He was tall, strong, and consistently the best student in his class. He played football and volunteered for half a dozen campus charities. He carried himself with an easy smile and an friendly but authoritative grace that gave him the appearance of owning whatever space he happened to be occupying. But the library was the only place he felt truly at home.
Five floors of shelves so high that even at six foot two, he needed a stool to reach the top row. The smell of dust and paper. A silence so deep and thick it felt like being wrapped in a blanket. The sounds of rustling paper and shifting weight were his only human contact; the quiet gave each cough and footstep the richness of an exhale after a held breath, a comforting reminder that he could have his solitude without having to be alone.
He didn’t like to be alone.
A squeak caught his attention. He looked up and saw the girl at the end of the aisle with her ancient metal cart loaded with books. He’d noticed her before, mostly because she seemed to try so hard not to be noticeable. She wore no make-up and her dark hair hung straight down past her shoulders which curled forward protectively around her . Large, black rimmed glasses shielded her downcast eyes. She wore long skirts and shapeless blouses that shrouded but couldn’t quite hide her full breasts. She looked like she was doing everything in her power to keep people from seeing who she really was.
If that was the case, he thought, then they had something in common.
He turned so as not to stare. To his left a sign on the wall read: Quiet Please, a message to which he often thought gratefully in reply, Quiet. Thank you. He traced his fingers along the books in front of him, volume after proud volume of the History of Agriculture in 18th Century France. It took him a moment to notice the girl wasn’t putting books away.
She was looking at him. She had, he noted, also taken her glasses off and was placing them on the shelf.
He started to smile and her eyes slid away. For a moment, she seemed to shrink into herself. Then, as though committing herself to some internal decision, her eyes came up to meet his, and she walked boldly towards him.
He took an instinctive half-step backwards and found a wall of books behind him. She kept coming, and then stopped directly in front of him. Her eyes never left his as she slid her hands into the waistband at the front of his pants. He felt his cock begin to stiffen.
Her lips darted forward lightly touching his ear, breathing on his neck as she raked her hands up and then back down his chest. Heat pooled in his balls at the sensation of her fingertips pressing into him through the cloth of his shirt, mixed with frustration that the shirt was there at all. He wanted her hands on his skin.
A moment later, they were.
She ran her hands upward under his shirt as she sank into a crouch. Looking down at her, he saw a couple buttons of her blouse were undone revealing the pale swell of her breasts. He wanted to bury himself in their softness. He took her shoulders to pull her to her feet to kiss her but she stopped his wrists with her hands.
Her eyes sent him a message: I’m doing this my way.
And behind that, another message, one she probably didn’t realize she was sending: Please. Let me do this the way I want to.
Strength hiding uncertainty. His heart swelled, recognizing a kindred spirit.
He gave her shoulders an understanding squeeze and took his hands from her shoulders, trailing his fingers across her face and up through her hair before severing contact. His hands didn’t like it. They wanted to touch her some more. He curled them on the shelf behind him willing them to stay put.
Her hands were moving too, unzipping him, finding his cock and pulling it out. She smiled up at him and took it into her mouth.
Warm wet suction. His head went back hard enough to bang against the books behind him hard enough that had it struck the metal shelf the impact would have been audible across the entire floor of the library. He inhaled with pleasure and as his eyes rolled deliriously upwards, they raked across the sign on the far wall: Quiet Please.
The rasp of his own breathing sounded anything but quiet.
And now her hands were on him too, working in concert with her mouth. He was lost in a world of heat and friction. He was drowning in sensation as her lips squeezed and released in a perfect, pulsing rhythm. And then her mouth was gone, just the tip of her tongue gliding, teasing, making an achingly slow journey along the bottom of his shaft, stopping just long enough for his balls to clench in frustration before finally licking the tip.
Her mouth came back and it was like a warm tide washing over him, the pleasure in his cock radiating outwards to fill his entire body. He didn‘t know anything about this girl, this stranger he knew only as an shy silent presence in the stacks, but in this moment he belonged to her completely. Everything he was had flowed out of him, centering in his dick melting away under her ministrations leaving him empty of everything but pleasure and the need for release.
Release. Oh yes, he was coming. He felt a cry rising in his throat to match the rising pressure below.
Then her mouth was gone, and her hands squeezed him tightly, stopping his orgasm. Pleasure and pain collided. The pressure was so unbearable. Her mouth was at his ear and he smelled himself on her breath as she whispered five words into his ear.
The pressure eased. His muscles began to relax. Tension left him that he didn’t even know he’d been carrying. He felt like he was living in a new body, a body free from the anxiety that lived buried deep in the old one.
He met her eyes, and she saw everything he wanted to say in them. She blushed shyly, an irresistible contrast to her boldness of just a few seconds ago.
Then she lowered her head and took him back into her mouth.
This time the pleasure felt different, flowing smoothly through his newly relaxed muscles like a river connecting cock to torso, torso to limbs, heart to soul. It was a cleansing stream of sensation, free and pure and perfect.
This time when he came there was no stopping him. There was no holding back the orgasm and there was no holding back the cry that burst from his throat; he barely got his hand up in time to scream his pleasure into the meat of his own arm. It seemed to go on for ever, contraction after contraction, and when it was over it took him a moment for his senses to reorient themselves to the floor beneath his feet and the bookshelf at his back.
She rose. Her fingertips were at his collar. She leaned over to lightly kiss his cheek.
Then she was walking away.
He wanted to go after her, but he had no strength. He leaned against the bookshelf, catching his breath.
It was a few minutes before his legs would support him again. They shook like a newborn deer’s as he made his way through the stacks towards the exit. He kept an eye out for her, but she had disappeared. She may well have been a ghost, a fantasy. All that was left was the delicious, drained throbbing in his balls and the memory of those five words she had whispered in his ear to keep him from crying out.
“Shh. You’re in a library.”