Imagine a library.
Imagine for a moment an old-fashioned library. Possibly one from a university, you're not quite sure. But it feels familiar, comforting.
Dark wooden shelves, high ceilings with soft lighting, static fluorescent tubes that have been there for as long as you can remember. The musky smell of paper everywhere combined with plastic, metal and old leather, mixed with the various scents of people coming and going and a hint of perfume. Imagine walking through it, some books in your arms, doing some research for a project that you're working on. The books in your arms are heavy, but useful. Various covers holding the information you seek together, shifting as you look at the shelves, the little plaques and the back of the books. You're not quite there yet, another turn, in a corner of the library.
Imagine the hushed silence. Only the noise of people being very quiet. Pages turning, breathing, gentle whispers, footsteps that are respectfully soft, perhaps a giggle or another stifled sound of life. The silence drapes over this place like a gentle blanket, comfortable and warm, punctuated by the subtle thumb of the librarian's stamp. Feel how it could comfort you, holding your hand in a way while you find your way through the many alleys and corridors towards your destination. There is a book you seek, the last one you need for today, but you haven't quite found it yet.
Plaques guide you on your way until you think you've found the right place. Almost at the far end of the library, encompassed by many books and shelves, you are hidden from sight by the rest. Only the hushed tones, reflected from the ceiling, allow you to realize that you aren't in a dream, but right here. Almost there, it had to be one of these shelves. After you put the books you were holding down on a table nearby, you follow the last part of your trail with your index finger. No one is anywhere near you, it's like a square cavern of books that you are trying to find the treasure in.
You finally find it, just above your reach. It's at a higher shelf and you know that you couldn't take it out unless you stood on something. A little stair is nearby. Just three steps of wood, but more than enough to help you those final few inches towards your goal. Imagine your elation as you finally manage to reach it with your fingertips, pulling it backward slightly, the cover glittering invitingly towards you. You feel a warm hand brushing against your inner thigh.
The movement was subtle, but very intense. The skirt you were wearing does reach down to a bit above your knees, but the hand had brushed a bit higher, actually reaching underneath it. You felt it against your skin, creating a shiver along your whole body. You didn't actually hear anyone behind you though, nor had you heard steps or any other indication of a presence. Part of you wants to glance who it is, who dared to touch you like this. But another part, a wild secret part, wants to see how far this will go. You stand there, frozen, one hand still stretched out towards the book, gripping the back, when finally, after all these thoughts had gone through you, a sigh escapes your lips.
The hand touches you again, making it very clear that it hadn't been a figment of your imagination. A warm, strong hand that caresses your inner thigh, teasingly brushing a little bit up. You still don't turn around, knowing, in some way, that it is what the other wants; And, while you would never openly admit it, so do you. You feel the heat in your body, almost blazing at the erotic, sudden and unknown touch. Do you dare? Do you dare to stay still while a stranger touches you this intimately?
You want to dare.
You want to give in, to let it happen to you.
You feel yourself giving in, the strangers hand moving agonizingly slow over your inner thigh. Strange fingertips that manage to touch the thin fabric that protects your most secret parts. They move again, the hand caressing in a slow, deliberate fashion as another sigh slipped past your lips, almost a moan. Fingertips that brush over your protected labia, felt all the more intense because of where you are. You are in a library, you cannot make noise, you cannot let anyone know, see or hear what is happening here.
Then there was the smell. Even those simple touches are making you so aroused that your scent, a naughty wet fragrance is starting to form around you. The cotton panties that felt like such a good idea this morning, do nothing to prevent your sensual scent from spreading. The stranger notices it too. You imagine the sound of a slow inhale, or perhaps you don't, blushing as you can feel the smile on the unknown's lips. Another moan fights to let itself be heard as his fingertips trace slowly over your flower again.
The fingers are getting bolder, you feel them tugging the fabric aside to assault your skin directly. Your free hand, the other still on the book, moves to prevent it from happening. But it moves too slow, too lazily. Before it even arrives, a finger slid over those wet folds of skin and almost makes your legs give out. The free hand shoots towards the shelf, using it to support yourself. Even though no one could possibly see you here, you feel more naked than you would if you were not wearing your clothes. The finger is still teasing you, pushing between your labia to slide teasingly over your most sensitive skin, the clitoris.
