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In the Library

By: julieshining



It's mainly when I sit at Uni. The stress of studying means that I want to do anything but study, and then my mind turns to sex. 

The type of lust I feel can only be cured by sex. Masturbation alone is never fulfilling, so that means that I am always unsatisfied. The feelings that I feel writing stories like this, semi-autobiographical, except for details that would identify people, gives me some relief from that I would call the mind-tension tension that builds up in me. There is the physical tension of sex, and then the mind-tension.

The part of me that needs fulfilling is extra to the physical need of orgasm. It is mental sex, the need to see, feel, hear, imagine, vision that doesn't come from masturbation.

The visions I have are similar to when I use to be going through a period of severe psychiatric stress. Perhaps it is even off-putting for some people for me to talk about psychiatric problems and sex in the same sentence, but my mind and personality is very much who I am, and that includes the mad parts of me. 

Parts of my blog speaks of having full-on hallucinations. Some people have asked me if that was made up or whether it was fiction. It was real alright, and I'm glad that sort of thing happens very, very rarely.

But when I have a normal vision or imagination, they can sometimes seem very real. Like waking up from a dream, it can take quite a while for me to tell whether what I dreamed actually happened or not. Was it last night or the night before....it was the night before last that I wrote an erotic story, a short one, in the same seat at the university library that I am sitting in now. 

I saved what I wrote, replied to a few emails and then stood up to walk home. As I stood up, my juices literally ticked my leg, as it made contact with the side of my thighs. AND, that was with me wearing knickers. 

I reckon that mad people sometimes have really extreme desires. With my past relationships I've noticed that it was the mad ones who had these insatiable sexual drives. They could do it for hours, days, weeks, and would do as well, if it weren't for those other necessaries of life – food, work, sleep. 

The juices tickled my thigh. They aren't ticking my thighs now, because I am wearing a pair of jeans, sitting up back straight, my knees apart on a typists' chair, feeling the push between my legs because I am swollen down there. 

I'm never sure what to call that thing between my legs, although I opt for cunt so as not to be accused of being too sensitive. For that wet stuff, I have even less of an idea. Juice, wetness, waters, whatever. 

I was horny when I left university. The night before last. I was aware of how I was dressed because it is still freezing in Sydney at the moment. Well, freezing here means 15 degrees Celsius, so it is all relative. Wearing a skirt with no tights, a blouse with nothing else except a bra, it was cold. 

The first road I crossed I imagined a car pulling up, men getting out and dragging me into it. I can hear the thud of the door close. To be taken, perhaps, to some lonely spot and raped. Was that something that really happened in my past, or was it a fantasy, or something that I wrote in a story? It is all mixed up to me. But there was a rush to the idea, a bit sexual but more like an adrenalin rush, the sort that comes from when you are crossing the road against the lights and you suddenly realize you better run the rest of the way or be hit by a car. 

I make it home without being abducted or kidnapped by aliens. Julie is home, she puts on the kettle because she knows I like a tea when I get home. We kiss each other on the cheeks and hug briefly, not like the lovers we once were, but as friends. 

The evening is spent watching tv, she telling me about her day, me responding, then her sister gets home and then it is just them talking.

The morning I wake after 14 hours sleep, due to my latest medication. Knickers are stretched up into my cunt, as my body has slid down the bed. My left nipple is a little sensitive, as I still have pierced nipples, and sometimes the hoop adopts an awkward angle. My feet are encased in socks, something I didn't have to wear when I slept beside Julie.

No one is home when I wake up. Breakfast in front of the tv is had. I am still horny. I deliberately don't shower, somehow wanting to prove to the world that it is unfair that Julie and I are no longer an item.

Back at uni, and I am hornier than ever. A black denim skirt is way too short for this weather. My legs don't exactly turn blue as I walk out into the cold, but they are not warm. I don't wear knickers either, which somehow feels like a statement of defiance. No knickers to defy the patriarchy, my pubes shaven completely to defy the feminists. That sounds crazy, but there are a lot of feminists here at campus. Many of them friends - if only they knew that I had rape fantasies – it would freak them out.

Tonight when I come to uni. I accidentally don't wear a bra. Now that I have had lots of therapy I know that such 'accidents' usually have a meaning. With a t-shirt, blue denim shirt and a thick white jumper [pullover / sweater ] on top, why would I need a bra? But of course, it is warmer in the library, and eventually the jumper comes off. I'm not exactly flashing myself, but I wouldn't want to be running down a flight of stairs.

I wonder if any of the guys I can see find me attractive. I can see no women but 4 guys in the library now. They are so young, like 18, and I feel ancient at 25. I am half on to 30. I wouldn't know how to ask them out. Would they want to go out with me? I use to be very sexually confident, but that has gone now.

I imagine one of them coming up to me. He says hi, he has seen me before, but he just wanted to say how beautiful I was before he left for home. He is an overseas student, from Israel. He has black curly hair, and I thought that I was mad wearing a short skirt, but he is wearing shorts. His legs are fantastic, really thick, like a rugby players.

He says we can never a relationship, but he wants to make love with me. Tonight, before he goes home. I laugh and look away, but when I look back his face is caring and kind and he isn't joking at all. 

'You can come with me now,' he says. 'I can carry your bag' 

He picks up my bag and I pick up my books and follow him. I'm not sure if I am following him for sex or following him to make sure that he wont steal my bag. I walk with him down to a dark area of the library. It is one of those areas where it is always dark, and you have to push a timer switch to put on the lights. We go down to the end of a corridor with books on either side. We don't put the lights on. 

He doesn't say anything to me, but he leads me to the end so that I am standing up with my back against a wall. His body leans forward, pressing against my breasts. He starts to kiss my neck. He smells male. I can't say exactly what of, but I have never smelt it on a woman. His hair is soft and not tight and knotted the way that some people have when they have curly hair. I can't believe he is doing this to me or that I am letting him. 

There is no foreplay. He unzips his jeans, undoing his belt, and his penis is erect. He lets it go underneath my skirt, probing to where it wants to go. It is like he knew I wasn't wearing anything underneath my skirt. He takes his hand and guide it inside me, my wetness letting him in easily. He hold my hips with his hands. 

He starts to fuck me. He is powerful, hard, in control. I put my hands on his shoulders, feeling the muscles moves as he penetrates. Occasionally the lower part of my back bangs against the wall, almost as if it is telling me that I cant retreat or pull back or do anything accept be taken by this man, whose name I don't even know. 

His fucking me is almost as if he is a machine, the timing is perfect. Every thrust takes exactly as long as the last one. Sometimes, though, I move back a bit, and he thrusts me hard so that my pelvis presses again up against the wall behind me. 

He moves his hands from my hips and holds my wrists, holds them above my head and against the wall. He is very strong, almost hurting my wrists. He has two bodies almost, a top half being still, holding my wrists, his lips kissing me, while the bottom half is the animal, the animal that demands and gets what it needs to get.

There is no indication as to when he is going to climax. There is no hurrying, no telltale signs of increasing speed so that I know he is close. As for me? I have long climaxed, his penis ramming me, in the half-light of the shelves, with his smell and the smell of books. 

He slows down and stops. Withdrawing his penis from me. Has he now climaxed? He uses one hand to gather my hair into one unit of control, and he uses just the one word to tell me to kneel at his feet. I do so, feeling weak, and I open my mouth to receive him. He holds my head steady, he uses the same time, rhythmic thrusting to force me to receive him. 

I am on my knees in front of him, almost as if I were at prayer. I feel that this ancient act of sex, between a man and a woman, connects us with the thousands of men and women who have lived before us. That for all of history men and women have done this. That we are somehow doing what the universe wants us to do. 

I hear words that come from nowhere, and realize they are his. 

'No,' I reply, 'I'm not taking contraception.' 

Then he thrusts into my mouth further. I feel like a total slut, a total lowlife who is giving this man a blow job.

He pulls out before he ejaculates, so that his stuff goes across my breasts, my chin, and some into my hair. He uses my hair to rub his penis on, to remove the remaining bits of cum from his penis. I feel that he has captured his animal, and that I was it, and he is now showing the world that I am his.

I feel used, almost as if I have been assaulted. 

He is on his feet, doing up his jeans, while I am on the floor, my legs apart and therefore showing myself to anyone who would be there to look, and wondering how I would remove the stains on my top and that I would have to wash my hair. 

I start to masturbate as I am still so horny, and take his penis into my mouth. He steps back, leaving me there, masturbating for a moment, feeling gross and humiliated, that my offer of more sex was rejected.

'You Aussie girls are great,' he says. 'There's no way Israeli girls would do this.' 

That night at home, I masturbate, using my vibrator and hands, to bring myself off again and again. And sometimes in my mind it is not clear to me if being fucked by the Israeli happened in real life, or whether it was just one of those powerful visions of mine. Or perhaps it was just another one of my stories.

