Teresa entered the library and sat down at the same desk as the earlier night. Today she wore a smart navy blue business suit and flat black shoes. Her long hair was sensibly pulled back in a ponytail. The reason for her plain dress was simple. Ever since the night before her mid-terms, when someone had given her a tongue-twisting, seat-breaking, toe-curlingly good orgasm from under this desk, she had been wondering who it had been, partly because she was curious about the secret of the desk, but also because she was the kind of girl who liked to know a little about people before, or sometimes slightly after, she allowed them to have hot-and-passionate, or bored and going-through-the-motions, or even drunk-and-giggly, sex with her. Now that her term papers were completed, she had no proper work to do so she had decided it was time to find her mysterious masseur.
So she had put on her dullest shoes, her most boring fiddly-to-take-off clothes and her biggest handbag, and set off to the student library. The only way she knew to find the strange masseur, was to sit at the same desk where it had happened and tap her foot and until someone showed up. Teresa had been tapping for twenty minutes and was becoming bored, when suddenly another white card whirled onto her lap.
Did You Need To Relax Again?
Teresa tapped her foot once for yes and opened the ugly spare handbag on her knees. Inside was a long white battery-powered wand that the saleswoman down at Funny Business had cheerfully described to her as a neck massager. Then the salesperson had winked at Teresa, who promptly went red and scurried out. Teresa checked to be sure no one was watching, and quickly thrust the vibrator under the table. An unseen hand reached up to grasp it. A low whirring came from under the desk. The desk faded away, as it had done the last time, and she felt a hand touching her trouser leg questioningly. Quickly, before the hand could move away, she grabbed its wrist in a strong grip. The perpetrator tried to pull away, but she got both hands around the wrist and tugged hard. Instead of pulling the mysterious person from under the desk, she found herself yanked from her seat and sucked into the treacle-thick blackness beneath the table. There was a stretchy-bendy sensation of force, as if she were an elastic band someone was twisting to shoot with. There was a faint 'pop' and the desk stood back in the library, empty and waiting.
Teresa sat up and made a 'tch' sound of annoyance in the pitch-blackness. She could see nothing. Luckily she had been carrying her handbag and had it round her shoulder. She rummaged inside until she found her phone, clicking on its torch-beam. The thin beam of light swung around as she searched about her. She saw walls of stone, painted white, several cheap pictures hanging slightly crooked, a door, and a TV screen. At last her torch beam hit a light switch and she walked over and flicked it.
She was in a small rectangular room. Everything looked surprisingly homely for a treacle-pit under a library desk. Facing her was the TV, a plasma set on a chest; a saggy blue couch sat facing it. Thick rugs were strewn about the floor. A Dutch door to her left, painted a cheap red, led out of the room. She walked to it and rattled the handle. It was locked, so Teresa knocked politely and waited, her ear pressed against the thin wood. Through the panel, she could hear faint rustling sounds, as if someone were trying to get dressed as quickly and quietly as possible whilst listening frantically for a sign they might have been heard. Teresa rolled her eyes and gave a polite cough to break the silence.
"Hello?" she asked. "My name is Teresa. Who are you and where have you brought me?"
She waited a moment and heard an intake of breath. From inside the room, there was a scrabbling sound of papers being shifted. Something thin and rectangular was slotted under the door. Teresa picked it up, seeing it was a brochure. On the front was a slightly creased picture of a smart young woman, sitting behind a desk under the banner 'The Room of Sexual Fantasies'. Teresa instantly disliked the picture. The girl's white teeth were too small and her smile too wide and happy. The brochure was the kind of cheery support literature one might pick up at Student Services to explain all one's problems. Teresa flipped it open and read through its text quickly.
Dear resident, welcome to the Room of Sexual Fantasises (RSF). The RSF is a new meme in extra-dimensional space, materialising here through the unconscious powers of the human imagination outside space, time and other planes of reality. The Room's purpose is to house sufferers of excess Human Sexual Desperation (HSD), whenever a dangerous background level is found to have built up. If you have manifested here, you are probably suffering from a severe HSD overload and may require immediate intimate assistance to prevent harm to yourself or others*. The Room requires that you remain until a solution to your problem can be found. Please use the Room's unique erotic interactive features to make your stay as brief and pleasant as possible. Have a great time here at the Room of Sexual Fantasies, and remember you don't have to only come once!
*If this does not describe your situation or if you have arrived here by mistake please contact your local Reality Relocation service representative and request an immediate transfer back to your normal plane of existence.
"God," thought Teresa, "no wonder a link to the Room had established itself under the student library. But why did it look so much a plain old common room?"
"Hello, whoever you are?" she asked "Thanks for telling me where I am. My name is Teresa. I'm a student at Hollyoke College. May I know your name?"
There was a scribbling sound. A card with a sad face drawn on it was pushed under the door. Beneath the face was a neatly printed name:
BRADLEY
"Bradley," Teresa murmured, "That's a nice name. Bradley, I shouldn't be here? Can you help me get out?" She waited patiently, and sure enough, another card was pushed through the crack in the door.
No I am Just a Resident Here. You Need to Ask Your Genie of Magical Orgasms.
"Say what now?" Teresa asked blankly.
There was a quiet masculine-sounding cough behind Teresa, the sort of sound she always liked to hear when she was sitting by herself at an empty bar. She turned around abruptly; standing before her was a pillar of red smoke. As she watched, fascinated, it slowly coalesced into a cloudy, featureless humanoid figure.
"Good morning Teresa," the smokey red thing murmured. Though it had no lips with which to form the words, she distinctly heard them said.
"Hello," she responded warily. "Um, this might sound a little stupid, but are you my Genie of Magical Orgasms? It's kind of important."
"I am," the figure replied benevolently, "You must be a new visitor here."