Again you almost fall to your knees.
It gets even worse when you feel it finally penetrate the confines of your body, sliding in with relative ease. There is no mistaking the arousal that has been building up in your body, nor the smell that has spread through the room. Your breaths are heavy, deep and almost sound like stifled moans. So far it is quite admirable that you've managed to stay quiet here. But this is far from over. With his finger still inside of you, you feel like you're about to fall and want to get down. But, you're not quite sure why, you daren't look around to see who it is. But he sees it, the stranger notices your moment of hesitation.
No more than a whisper, low and subtle, but so loud to your hyper-alert ears. Was it even a whisper? Did you actually hear it? It didn't matter, your body obeyed the possibly unspoken word.
With his finger still inside of you, and the book inside your hand, you slowly step down. Never turning around, you lean forward, the book resting on a much lower shelf. You know full well what will happen next, and your arousal wants it all the more. Pushing back with your ass, you practically beg for him to take you. But you can't ask, you can't make a sound. When the stranger finally removes his finger, pulling it all the way out, you cannot resist letting out a whimper.
You hold your breath in fear, feeling as if the whole place could hear that whimper. A sound of pure arousal, of pure desire. You'd scream out for the unseen stranger to fuck you if you could. To pull his cock inside of your pussyâ€¦ But not here, you can't here. Not in the library, the smell of books now softer than that of your own dirty pleasure.
If only he'd do it already, stick it in, fill youâ€¦
The thoughts distracted you, failing to notice him pulling down your panties enough for his flesh to enter yours. He didn't thrust in all the way, despite how wet you are, as it would hurt him. He took his time, sliding in and out, slowly spreading the juices enough for him to make the deeper plunges into your pleasure. He was almost perfectly silent, his breath controlled but deep and something about the sound made you feel like he was smiling. Feeling your pleasure, your emberrasment. He looked right through you.
He never asked, he took.
You are there for the taking, a plaything of pleasure, a toy for intimate torture. And you didn't care what anyone thought, or rather, you cared quite a lot for anyone seeing this forbidden act, breaking the sacred silence of the library. If the girl from the desk would come around the corner now and saw you, you wouldn't be able to stop. You wouldn't be able to do anything but blush and fail at surpressing your moans any further. They would ring out loudly and echo on the high roof. But that isn't allowed. You must stay quiet, must remain as silent as you can.
Just feel how hard he is fucking you.
Keeping you on the edge of making too much noise, purely by the movements. He fills you so completely, time and time again with the length of his shaft. It feels so good, so fulfilling your whole being. There is no way you could hold in all that pleasure, some moans had to escape. The bite-marks on your wrist solved the mystery of why they hadn't. Your forehead resting near your hands, an innocent shelf that was fortunately strong enough to hold you steady; It stopping you from falling over as the delicious deviance continued, coping with every thrust that the stranger makes into you. You can feel it building up, higher and higher. Deep inside, an orgasm that would be so wrong in a place like this. In this place of silence and learning. A climax in between all the books telling their own story, as you're living yours.
So close to an erotic explosion of exhibitionism.
It takes only two more thrusts for him to fill you, a small, silent expulsion of energy. It was the final drop that triggered you. Pushed against the volumes of information, you came. Biting your wrist even harder in ultimate pleasure; still standing, clutching the bookshelf desperately not to fall. Still riding the waves of orgasm, twitches of muscles out of your control. Still standing, barely, as he keeps thrusting to stretch the good feelings.
The primitive sounds of wetness, subtle but ever present, finally flow into the forefront of your mind. The stranger finally left your body, your knees giving out as you collapsed on the floor slowly. Holding the book once again in your hands as an unusual prize. The blush of emberrasment that had been overtaken by the heat of passion now returned. You feel your cheeks burn with intensity as you suddenly realize where you are and what you've done.
Finally you turn around to gaze upon your assailant.
And look right into my victorious eyes.