In the Library



I was drifting through time in the library of a small village in Vermont one November afternoon, enjoying the swirl of leaves on tawny grass outside as autumn winds shouldered their way along the steep-walled valley that hemmed-in the little town. I was trying my best to ignore the pile of books on the table beside me. I had been looking for something in those books, some truth I'd never known, perhaps couldn't know. The library was housed in a musty old colonial building, and the old building sat in forlorn glory in the fading afternoon sun, waiting - as she always had - to be discovered. I remembered the place from my childhood. It had always been a beautiful red brick temple of truths known - and truths yet to be - and here she stood, shunted off to the side of a little quad in this somewhat too-quaint New England village. 

I guess you know the kind of place I'm talking about here. Old wooden floors adorned with tattered sage-colored oriental rugs, the oak reading tables worn smooth from the turning of pages as new seekers acknowledged their right to continue the journey. Comfortable if threadbare overstuffed chairs lined up in military precision under a huge window - this capped with a dramatic arched stained-glass window depicting a scene from the Revolutionary War. The air inside the library had been worn clean by the passage of time, warmed by bronze lamps whose ochre shades cast an amber glow over the old wooden shelves that lined the walls. I remembered those lamps, always lined up in silent majesty on the tables. I had always thought they looked like sentinels on guard, watching the room, guarding the truths that remained hidden within the pages and pages of books. Each book waiting to be opened, explored, but always under the care of the soldier-lamps. 

Released. Maybe the truth was waiting for release.

And of course, let me not forget to mention at this point the librarian.

She was, well, an older woman. Not quite as old as the building, but I could have been mistaken about that. So familiar, too. Let's be charitable and leave it at that. I think even the leaves that rattled by on the lawn outside tried to calm down as they passed by the library for fear of disturbing the silence of her space. I'm sure anyone, or anything, would never have risked upsetting the old woman as she sat behind her counter. I've never seen such a scowl in my life. Unforgettable. I looked up at her once and she was - smiling - at . . . what? Me?

There was a clatter - and of course I jumped - as steam found it's way through rusting pipes to old green radiators along the walls, and heat rattled into the room, chasing drafts of cold air across my feet. Anyway, I looked up when the pipes began their music, and I looked out the huge mullioned window onto the unchanging scene outside. I could see a schoolhouse across the way, kids let out for the afternoon were running away from the building like they had been held in confinement all day, and shadows cast by the mountains were advancing across the scene like Napoleon's armies. Relentless? Would that be inappropriate to describe the passage of time in a library?

A woman walked out of the schoolhouse and headed across the quad toward the library. She was fifty-ish, and appeared out of place in her surroundings. Most of the women who walked by the library that afternoon were dressed in newish jeans and rugged plaid shirts, and to a one they were wearing what looked like rubber boots. Functional in the extreme, these women were dressed as good utilitarians might be in any agrarian village, attired as if to be prepared to shovel snow off the roof, or help milk the family's cows each morning before getting the kids packed off to school. The scene only became incongruous to me when these women settled into their pachydermic Volvos and tore out down the street in a cloud of diesel soot. 

Not so this other woman.

She was wearing a brown suit, and in concert with her auburn hair she looked like a woman out of time. She drifted across the landscape as in a world apart; she looked like the women in old family photos I had seen taken in the 1940s. Even her jewelry was - different. She looked like a throwback to another time. Elegant might be going too far, but up against the agrarian locals she looked positively astonishing . . . like Audrey Hepburn walking into a truck stop. I could say the woman looked sexy, but there was - even from my vantage in the library that chilly autumn afternoon - something tentative in the way she moved. Something that said she was unsure of herself, unsure of her surroundings. Maybe she was a woman trying her best to look professional, but the sunglasses that obscured her face couldn't quite hide the impression of familiarity that washed over me as she walked along the sidewalk outside the library.

Sometimes it's easy to look at other people and imagine - to construct - a whole life based on what you see in the briefest flash of time. Maybe it's just daydreaming, or wishful thinking, but whatever it is, it's easy. Not the truth, but easy nonetheless. Sometimes it seems like an autonomic reflex, and I caught myself holding my breath as the woman walked down the street and disappeared from view. I returned to my stack of books, reluctantly, if you want to get right down to it, because there was something about the woman that struck a chord somewhere deep inside me. I ached, positively ached, when she turned the corner at the end of the block and was gone.

What kind of life had the woman lived? Was she a teacher at the school across the way, or perhaps a reluctant mom called in for a parent-teacher conference? Was she going home to put supper on for her husband and kids, maybe stopping off at the little grocery down the street before heading home? No doubt her family had a Golden Retriever and she drove a Mercedes. Maybe she was one of those rich New York transplants escaping the tedium of life on the lower east side, and her father had been a stockbroker living in Stamford.

Yes. Easy to fill in the blanks when there's nothing to go on but memory.

_______________________________

I left the library when it closed at four thirty, and the librarian was nice enough to let me leave my books with her so I could resume my work the next morning. I think, though I'm not sure about this, she might have smiled at me when I asked her where a good place for dinner might be found. She pointed toward the main street out the front doors and said there were two in town, and just down the street a bit, but neither was worth a Goddamn. Then she laughed. Humor in Vermont is a ferociously misunderstood thing.

And sometimes it's funny, too. But why did it feel like the joke was on me?

I walked out into the cold evening air as the street lights came on, and immediately felt a snowflake on my face. I understood in that crystalline moment why Vermonters have a delicious sense of the absurd. Almost three weeks until Thanksgiving, and it was going to snow. What could you do but laugh in the face of that. The prospect of six months of snow on the ground ought to be enough to make anyone come unhinged. 

Even if you had a Volvo.

I walked down the street toward a little diner that was tucked in between an upscale used book store and a camera shop that had seen better days, and I stopped to look at a couple of old cameras in the shop's storefront window. There was an odd assortment of new auto-focus gadgetry and old chrome rangefinder cameras - a couple of Leicas stood out, as I recall - and I thought that was odd. People usually didn't part with a Leica unless they died. After a moment thinking about the implications of that insight, I turned and looked down the street.

Snow hung in golden globes around the street lights lined up down the sidewalk, but was otherwise lost in the blue light of the fading sunset. Only a couple of other people were out in the snow, and the air felt very - quiet. The snow was, I felt, settling over the village, putting it to rest for the evening. It was one of those moments that felt so familiar to me. Like the past was framed against the present in a never changing photograph. Time is such a funny thing. I shook off the thought and turned toward the diner. I remembered the place well. Dad had always taken us to the place for pancakes on Saturday mornings.

I walked into the diner and shook the stuff off my coat, then hung it up on a well worn rack to let it dry off. The procession of green vinyl booths still lined one wall of the place, all empty, while a faded red-topped lunch counter sat on the other side of the room, separated by a narrow gulf of black and white floor tiles that looked older than just about anything on the North American continent. I looked at the signs posted on the empty booths - No Singles Allowed - and then at the two or three single men and women splattered out along the counter. It looked like a lonely night shaping up. Hell, this place was the living personification of lonely. I hadn't been lonely until I walked into the place, and suddenly I was tormented by unrequited loneliness!

I took my place at the counter. Gotta know your place. 

No one was behind the counter, though I could hear some work going on in the kitchen area in the back of the place. I looked at the menu scribbled on a whiteboard . . . clam chowder, boiled corned-beef and cabbage with new potatoes, meat loaf and mashed potatoes . . . your basic New England Nightmare menu. 

The waitress walked out from the kitchen. It was her. The elegant woman dressed in brown that had walked out of the school a little over an hour ago. Now she was wearing a waitress's uniform.

From this now much closer distance she looked tired. Her auburn hair was streaked with faint traces of gray, and dark, puffy shadows lined her eyes. I caught my breath. Something . . . She almost looked as if she had been crying not too long ago. I looked at her as she carried a plate to the man on my right. Pretty decent looking corned-beef. Hmm. She put the plate down, said she'd be right back with me as she slid a glass of ice water my way, then disappeared back into the bowels of the place.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

Her name was Patty McKaig. We had gone through school together, like kindergarten through high school, then back in the early seventies we had gone off to Dartmouth together. She had fallen in love with me then, or so she professed one Saturday afternoon before the annual autumn slugfest with Harvard, and we had spent a lot of time together in the Caribbean one summer. She had been cute, she had been nice as hell, but we had gone our separate ways. Hadn't we? That time in the Caribbean together, something tugged at me when I thought of those days and nights with her. I hadn't thought of her in twenty years. Right?

Now she looked pretty in an odd, unencumbered way, but she looked weathered, maybe hardened. Like she had loved once, and lost. One too many winters in Vermont, maybe, or was it something more. Hard to say, you know, to fill in the blanks when there's some truth to get in the way. 

