, my papers springing forth from lusty fecundity. All the while, in the back of my mind I could feel the Annex beckoning. If my love of the language had been failing, lust was a significant surrogate.
It was after a long productive week that I finally yielded to the pull of the Annex. That was when everything changed.
In my comfy shoes and short sweaterdress I breezed up the stairs. The sweaterdress was a favorite because I could wear it with no bra. The knit pattern obscured my nipples and the material was soft enough to give them pleasant friction without irritation. Underneath was a g-string whose only function was to contain the juices which had been building in anticipation.
