Library Encounter

I have only just started here. The library is a long L shaped room, rather like an attic in a Victorian mansion, ramshackle and neglected, and yet done up with modern trappings. There are computers, lights, modems, printers ... .people coming and going. It is not lonely here. Even if no one speaks for hours, the silent press of ink-patterned books looms about, enveloping your imagination, if you call it that, in a soft warmth. As if books could live, could whisper each second the infinite to your bending ear. Such are my thoughts, until a pair of legs crosses before me.

She has black hair.

That's all I notice for the first encounter. Because it's such lustrous hair. So black. Not the unreal black of artificial dye. The blackest natural noir you could find, haunting in its beauty, like this building. As if she were a product of the building, its books, and my imagination. But she's real.

I'm remembering the fellow who is sitting opposite her, whom I've just met. His name is Tim.

Somehow, in between reading Derrida, looking out the window, dreaming about the meaning of philosophy, that is, literature as distinct to philosophy, I find myself remembering her legs, her breasts, her smile, though I haven't even actually seen any of this detail for myself. It's enough to complete the picture from this one small detail. I saw a movement, a body posture, and my mind quickly fills in the rest, as would a criminal profiler on a manhunt.

Is there something deathly in human eros? A death wish, in our hunting? Is the sexual game a natural urge to destroy, to consume, in the loveliest possible way? Like a dog who lovingly rips flesh off the bone, and you can feel the dog's satedness well out, suppurating, it even infects you, the watcher.

Whether or not I am actually sitting here writing, and whether or not you, dear reader, are reading, what is about to happen actually happened. Perhaps not to me, as I exist now, but to me, at least, as a projection of the person who existed then.

He calls her softly over, she bends to talk, and I watch him watching her breasts, rising and falling, his brow melds into a questioning penetration, one which could not be missed by anyone. I can't help myself smiling. I will call him Tim, and that is his real name, hers I do not know, so let's say Veronica, because I like the sound of it.

Before long, she is playing with her hair, coquettishly, and I am already drooling mentally, for the possibilities are endless. What will Tim do?

He does nothing at first.

I am watching still, but I move my chair, so they both know they have an audience. She is slowly seducing us both. Suddenly V. asks "would you like to have a coffee"? Tim nods, gulps and nods again. They are both leaving, but as they do so, Tim nudges and waves me along. I follow them.

We are in the canteen. Drinking coffee, V as if she had known us forever. The conversation never began, though, so I must have imagined that we spoke. All I know is that we, one by one, go into the disabled toilet. There is more room in there.

V. is lazily opening her dress, facing the mirror. Tim and I pull our erections out of our pants, slowly, mesmerisingly, as if the mirror were an important witness to lust, a transparent layering of layerings to heighten our visual pleasure. She pulls her nipples, sharply, and Tim and I are now standing close to one another, masturbating. She pulls her dress up, and both of us lick her thigh, one each. I pull apart the crimson rose, the splendoured tropical orchid between two pillared ridge lines, stone white and smooth, smell, lap, tongue, breathe, buzz. Chimes are going off in my ear. Tim rubs my shoulder, and I reach over and lick his hard cock. My cock is pointing directly up. V. kneels down and joins me in my worship of power and strength. We are both Greeks, it seems. Tim is holding himself up with the railing above the toilet. There is a slight muskiness wafting from the previous occupant, and an overall anoydne hint of bleach. V.'s bottom is like an old friend. I am keen to reacquaint myself with her ... Tim and I pull V. down and she hungrily licks both stems, there are juices flowing. I tell her I want to see her lick our arses. She accepts in action, for no words are suitable for our red faced panicked lust: soon she has one of us (me) in her mouth, and I can enjoy the splendid view of the nether proceedings. Tim sawing joyfully in and out of the gates of heaven. I reach down, grabbing breasts, chest, and balls, her arse, and I also masturbate, but I only have one hand. That all takes almost half an hour. There is no interruption to our madness.

Gradually, I push Tim away and have myself at her, pushing in slowly, her comfortable vagina ballooning around the swelling heat, and we climb into our own personal stratosphere, somewhere above the library toilet in our own combined imaginations. I come, and pull out, spraying unselfconsciously over her cylindered breasts, lovely cones with a slightly asymmetrical heaviness, inclining slightly downwards in their gracious acceptance of gravity.

Tim is masturbating still, and she leans over and tongues him, the reward flies forth, spattering over her blouse and the wall.

Later, I am looking out the window, V is sitting two rows away, and Tim has just left. I am writing her a note which says:

"Dear V. You are even lovelier than the mirage of your beauty suggests in the light of this dying day. I am yours. At will. Send me your orders, your blessings, or your dismissal, just as you wish, which I will receive as if from heaven."

I drop it on her desk. She nods over at me, and mouths the word, "Tomorrow. You and Tim".

She holds up a picture she has just drawn: it shows the two of us, sucking each other, and her masturbating as she looks on, as if she were a royal priestess, clothed in a wraparound toga with a silver tiara on her head.