She came out with another plate, this one destined for a really pale woman at the far end of the counter. I wondered if I should keep quiet or run from the place while I could, but she came to my space at the counter and leaned over. Her breasts had . . . grown. Yeah. Grown. Nice vantage, too.

I love subtle body language. Always been a sucker for cleavage.

"Hi, Tom."

"Hey, Patty. Howya doin'?" I looked at her left hand, looked for a ring there. Nothing.

"What have you been up to?" She looked at me with eyes that seemed to sparkle for an instant.

"Came back to do some research at the library. Some family stuff."

"Yeah? Your Dad?" I nodded, knowing what was coming next. "How's he doing? I heard about, well, you know, I guess everyone did . . ."

"He's doing fine, Patty."

"Is he going to stay in Washington?"

"Yeah. What are you up to?" I asked, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible.

"Law school. Third year."

"Is this homework?" I asked her, looking around the diner.

"Yeah, Tom. Homework." Her face flushed with anger. "Know what you want?"

I looked at her intently for a moment. No one's ever accused me of being tactful. Or even nice, for that matter. Doing Dad's dirty work in the Senate, so it was said, had come too easily to me. They had no idea. She was looking at me. Waiting.

"To eat. You know. Restaurant. Food. Eat." Yep, I'd stomped on her toes, alright.

"How's the chowder?"

"Like Bookbinders, Tom. Best in town." She was going to get into this.

"Corned-beef looks good."

"It is."

"Well, then, chowder and the boiled New England plate, maybe some hot tea?"

"Right." And she walked back to the kitchen. 

There was a disused New York Times in a pile of discarded papers by the door, and I walked over to give it a look-see. Another article about Dad and his heart attack - still front page, too - and an editorial about what it meant for the coming primaries in Iowa and New Hampshire. Would he still be able to run for President? Inquiring minds wanted to know.

I sat at the counter and read an op-ed piece on the violence spiraling out of control in East Africa as famine and Islamic militants took their toll on the defenseless once again, while another fat-cat regime - this particular one backed by China - financed the escalating bloodshed in Kenya as yet another wave of Marxist revolutions was heating up there and, oh boy! Now in South Africa. Chavez and the Marxist remnants in Cuba had started a nice pan-America communist movement that was enjoying widespread success, and now China was agitating in Africa. Fun. Who would want to be President with all this bullshit happening?

Page two, another influence peddling scandal breaking on the hill, this time a Democrat on the Foreign Relations Committee in the sights of Justice Department investigators. Ah, well, the more things change . . .

Patty slid a cup and saucer next to the newspaper, and I looked up. "What kind of tea you want?"

"Hmm? Ah, English breakfast if you've got some. Cream?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Saw you coming out of the school this afternoon," I said when she came back with the red tea bag and a little pitcher of real honest-to-Betsy holstein cream. Vermont is good for some things, after all.

"Yeah, I'm working there three afternoons a week. Tutoring."

"Really?"

"Money's tight. Hard for fifty something yacht-yuppies to get financial aid, you know."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, second thought, you're probably the last person in the world who would know that, right?" Off she went. Back to the kitchen. One of the guys down the counter was looking my way, and I returned the favor. 

"Buddy, she don't like you too much, huh?"

"Maybe it's my deodorant," I shot back at the man.

"Nah. Patty's always had a low tolerance for assholes," another man said.

I gave my left pit a sniff. It was getting pretty warm down there.

_______________________________

I finished dinner and got some more tea, settled in with the Times and read at the counter for a while. After a bit Patty came by and slipped a check under the little saucer and walked off, and she never said a word. I turned it over. Maybe eight bucks and change. I slipped a hundred out of my wallet and folded it up under the check and walked hurriedly out into the night. It was really coming down now. Huge, fat flakes drifted slowly down, the nice dry snow was now about ankle deep on the sidewalk, and it was about a three block walk back to the Inn where I was staying. I turned up my collar and set off through the night.

The Inn was a huge old place, really special around Christmas, and as I approached the rambling old three story monster it looked simply magnificent in the chaste snow. Huge and quite probably ancient spruce trees dotting the grounds were now beginning to sag under the weight of all the new snow, and soft amber light arced from prettily decorated windows through the night, casting equally soft shadows on the now white yard. I stopped and looked at the scene, oblivious to the wet snow that was beginning to run down my neck.

I heard footsteps in the snow behind me.

She walked up beside me and stood in silence, apparently taken in by the simple majesty of the scene, as I was.

"I never tire of the beauty of this place." It was all I could think of to say.

"I was always surprised you left," she said.

"Are you off, now?" I asked.

"Um-hmm."

"How about a coffee? Maybe something Irish?"

"Sounds about nice, Tom." I held out my hand and she took it, and I walked with her into the Inn.

_______________________________

We sat in the old bar, our truce holding firm. Logs popped in the fireplace, the dancing light played on her face, and she really did look as beautiful as I remembered.

"So, did you ever marry?" she asked me after a while.

"No. Never saw the need. How 'bout you?"

"Once. Didn't take."

"Someone up here?"

"No, that Drake kid - from Britain. You remember? He had that Swan, was going to go around the world."

"Oh, yeah. Him? That I would have never guessed, Pat. What happened?"

"I don't know. Just your run-of-the-mill abusive Brit. Hated women, loved his mother. That kinda thing."

"How long did that last?"

"Ah, not quite a year. We made it down to the Antilles, but that Swan was the wrong boat. Way too deep, you know."

I knew.

"Anyway, his mommy wanted him home, so off he went. He came back a few weeks later all ashen faced and told me he had to divorce me, that his Mum would never tolerate a Yank in the house, and that was that."

"Sounds lucky you got out when you did."

"Yeah, maybe. But he was fun."

"Fun?"

"Oh, life was just fun back then, Tom. You remember how it was."

I did. It wasn't a question.

"It was fun to play the privileged class, you know, enjoying their privileges," she said, and that sounded funny coming from her. She had hated that about the people at Dartmouth and down in the islands, and it wasn't self-loathing, either. She had always been on the outside, looking in. Her family had usually been just one bad harvest away from starvation, but she had made it into one of the first coed classes at Dartmouth the new fashioned way, with great grades and a scholarship. Unlike so many of us back then, she hadn't had an academic agenda; she had just wanted to learn everything she could. Admirable, in a looney kind of way. I took her with me to Antigua in March of our senior year, and she loved it there, loved the bohemian vagabond life of the live-aboard community that called that neck of the woods home, and she had talked me into going back down there the summer after we graduated. 

It had been good.

I had a date at Harvard Law that September, and she decided to stay down there when it was my turn to head north as summer drew to a close. That had been that. Fast forward twenty eight years, and here we were, getting bombed on Irish coffee at half past one in the morning in front of a fireplace in the middle of Vermont. Did I mention that life is strange sometimes?

_______________________________

She rubbed her eyes, I looked at my watch. Almost two.

"Can I walk you home?" I asked.

"No, I live here."

"Here?" I asked incredulously. "What does that set you back?"

"I do night audits on the weekends, and help run the personnel office, the legal end, anyway. I get a roof over my head and a couple of bucks here and there for my services."

"So, let me see if I've got this right. You tutor at the school in the afternoon, wait the counter in the diner nights, and work here on the weekends? And you're going to law school when, exactly."

She laughed. "I do get a little run down. From time to time."

"Well, can I walk you to your room?"




In the Library



"No, Tom. You can walk me to yours."

_______________________________

We were heading to my room a few minutes later, holding hands like teenagers, and my stomach was tied up in knots. Did I really want to do this? Get involved with this woman from my past - again. What would be different this time around? Would anything be different? And it wasn't the physical thing. I hadn't been with a woman in months, in fact, I hadn't wanted to be with one in a long time. Too many complications. Yet I was aware of her hand in mine, aware - that it felt good there. Really good. An energy I hadn't felt in years was in my skin.

My hand was shaking as I slipped the key into the door, and I flipped on a light as I walked in behind her. The room as huge, the furniture small but elegant, and it was colder than hell! I'd not turned on the heat earlier today - there had been no need - and now the room was a meat locker! I turned to Patty to apologize, but she was apparently used to the cool. She led me over to the bed and pushed me down, undid my belt and zipper and pulled my old tan corduroys down past my knees and settled in between my legs. She started without preamble to give me the best head I'd ever had in my life. Well, maybe twenty eight years ago I'd had something similar . . .

Her head was bobbing up and down so smoothly, her hand trailing her mouth in glistening bursts that took my breath away, and I was powerless to respond. I wanted to, wanted to give her something as special as she was giving me, but it was like she had found the shut-down switch that controlled my will to move, and I lay there in awe of the feelings that swept over my body, in awe of her. I moved my hands to her head, ran my fingers through her hair for a moment, and then she picked up the pace a little, and the universe settled on my groin and began to press. Hard.

It wasn't too many moments later that Mount St Helens erupted again, right there in Room 214. I was completely lost to the world for a few minutes afterwards, then opened my eyes to see her standing there over me, not undressed, not smiling, just standing there.

"You alright now?"

"Yeah, Pats. Peachy."

"Well. Seeya 'round." She turned and walked out of the room.

______________________________

I had to finish my work at the library that next day, so I was there when it opened at nine. I had a flight out to Logan tomorrow morning, then on to DC, and I had to get the speechwriters some quaint factual tidbits for a new speech Dad was planning to give next week in Iowa. He was full of piss and vinegar, ready to hit the campaign trail one more time, but he had his work cut out for him. Most people didn't care for the idea of electing someone as President if their health was, well, questionable. But a lot of people in the Party loved my father, didn't want to abandon him, especially not now, so the idea was to kick start the campaign with some fond remembrances of home, of how the world used to be, of how it might be that way again. I was looking for some of those more distant fond remembrances. My Mom and oldest sister would fill in the blanks on the more recent stuff.

"You're Tom, Tom Howe, aren't you?" I heard a voice asking me, and I looked up to see the old librarian standing over me. She had a nice face, well, anyway, once the scowl was gone it wasn't so scary anymore. Kinda friendly.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said as quietly as I could. Even then I was terrified of disturbing the silence of her world.

"I used to know your father."

"Oh?" I stood and looked at her.

"Yes, back in high school. We dated for almost two years."

"Would you care to join me, Ma'am?" I looked at her expectantly for a moment, then indicated the chair next to mine, and she regarded it suspiciously for a moment, then came to a decision. She sat down and appeared to gather up her thoughts for a moment. I sat back down.

She looked at me for a few moments longer. "I don't suppose he talked much about me." I didn't even know her name, but I was quite sure he'd never talked to me about an old flame back in Vermont from his high school days.

"Might help if I knew your name, Ma'am."

"Ida. Ida May Harding." The name didn't mean a thing to me, and I guess I could see that on her face as I watched. There was kindness in her eyes, however, and not just a little regret.

"So. You dated?"

"Yes. Right before he went off to college. Before the war."

"Did you know him well?"

"Yes. Very well." Her back seemed to stiffen as she said that, like she was proud of her intimacy with him.

"Well, Ms Harding, I'm here looking for some family history for a speech he's going to give in Iowa in a couple of weeks. Any help you could give me, I'd sure appreciate it." She regarded that for a moment, let the thought roll around in the air between us for a while.

"Is he still going to run? For President?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I don't think there's anything in the world that could keep him from that."

"Well, I'm sure I could give you a hand with that. It would be a privilege. But . . ."

"Ma'am?"

"Maybe you'd like to see your brother first."

"Ma'am, I don't have a brother."

"Yes, Tom, you do."

__________________________________

The sun was having a hard time making any progress against the snow that morning. It was brutally cold, and the early morning shadows were still quite long as we hopped in my rental and drove out of town. I followed her directions as we headed over toward the park on the east side of the river, and my stomach lurched when she directed me to turn in the little Episcopal Cemetery. I pulled into a sunny spot and parked the car, then moved around to open the door for her.

We walked a little way into the grounds and she made her way to a rather simple headstone. She just stood before this place in the earth and bowed her head. I looked at the gray granite, the snow that had drifted up against it in the night, and I looked at the name chiseled in the stone.

Thomas H Harding, December 25th, 1940 - April 3rd, 1968

A brother. A brother I had never known once walked on this earth. Now he rested, in this earth.

"How did he die?" I asked this woman who in the vagaries of time might once have become my mother.

"In Vietnam. He was a pilot. In the Navy." I looked at the stone. He had apparently graduated from Annapolis in 1963. And there was more . . .

"Did he ever marry?"

"Yes."

"Did he have any children?"

"Yes."

"Are they still living here, in town, I mean?"

"Yes."

"Could I meet them sometime?"

"I can ask."

"Does Dad know about this?"

She looked up at me, her lip trembled and a tear came to her eye, and she just looked away.

And so there it was. I had come here looking for my father's past. 

I had found it.

_________________________________

I took her to lunch at the same diner I had eaten in the night before, but we had a booth to ourselves. We ate in silence, but she looked up at me from time to time and smiled. There was love in her eyes. I could see why Dad had loved her once, could see the beauty in her eyes. The peace.

Time can take only so many things from a person. Even time can be merciful.

We walked back to the library after we ate, she unlocked the door and walked in and went to her counter, listened to messages on her telephone and scribbled a note or two down on an unseen notepad, then made a call. I walked to my pile of books, sat down and started to make some notes, but my heart was full of unseen questions. There were no answers in the books on the table. Wasn't that always the case. Why had I come to a library? This library?

Was I looking for truth? No, not today. . . Truth had come looking for me.

I don't know how long I had been dozing. Had I been reading, trying to read?

A door opening had awakened me, and Ida May was talking to a woman at the counter. I looked that way once, saw them looking at me, and my heart skipped a beat. It was Patty McKaig's older sister . . . I couldn't remember her name . . . and then I knew.

My Dad's other son had married Patty McKaig's older sister. The symmetry was numbing.

Dolly. Her name was Dolly McKaig. Dolly . . . what? Harding? Of course! Right there in front of me all the time, in front of all of us. Just a few key facts to put the pieces together. Truth is like that sometimes.

The two walked over to me, and I stood. Stood looking at these circles of history arcing through the air, truth all around us, dancing, smiling.

"Tom, you know Dolly Harding?"

"Of course." That was all I could say. Of course.

"Nice to see you again, Tom." Well, at least she was more articulate than I was.

"Indeed, yes."

"Tom?" Ida May asked. "Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course. Dolly? Could you sit for a while, join us?" Ida and Dolly sat down across from me, looked at me with interest. I felt nauseated.

"Listen, Tom. Let me set the record straight. I only told Dolly about your father a few years after Thomas passed on . . ."

"About the time I was dating Patty," I interjected as that truth rang through the air. "Does she know?"

"I don't think so, Tom." This from Dolly. "But she's smart."

"I wonder what that means?" As far as I was concerned, this was terra incognita.

"It means, Tom," Dolly said, plainly trying to be patient, "there are little signposts all over this valley. Anyone could figure it out if they looked long enough, hard enough."

"Shit." I looked around nervously. There were spies from the press and the opposition camps suddenly springing up from behind bushes, lurking in the chandeliers. 

"Don't worry about that, Tom. We've been protecting your father for a long time. We know where our loyalties lie." 

I didn't know who said that, and I don't think I would have cared if I did. All I was thinking about was Patty McKaig between my legs last night, the look in her eyes before she walked out of Room 214. "I see," I said. I wasn't going to win any awards for articulate speech this time around.

I was looking out the window, looking at the school kids leaving the building, and moments later Patty was walking out of the building. She was looking right at me as she walked across the quad. At me.

___________________________________

It was a council of war.

What, or who, was their objective?

Patty looked at me with an almost vacant expression in her eyes. When she learned just exactly who Dolly's husband had been, she excused herself and went to the bathroom. When she came out she was pale faced and her body shook every couple of minutes. Dolly tried to hold her, but she pulled away, moved to another seat closer to the window. She looker out at the barren limbs that swung in the afternoon breeze.

Such a cold place.

I listened as Dolly told me about meeting Thomas in high school, of losing him when he marched off - first to Annapolis - then to Vietnam. He had come back after his first tour over there, and they had taken up where they had left off those many years ago, and within a few weeks of his return they had been engaged. They married on his next R&R - in Hawaii - about six months later, and he died almost a year later, a month before his son was born. Dolly had never remarried. And, she said emphatically, she ever would.

Had Thomas known who his father was, I asked?

Of course, Ida May told me.

Did they converse with one another, keep up with one another, I wanted to know?

Yes, Ida May told me, and she had kept their letters. His father had been instrumental in his acceptance to Annapolis.

I wondered what that simple fact meant to Dad. Not exactly a quiet irony.

The sun finished it's job for the day and was racing behind the mountains once again, and Ida May moved off, began to tidy up her desk. Dolly stood to make her good byes, but Patty still sat under the window, lost in thought. I sat back down and watched her for a few minutes. I looked at the set of her eyes, the way her fingers graced her lap, the fall of her hair.

She had always been attractive, but right in that moment I felt that surely she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life.

Such unreal symmetry.

I walked over to her.

"Feel like a drive?" I said to her.

"Sure, why not."

"Dinner? Simon Pierce, maybe?" That had always been the best place to mend fences in this part of the world. Best cheddar cheese soup on earth, too.

"Yeah. Let's go."

We walked down the street to her car, an old gray-green Subaru wagon, and hopped in. We sat in silence during the fifteen minutes it took to get to the restaurant. The sun was still up, barely, and I got out and walked over to the river, looked downstream to the old covered bridge. Such a beautiful spot. 

I felt her presence in the air, and held out my hand. She took it, gently caressed my fingers in hers, and I knew everything was going to be alright.

We ordered some wine with the soup, and turned to look at the sunset over the river. Clouds parted, and a burst of sun-rays flooded the air. Everyone turned to look out at the unfolding scene, everyone seemed caught up in the moment.

"My God." That was it. All I could think of to say, but really, what more could you say? 'Gee, ain't that purdy?' No, I don't think so . . . There was something divine in this moment. Something permanent, yet fleeting. I looked at the clouds as they raced across the sky, their spectral blue-gray forms an ever-changing mélange of feeling that bathed the scene in ambiguity. I heard Smetana's Die Moldau playing in my mind's eye, and was as suddenly back in the Caribbean, drifting in the sun with Patty almost thirty years before, yet the enchanted feeling of that sunset in Vermont remained with me. It was quiet in that distant past, water lapped against the hull, and the air was warm, almost hot. The water was crystal clear, a frighteningly transparent silver-blue that made time feel incorporeal. Nearby boats seemed to hover in air above the almost earth-like sand, while light breezes drifted through our hair, stirring nascent feelings of desire as they drifted over our bodies.

We made love that afternoon those many years ago as distant clouds thundered, and we held on to each other, watched as the sky was washed by wind and rain, and we had drifted in the parting clouds as the sun set over the sea and distant islands. Magic. There had been magic in the air that evening, and I turned to look at her now in the candlelight, returning from a past reluctant to leave, wanting us to live in that parallel moment forever.

She was looking at me. Tears ran slowly down her face.

I took her hand, brought her fingers to my face and kissed them.

"Oh, my love," I heard her say.

"Yes, we should have never let go." I meant it, knew in my heart that I had turned from my destiny those many years ago. That I had left my heart with hers when I returned to Cambridge, and when I had I turned inward to embrace the darker landscapes of treachery and deceit that defined my father's world, I had somehow withered away from that simple truth. Her world had forever been fixed in the world of ideas, and would remain so forever. She would tilt at windmills her entire life. I wondered why those choices remained so fixed in life. 

And was it possible to change? To chart a new course?

________________________________

I woke just before the sun that next morning, looked at her face next to mine in the soft early morning light, and wondered what we had begun in the depths of that night. I slipped out of bed and into the shower, then dressed and packed my little overnighter. I turned to look at her.

She was looking at me. Wondering - as I suppose I was - what crossroads we had broached in the night. Would I turn and run - again.

I looked at my watch. Three hours until the plane left. An hour or more to get to the airport. And that without ice on the road. I walked to the window, parted the curtains.

A heavy snow was falling.

This would have to be quick.

"Ideally," I began, "where would you like this to go?"

"Ideally," she countered, "I'd like you to be man enough to know what you feel, and act on it."

Fair enough, I thought. Maybe I had that coming.

"Come down to DC next weekend?"

She swung her legs out of bed, moved across the room and put on her clothes, and walked out of the room.

Not exactly what I expected. But there you have it.

________________________________

I arrived at the little commuter airlines tiny check-in counter about an hour before the plane was scheduled to take-off. There were about five other lost souls in the 'departure lounge' - if you could in fact say that a one-roomed airport building could in fact have a departure lounge - and all of us - probably - were wondering what the hell we were doing at this ungodly hour on a Saturday morning trying to get on an airplane in this kind of weather. I looked out the ground level window at the little twin-engined turbo-prop commuter, looked at the six inches of snow piled up on the wings, at the ground crew beginning to spray anti-ice compound all over the plane, and I saw my reflection in the window.

Me? Is that me? What are you doing here?

What have you got to say for yourself?

Me? I've been wandering the corridors of a never-ending dream, caught between the past and the future in a never-ending lie. I've been lying to myself about the nature of choice, you see, maybe I've always had been lying to myself, trapped by my lies in a world where the present can't exist. 

What? The present can't exist?

Yes, you fool. The present can't exist in a world built on denial and self-deceit, no matter how noble the mythology. The present can't really exist without truth, because without truth life is deferred. Life is waiting to unfold in the light of truth, like a book in a library is waiting to share it's truth with anyone willing to look for it. Your life has been a long walk through a library of unopened books, and those vanquished truths have defined the contours and boundaries of the life you chose. 

I chose this life? 

What? You are implying that others chose this life for you? That other people chose you to embrace their lies? To do their dirty work? Foster their denial?

Embraced their lies? Is that all I've done?

You turned your back on love, on the truth of that love born so long ago. And true to form, you made the same choice - again - this morning. You chose to walk away from truth, refused to open just a single book. 

The reflection in the window next to mine was mute, unblinking. It was her reflection, and her form seemed to float next to mine in the abeyance of truth. 

Untouchable. Without truth, I could not touch her.

Unknowable. Without truth, I could not know her.

Unlovable. Without truth, I could not love her.

I turned to look at her, to see if the reflection was real.

She was there. Looking at me with the truth of my choice in her eyes.

I reached out to touch her, to see if she was real.

I felt her, felt the truth of her choice. My choice - in abeyance - waited in her library.

My choice. Became clear to me. 

I took her hand in mine, felt the simple truth of her skin on mine.

Her lips came to mine, and life was as an opened book.

Waiting. Having waited for so long to be opened, it's truth yearning to be explored for so long, I held it in my hands and examined it. 

Truth waiting, patiently, waiting only for the honesty of this moment.

"I love you." I heard my voice.

"I love you." I heard her voice.

I turned, looked at snow falling on this waiting earth, on the earth that covered my brother's body, and as suddenly my eyes were drawn to the sky. I saw her reflection again - there in the glass - her hand in mine. The clouds had parted, and a shaft of pure light arced up into the sky.

It was all so simple.




In the Library



The choice to be made. The books to be opened and read.

The symmetry of my brother's choice had indeed numbing.

Truth - our truth - had been waiting, in the library. 



In the Library



Julie was new in town, just here a week. Her husband had taken a new job, one with more responsibility and, just as importantly, more pay. Today was his first full day at the job, and she decided to explore their new home town on her own.

She'd found the local market and picked up a supply of fresh produce. "Very good quality," she remarked to herself, pleased at the availability since she enjoyed cooking. Lunch in a local restaurant proved quite good as well, and afterwards, a bit of clothes shopping in some little boutiques. In one shop, she found a sheer purple scarf, lightly sequined, that matched the outfit she was wearing. She wrapped it twice around her neck, and found the look of it appealing. The feel was appealing as well; Julie liked the snuggness around her throat. At the desk, she had the clerk take off the price tag so she could wear it right away. It was three p.m. as she left the store; she had saved her favorite place for last, and she had plenty of time to explore it.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot when she arrived at the public library, and she hoped it didn't mean the collection actually was poor. The building was large and modern in design; reading was her passion, and she already had read that the library was supposed to be one of the best in the state.

Her fear of disappointment was dispelled as soon as she entered; the central reading room was spacious and filled with natural light, and rows and rows of full bookshelves radiated from the center to the farthest reaches of the building. She started in browsing, just wandering around, picking out books on the basis of a catchy title or an appealing spine design and glancing through them.

As she turned one aisle, she caught sight of a closed door with a simple black on white sign. "800.001" was all it said. She knew it was a Dewey Decimal number, for sure, but she'd never paid that much attention to the system of classification. Fiction was her choice, and it was always arranged alphabetically in the libraries she had frequented. She tried the door, but it was locked. That surprised her, and her natural curiosity kicked in. She made her way to the Reference Desk to ask about it.

The chief reference librarian was a man – common enough in universities, but something she hadn't seen in many municipal libraries – and he was good-looking. His sport jacket fit him well, hinting at a matching fit body beneath. He sported a full beard and a full head of hair, both with a bit of gray. Julie thought he looked about fifty-five or so, just about ten years older than herself. As he looked at her, it seemed clear that he found her as attractive as she found him. She blushed slightly, but was pleased that she had decided to wear the black skirt suit and purple silk blouse that she felt so pretty in. She wondered what he would think if he could see the purple lace bra and thong set that lay underneath her suit.

"Excuse me, Mister...er...," she paused as she noted his name on the desk plate, "Faolain, but I was wondering about a room I saw in the back of the library. There was a sign on the door that said "eight-hundred point oh-oh-one;" could you tell me what that is."

"Of course, Ma'am," Faolain replied, "That's the Dewey Decimal Number for erotic literature. We keep it locked so that only adults can access those books."

"Oh," Julie said, "I didn't know there was such a number; I've never seen it at any other library."

"Most local libraries don't include erotica in their collection," explained the librarian as his eyes wandered over the delicate lines of her face, tracing the beauty of its form and colors, "but we're more liberal here, and there seems to be a good deal of local demand for this genre."

"Hmm," thought Julie, "this town may prove more interesting than I expected it would."

The librarian interrupted her train of thought, asking "Would you like me to open it for you?"

"All right," responded Julie, "if it's not too much trouble."

"None at all," responded Mr. Faolain, and he led her to the room.

He held the door and then followed her in, giving her a quick tour of the shelves and showing her to one of the cushioned seats ranged round a massive teak table. Both the table and the chairs seemed antiques, more in a Victorian style than in keeping with the rest of the building and its furnishings. The room itself was darker than the main area as well; the window panes here were richly tinted and the natural light was well shaded.

"Feel free to browse the shelves, Ma'am," Faolain invited, "you can take any seat to read if you wish." Then he added, "We close at five; come get me when you're finished, please, so I can lock the room."

Julie thanked him and began to browse as he left, closing the door behind himself. She selected a few books and brought them back to the table to scan. It was a genre only slightly familiar to her, but she quickly grew fond of it, finding sex as arousing to think about as to do. She became thoroughly engrossed in her reading; so engrossed that she lost all track of time, and didn't even hear the closing announcement on the public address system.

Mr. Faolain thought about her for the rest of the afternoon, even wondering what kind of underwear a woman as lovely and sensual as she would wear. He remembered her eyes, her lips, her long, flowing hair, the sound of her voice, the curves of her hips and breasts beneath her clothes, her fragrance, even the shining sequins on the purple scarf that girdled her long neck. And he remembered also that she was still in the room as closing time came.

He ushered the library clerks and the few patrons out and then shut the lights as if he were closing. When the parking lot was emptied, when there were none left in the library but himself and Julie, he made his way to the 800.001 room and quietly opened the door.

Julie was so involved in the images which the words evoked that she didn't hear him enter, nor did she hear him steal up softly behind her. In fact she was completely unaware of his presence until he took hold of the ends of her scarf and pulled the loop snugly around her throat.

She gasped at the surprise, and then quickly froze. Her mind was lost in some dark recesses of sexual desire, and she hadn't a thought of what she should do.

"Stand!" Faolain said firmly, with an insistence in his voice, and Julie let go of her book and stood as he lifted the scarf to guide her upwards using it as if it were a collar.

Faolain tugged the scarf a little bit tighter as he kicked the chair aside. 

"Now, off with your jacket."

Julie inhaled sharply, and brought her trembling fingers to the buttons, undoing them one by one. The third button open, she slid the jacket back over her shoulders and let it fall from her arms to the floor.

"Blouse!" was all he said now, and Julie slowly complied, her whole body quivering. Both of them gasped as her blouse glided over her flesh and then over her arms, she, perhaps because of the silken touch on her nervous skin, he, at the sight of the silken skin of her back and shoulders.

With the ends of the scarf still in his hands, the librarian laid his palms on Julie's shoulders and hooked her bra straps with his fingers. Slowly, very slowly, he drew the straps outward and then down, drawing the scarf tighter around her throat as he dropped the straps down to her elbows.

He let go of the scarf then, and grasped the outside edges of her bra, pulling the cups tight against her chest, tight across her breasts, tightly containing her stiffening nipples. He kept it tight, dragging the lace down roughly over her breasts until they burst free, bouncing slightly until the wave subsided.

Faolain's arms encircled hers, and he cupped her full, soft breasts in his palms, squeezing them firmly. "Unhook it," he ordered, and she strained behind herself to undo the hooks and let the purple lace fall forward on to the floor.

The librarian slid his hands down her sides, letting them come to rest on her hips.

"Cup your tits in your hands like I did," he ordered, and when she held them both firmly, he added, "Squeeze your nipples between your thumbs and index fingers."

"Now pull them out and twist them," was his next command. "Further out; stretch them 'til they ache. Twist them hard."

Julie obeyed, moaning and whimpering as she tugged and twisted her own nipples.

Faolain felt himself growing stiffer with each whimper, with each glimpse of her strained breasts. He ran his hands all over her naked back, from her hips to the nape of her neck and back again. He liked what he felt, smooth, hot, a bit of perspiration just starting to form, and his breathing, increasingly heavy, clearly showed it.

Julie didn't expect it at all when he grabbed her wrists and sharply yanked them down. She squealed as her nipples tore free of her grip and her breasts bounced and jiggled on her chest.

The librarian sighed deeply at her squeal as he brought her hands to the waistband of her skirt.

"Undo it," he said tersely, "Drop it to the floor."

Julie fumbled for the clasp on the waistband, her hands trembling in his grip. She struggled with it a moment before unfastening it and exposing her lacy purple thong.

He released her wrists and slid his hands around her cheeks as he stepped back a bit to admire her derriere and her legs, the white of her thighs contrasting with the sheer black stockings that sheathed the rest of her legs. Her ass was so tempting, so vulnerable, with its flesh bare on either side of the thong nestled in her crack, that he couldn't resist giving her right cheek a sharp slap of his hand.

Julie heard him gasp at her little cry, and she imagined the pleasure he was taking from her. She found the thought of him aroused at her distress was arousing her as well, and she felt her furrow begin to fill with fluid. Faolain stood there and smiled at the red imprint of his hand welling up on her ass.

He paused a moment, savoring the sight, and then quickly slipped his fingers under the thong and lifted it, all in one motion. The thong pulled tight into her crotch, right between her labia, and lifted her ass in the air and her feet off the floor. She began to fall forward, onto the table, but stopped her crash with her hands just before her face and chest could slam into the wood. Her cry of surprise was louder than any she'd yet made, and Faolain's cock jumped at the sound.

He held her feet off the ground for a moment; then the lace tore and she found herself standing firm on the floor once more. The librarian pushed her feet together with his feet as he undid his zipper and freed his straining organ. It was long and thick, but Julie couldn't see that; she only knew from the sounds -both the zipper and his breaths - what he was doing. He grasped his shaft with his right hand, then, and took hold of the two ends of the purple scarf with his left. He brought his swollen glans to her tightly-closed labia and pulled back on the scarf, drawing her onto him.

The wet head of his cock slid easily between her nether lips as he pulled her towards him, but the tightness of her entrance resisted his penetration for a brief, intensely pleasurable, moment before it burst inside her, stretching both the circumference and the length of her pussy. They both moaned loudly as he entered, and he held her close to him by her scarf collar for more than a full minute.

Now he slapped down on her right cheek again, not as hard as before, and he left his hand there. A deep breath, and he pushed her towards the table, sliding her off his shaft until his glans nearly popped out of her sopping hole. His left hand yanked on the scarf and drew her back down the length of his organ. Julie moaned again as the head of his cock drove down into her, pressing against her sweet spot and sliding onward, stretching her sheath to its full length.

Again and again he repeated the motion, and he and Julie began to moan and sigh in unison with each other and with the strokes. Her nerves grew more and more sensitive as the tension increased in her pussy, and she could feel the worn surface of the teak table as her swollen and stiff nipples were dragged across it with each pull and push of her body.

Shorter strokes, now, and faster, each one stabbing into the bundle of nerves in the roof of her pussy, until she and Faolain both stiffened and arched, a full sweat flooding from their backs. Her sheath spasmed rhythmically, squeezing up and down his shaft and enveloping his glans, and he erupted inside her, spewing jet after jet of white lava against the back wall of her distended pussy.

They thrust together, now, slowly, Julie sliding her sheath over his shaft, pressing right down to his root, and Faolain shoving his cock into her pussy until it could go no further. Her spasms subsided, his fluids drained, the librarian pulled his organ from hers.

Julie's torso lay on the table now, and Faolain took hold of the scarf to pull her up to stand. He turned her to face him with one hand, and drew her face to him, pulling again on the scarf. His lips pressed against hers, hard and hot, and she opened hers to receive his tongue. They held the kiss and its passion for a few moments before breaking it off.

"Get dressed," Faolain said curtly as he did up his pants. "And, honey... I really like your new scarf."



In the Library



It was just a glimpse, but it was enough to pique my interest. So quick that I nearly missed it. Margaret bent forward to check a note written in her workbook, and as she did, her loose, low cut, top fell forward giving me an uninterrupted view down her shirt. I could see the swell of her breasts pushed up by her half cut bra, which was barely holding them in. I thought that if I could catch a glimpse at a slightly better angle, I had an inkling that her bra might be so low cut that her nipples, or part of them could be showing. She looked up suddenly, caught me looking, and gave me a cheeky little smile. Did she do it on purpose?

There was a group of five of us studying together in the library. There was a bit of small chit chat but most people were focussed on their work. I now had nothing else to think about apart from Margaret's breasts. I could still see the pale skin of her breasts swelling above the top of the bra, pushed into perfect shape by the lacy green bra. Her skin was so pale, and pushed so tightly up, that you could faintly see the light blue veins tracking under her skin.

Margaret was very attractive, and we were fairly good friends, so this was new ground with her for me. She was pretty tall, especially for a girl, being almost six foot, and was very slim. She had blonde hair and green eyes, with very fair skin. Her breasts had generally looked fairly small to me, between an A and a B cup, but this bra was definitely enhancing them nicely. Her body was that of a supermodel's, long, slim legs, whilst her waist and upper body were also very slim. She didn't carry herself with the grace of a model, but it wouldn't have been a push to imagine her in that role.

So there we were, studying in the library, or in my case now being distracted in the library, and I couldn't help but get the feeling that she wanted more than just a look down her top from me. Maybe I was just imagining it, but I thought I saw a hint of sexual desire in her eyes when she gave me her cheeky grin..

She again leaned forward to examine something on her page, and this time I got a prolonged look down her top. Her breasts were truly wonderful, the soft pale flesh spilling out, firm and rounded above the top of her bra. It was a wonderful view, and this time I knew that she meant it as she pressed her arms together, causing her breasts to push up slightly more, and gave me a smile. This time I definitely didn't imagine the smouldering sexuality in her gaze, and it made me wonder where this was going. Needless to say, I wasn't complaining, and would happily take the opportunity if she wanted this to go further.

As she sat back this time, she adjusted her clothes slightly, which left me slightly disappointed, believing that that was the end of the show. But the next time she leaned forward again, she propped her elbow on the table and rested her head on her raised hand. This gave me another wonderful look down her top, and the biggest surprise was that the adjustments that she had made was to pull her half cut bra down slightly, allowing her nipples to poke over the top. Her light pink areola and nipples were small on her breasts, but her excitement was obvious with her nipples rock hard. This show was really turning me on, and I was shifting slightly in my seat as my hardening cock was making me uncomfortable. Fortunately, the others at the table were too focussed on their work to notice what was going on between us.

The way Margaret was sitting pressed her breasts together and upwards. Now that she had shifted her bra down to expose her sweet nipples, her breasts were threatening to pop fully out of her bra. The green lace was just hugging the bottom of her areolas, holding the remainder of her breasts tightly in its embrace. Thinking of it, I wondered why Margaret had worn such a sexy bra, combined with a fairly loose top, and wondering if she had planned this to happen. This time when she looked at me, there was raw sexual desire in her eyes. The hardness of my cock was making my pants uncomfortably tight, and I knew that this was either going to go further or I would have to sort myself out.

Suddenly, to my shock, I felt Margaret's foot sliding up my thigh, and felt the pleasure as she brushed across my hard cock. She was looking down at her books again, giving me a view down her shirt, whilst she stroked her foot up and down the length of my cock. It was so hard to keep still and quiet so as not to alert the others at the table what was happening. Her foot was working wonders, stroking my cock softly, feeling almost as good as a hand around it. I wanted to come, and could feel my cock swelling even harder, when she stopped and drew her foot away. Margaret looked up and around at the others, before dropping a note on my book that simply said 'drop your pen'. This, of course, I did.

As I bent down to retrieve my pen, I looked up and nearly banged my head on the table in shock. Margaret was wearing a fairly short skirt, with her legs spread and clearly no panties. It was clear to see that she was a natural blonde as the neatly trimmed strip of blond fuzz pointed down towards her otherwise bald pussy. She was glistening with her juices, and as I watched, her left hand snaked down from above the table to dip into her pussy and stroke her clit softly, covering it in her juices. Her legs were shaking slightly as she tried to keep what was happening beneath the table hidden from everyone else.

I knew that I couldn't stay under the table any longer without raising suspicion. I quickly leaned forwards and ran my tongue up the length of her pussy up to her clit. I heard her gasp in shock and pleasure as I pulled away, which she quickly turned into a cough, and I returned to my seat. I looked across at Margaret to see her face flushed slightly and her hair slightly out of whack, with her left arm still under the table.

She looked up at me, and mouthed 'oh my god', her green eyes staring lustily at me. Focussing on her, I could see the subtle movements of her left arm, indicating that she was still stroking her pussy under the table. Her eyes were slightly glazed as she gazed at me, and she was biting her bottom lip to keep from making noise. Her stiff nipples were obvious beneath her thin shirt, and she then bent forward and rubbed her hand softly over her nipple. Her body shook slightly, as she tried to keep still whilst a small orgasm coursed through her.

Trying to keep her breathing steady, she scribbled a quick note and threw it across to me, before practically running away from the table. I took notice for the first time of what she was wearing, a black, pleated skirt, fairly short but not indecently so, with her loose short sleeved top. Her long legs were accentuated by a medium size pair of heels. In short she was stunning, and looked more like a model than ever. I looked down at the note... 'bathroom 3 mins', which couldn't be any clearer. I was still rock hard, so I adjusted myself to be less visible, then after a couple of minutes set off towards the bathroom.

I knew that she wouldn't be in the men's bathroom, and I had just seen a girl go into the women's bathroom, so I took a chance that she would have gone into one of the two disabled bathrooms. I knocked on the door on the right, which was the only one of the two that was locked. I heard the lock being undone, and waited a couple of seconds before I entered slowly, and then quickly closed the door behind me, and locked it, once I realised I was in the right place.

Margaret was up on the counter top over the sink, bent over into a doggy style position, with two fingers deep in her pussy. She looked at me in the mirror above the sink, 'oh fuck Ben I'm gonna come so hard!! Oh shit!! Oooooohhhhhhh!!' she moaned as loudly as she dared. She plunged her fingers in and out of her sopping pussy, and then drove them deep one last time as she shuddered in pleasure and came all over her fingers. I could see the juices running down to her wrist as she came strongly.

Margaret removed her fingers slowly from her wet pussy, her body shaking as she came down from her orgasmic high. Her hair was hanging messily over her face as she smiled blissfully, and her skirt was ruffled up around her waist, showing off her tight arse and her glistening pussy. 'Oh my fucking god Ben!! Shit I needed that!! I was so fucking wet and horny sitting on that chair! I needed to come so bad!!' she moaned, 'I thought I was gonna explode when you licked my pussy you bad boy!!' Margaret was still looking at me in the mirror whilst she talked to me.

As she finished talking, Margaret got down from the counter and walked towards me. She was still clothed, and her hard nipples were clear through her top. She kissed me deeply, before dropping to her knees. As she knelt on the ground before me, I looked down to see the same amazing view of her breasts spilling out of her tight bra as I had at the table. She unzipped my pants and removed my tightly constrained cock, still rock hard from the earlier teasing. Margaret slowly slid her mouth around my cock, whilst her hand, still wet from her own juices, was stroking my cock adding even more pleasure. The combination of her hand and her warm, wet mouth was exquisite on my hard cock, 'Oh fuck Marg!! Shit that feels so good babe!!', I moaned as she looked up at me.

I pulled away from her, as I wanted to fuck her. She looked up at me with a disappointed face, 'I want to fuck you Marg, I want to slide this into your hot pussy.' I said to her.

'Oh fuck yea Ben, but I definitely want your come in my mouth. I want to feel your hot load in my mouth babe!' She replied with a grin.

'Mmmm you really are a bad girl, I think you deserved to be punished.'

As Margaret stood up, I pulled her close and kissed her deeply. 'Let's get these clothes off you.' I whispered as I nibbled her earlobe.

She lifted her arms above her head, and I slipped her top off, leaving her standing in her bra and skirt. Now her top was off, I could see why her bra had turned me on so much earlier. The green lace bra was a half cut type, which pushed her breasts up, swelling above the top of the lace, with just a hint of her areola showing. I leaned in to kiss her, whilst I reached around and unclipped her bra, freeing her breasts. I slid her bra off as I pulled away from the kiss, and I got my first look at her unconstrained breasts.

They were pale, like the rest of her fair skin, and had a great shape to them, sitting proudly on her chest. They were a large A cup, or a small B cup, with large pale pink areola, topped off by small pink nipples that stood out stiffly, just begging to be sucked and nibbled on. I couldn't resist, bending my head down and softly swirling my tongue around the hard nub, bringing a gasp from Margaret, and then a light nibble of her nipple, causing her to moan and grab my hair. 'Ooohhh fuck Ben', she gasped.

I removed my mouth reluctantly from her breast, and then slowly guided her back towards the counter, so she was leaning back against it. I knelt down between her legs, and ruffled her skirt up around her waist, exposing her sweet pussy. Her landing strip of blond hair glistened slightly with her juices from her earlier orgasm. Her shaven lips were slightly swollen with her arousal, and I could clearly see her wetness.

I leant forward and slowly licked up the full length of her wet slit, before swirling my tongue around her slightly swollen clit. As I looked up at her, Margaret covered her mouth with her hand and moaned loudly into it, muffling the sound. Her pussy tasted wonderful, as her sweet juices flowed onto my tongue. Her skirt was flicked up over the back of my head, forming a mini enclosure around my head. Her body was shaking and I could feel her leg muscles tensing as waves of pleasure rolled through her body.

'Oooohhhh shit Ben!!! Oh my god!!! Oh fuck!! Shit baby!!!! Holy shit Ben!! Oh my fucking god!!! God that feels great!! Fuck I can't hold on much longer Ben!!'

I could feel her juices flowing out of her pussy, all over my face and onto my tongue. I was tonguing her wet slit, running up and down the full length, dipping my tongue inside her, before returning to tease her clit. I could feel that she was getting close to her orgasm as her whole body was shaking even harder, humping her pussy against me.

'Oh god your tongue is magic Ben!', Margaret moaned, 'I'm gonna come baby!! Fuck I'm close!! Oh shit!! Ooohhh god!! Shit!! Fuck Ben I'm gonna come!! Oh god!! Ohhh fuucckk!! Oh god I'm gonna come!! Oh Ben!! I'M COMING!!! HOLY SHIT!!! FUUUCCKKK!! OH MY GOD!! GOD I'M COMING SO FUCKING HARD!! Shit!! Oh Ben!! Ohhhh my god!!'

As her orgasm ripped through her, Margaret grabbed my head and pressed it into her shaking pussy with one hand, and screamed her pleasure into her other hand, which was covering her mouth. I continued to lick her pussy, tasting the juices flowing from her wet lips, whilst her body and legs shook violently with the force of her orgasm.

She stopped shaking after a while and I slowly stood up. She kissed me deeply, tasting herself on my tongue and lips. 'Fuck Ben I need you. Get your cock in me now!!'

She ripped my pants down my legs, quickly followed by my boxers. I reached into my pocket to grab the condom from my wallet before Margaret interrupted, 'Fuck the condom Ben, I want to feel your bare cock in my pussy!!'

With my stiff cock sticking straight out form my groin, I guided her back towards the counter. She leant forward, her arms supporting her upper body as she bent at the waist and spread her legs slightly. Her pussy lips were glistening with her juices from her earlier orgasm, her spread legs allowed easy access for me to enter her, and she looked around at me with a "fuck me" look in her eyes. I stepped up behind her and slipped my rock hard cock up the length of her soaked slit, eliciting a loud gasp from her when my cock head came into contact with her stiff clit.

'Fuck you're so wet Marg!' I whispered quietly to her, my shaft slick with her juices.

'I want it sooooo bad Ben, please give it to me!!! Please...fuck me...fuck me hard!!' She moaned quietly back.

I moved slowly forward, Margaret whimpered quietly as the tip of my cock pressed against her slick pussy lips. My hard cock head slowly eased into her, splitting open her tight, wet pussy as I entered deeper into her. I thrust forwards, driving the full length of my shaft deep into her sopping pussy, feeling her wet pussy lips rubbing against my balls. Margaret gasped loudly as I filled her pussy with my hard cock.

'Oh fuck...your cock feels so good inside me Ben!! Oh shit...god you're so hard!! Oh shit...fuck I'm gonna come already!!! Feels too good...shit...oh fuck...I'm coming Ben...OH GOD...I'M COMING!!!' Marg moaned into her hand as she tried not to scream too loudly and attract attention.

Her pussy clenched tightly on my cock and a flood of hot juice was released onto my shaft as I held my cock deep inside her. I could feel her muscles inside her pussy rippling along the length of my cock as her legs shook. Her pussy juices were dripping out of her and coating my balls as well as running down the inside of her thighs. 

She leaned back against me, with my cock still deep in her sopping her pussy, turning her head to kiss me deeply as my hands roamed around to fondle her stiff nipples. I began to slowly slip my cock in and out of her sopping pussy as we fucked in a standing position. I could feel her slick juices coating my balls as she moaned into my mouth. I could feel soft movement by my cock and realised that she was rubbing her hard clit as I fucked her. Her moans in my mouth were vibrating on my tongue as she rapidly approached another orgasm. Her legs were shaking as her pussy muscles began to clench on my hard cock.

The combination of my cock in her pussy, her fingers on her clit, and my hands on her rock hard nipples pushed her over the edge.

'OHHHH FUUUUCCCKKKK!!!!' Marg whispered as she drew her mouth away from mine momentarily, 'I'M COMING SO FUCKING HARD BEN!!!!'

Her fingers pressed down on her clit and I could literally feel her nipples stiffen even further in my hands as her rippling pussy muscles began to suck my shaft deeper inside her wet cunt. Her legs were trembling as she struggled to stay standing through her orgasm. She buried her face in my neck as she moaned her pleasure loudly, before she collapsed forwards after her intense orgasm so she was leaning against the bench again. 

Looking over her shoulder at me, Margaret whispered to me, 'Fuck me Ben, pound my slutty cunt 'til you give me your hot come!! I want it all over my slutty face and tits!! Oh god...please fuck me so fucking hard!!'

Not one to turn down an opportunity like that, I grabbed her hips and buried my cock deep into her soaked pussy. Her hand snaked between her legs to fiddle with her stiffening clit. As she requested, I began to fuck her hard and deep, my balls slapping against her fingers that were wanking her hot clit.

'OHHH GOD YES BEN!! FUCK ME...FUCK ME HARD...I WANT YOUR COCK!! Oh god, make me come on your hot cock...fuck your little teasing slut!! MMMM...OH YEA!! Did you love it when I was being naughty for you at the table...mmmmmm...such a naughty boy trying to peek at me!!!' Marg half moaned, half whispered.

'Oh yea Marg...you're so hot and wet...mmmm I loved your little tease, you naughty little slut!!! You made me so hard and horny for you Marg.' I whispered back, as I continued fucking her hard and deep.

'Ben, I want your come!! Fuck my tight little cunt...oh god fuck your naughty little slut!! Oh fuck...I'm so fucking wet for you Ben...oh fuck...fuck me hard!! Pound my teasing little pussy...fuck my little clit is so fucking stiff!!! OH FUCK...I'M GONNA COME AGAIN...OH FUCK...I'M COMING BEN...I'M COMING ON YOUR HARD COCK!!! OH GOD POUND MY NAUGHTY LITTLE CUNT!!'

I didn't let up as I continued to fuck her sopping pussy through her orgasm, pounding my stiff prick deep into her tight hole. I could feel the familiar rising feeling beginning in my balls, and I whispered to Margaret that I was close to exploding.

'Oh god Ben I'm close as well...I want your come to cover my slutty face...I want it dripping onto my teasing little titties with my stiff little nipples!! Please come for me Ben...I want you to explode all over me...I want to see your come spraying on my face!!' Marg's fingers were flying frantically over her wet clit as she approached another orgasm that I knew would tip me over the edge as well.

'OH GOD BEN I'M GONNA COME AGAIN...OH GOD I LOVE YOUR COCK!! FUCK I'M SOAKED FOR YOU...MY SLUTTY LITTLE CLIT IS SO FUCKING HARD FOR YOU!! FUCK ME...SHIT...OH GOD...I'M GONNA COME BEN!! COME FOR ME BEN...COVER YOUR NAUGHTY LITTLE SLUT WITH YOUR HOT LOAD!!! OH GOD I WANT YOUR HOT COME SPRAYING MY FACE....FUCKKK...I'M COMING!!!!'

As her pussy muscles rippled and her wetness increased with her orgasm, I knew that I was about to come. Slipping into her tight slick cunt a few more times I moaned to her that I was about to come. Still on her orgasmic high, Marg turned around and knelt in front of me, still playing with herself. 

Her mouth was open ready for my come, and her green eyes looked up at me as I stroked my slick shaft once, then twice, before I felt the come rising up my shaft. I aimed my cock head down at her face as my cock exploded, spraying come over her pretty face. Shot after shot of come continued to spew from my cock as I spurted my load onto her face, into her mouth, into her hair, before finishing off with a couple of spurts on her tits. She looked so sexy covered in my come as she grabbed my cock and sucked it clean.

'Holy shit that was a big load Ben!!! Fuck I love it!! I love your come all over me like a naughty little slut!!! I've wanted to fuck you for a little while now!! Please take a photo of me covered in your come...I want to you to have something to remember this by! And send it to me as well so I can wank myself over it too like a naughty little whore...this turns me on so fucking much!!'




In the Library



I obliged, sending her a copy of the photo, which I knew I would definitely be using on the quiet nights at home!!! We cleaned ourselves up, getting as much come out of Margaret's hair as we could find. We snuck out one by one and went to buy food so as not to arouse suspicion from the rest of our group, before returning. Concentrating on uni work was suddenly that much harder now...