In the Stacs

It's dusk as I pull into the side lot of the university library—the one you instructed me to use should I ever visit you at work. I'm pleased with myself for following your texted directive to the letter: knee-high black Italian leather boots, my red tartan skirt that hits me mid-thigh and a v-neck cashmere sweater straining to contain the tits you so love to torture and then worship with your mouth. As I step out into the crisp, October air, I'm reminded of your final command, the cold hitting my naked pussy and sending a shock through me.

Closing the heavy, ornate door behind me, I am immediately struck by the scent of old pages and the humming of new technology. It's dinnertime, and the sparsely populated building is about to get even less inhabited, something that you surely calculated when you sent me the meeting details. The exhibitionist in me can't help but be a bit disappointed. I smile as I think of a hapless TA encountering me spread eagle, my boots shaking in the air while you thrust into me, oblivious. We both know that I'd let him watch us for as long as he wanted, that I'd probably exaggerate my moans and throw in some sexy swearing for shock value. And we both know that after the dust settled, I'd revel in the spanking that performance would earn me.

I make my way towards the philosophy section. For once, you have left me a choice and I'm not sure why I've made this one, apart from a few dirty puns involving Sartre and Kant. Per your request, I'm to pick a spot anywhere in the library and stay there, to be sniffed out, tracked and claimed as prey between the stacks. I listen to the quick clacking of my heels against the parquet floor and hope that you're not near enough to hear it; I would hate to make this too easy for you.

I pause and busy myself with reading the multicolor spines of the Pluralist school, unconsciously holding my breath, an ache beginning to spread between my legs. I pluck Empedocles from the shelf and will myself to calm down and focus, but all I can manage is picturing people fucking desperately atop earth, in water, through air and on fire. An echoing thud snaps me from my x-rated reverie, my heart catching in my chest as I realize I am no longer alone. The offending book, thick enough to be a dictionary or some other reference text, is at my feet. The good girl inside of me doesn't hesitate squatting down to retrieve it; the bad girl relishes the sensation of air rushing underneath her skirt and against her cunt, dampening already. I keep my eyes on the floor, on the book, on the expensive loafers making no move to assist me.

I reach for it, and you bend slightly, catching my wrist in a tight grip. I would know your hand anywhere—the long, strong fingers, the strategic callouses, the effortless way it squeezes me into submission.

A single word, in your rich baritone, is so menacing that it makes my shoulders tremble and my pussy twitch. I flush, realizing that the mere sound of your voice has prompted a solitary tear of excitement to run down the inside of my thigh.

"No."

I freeze, the wetness between my legs increasing by the second. You release my wrist and cup my chin roughly in your hand, forcing me to look at you. As our eyes lock, I unconsciously begin to rub myself, like a reflex. My smooth lips, now drenched, feel warm and ready to receive you.

You grin, but you handle my face harshly, lightly smacking my cheek. "You dirty bitch," you whisper. "Playing with yourself out in the open," you admonish. "And in front of the Greek philosophers, no less."

I bite my lip, the slight sting on my cheek causing me to rub harder, more furiously, my clit completely engorged now. In a few seconds, I could come, shaking and moaning on the floor while you look down at me in disapproval. It would earn me more smacks, in more intimate places, but before I can contemplate it too long, you resume full height and place a hand on either shoulder, driving me down onto my knees.

"Little slut wants to play alone? Aren't you forgetting something?" You answer your own question with the unzipping of your khakis. My fingers gravitate from my clit to my soaking pussy. Three fingers slide easily in and out, becoming drenched in my juices and I stifle a moan. Looking around briefly, you slide your pants down, and present me with your large, pulsating cock. My first instinct, on my knees with my favorite toy at eye-level, is to take it between my lips and lick it from balls to tip. But you have other plans.

"Your hand," you command gruffly, and I remember how you like to feel the power you have over me, before you've even touched me. You want to feel what I have done to myself in anticipation of being filled up, wrecked and owned by you. I comply, taking my sopping fingers and sliding them along your long shaft, using my nails to lightly scratch the underside of your balls—something that never fails to make you growl with pleasure. Your cock glistens underneath the library lights, covered in me, smelling of me. My nipples stiffen and my knees quiver, punctuating how badly I want you inside me.

Your hand on the back of my head signals that I'll soon get my wish. Licking my large, pillowy lips, I take you into my mouth and instantly taste my salty-sweetness on your skin. The sensation is so intensely exciting that I have to fight the urge to finger myself again. Instead, I focus on running my tongue along every inch of you, tracing tiny circles with my fingertips against your balls as I do so, eliciting a series of increasingly louder groans. Watching your eyes dart about in alarm only encourages me further, and I take you as deeply as I can—choking, sputtering and devouring your cock until I'm certain I can hear footfalls nearing. In an instant, your hand is grabbing a handful of my wavy, ruby-colored hair and forcing me to my feet.

"Fuck," you mutter, pulling up your pants as I wipe a mixture of the two of us from my mouth. I barely have time to straighten my skirt before you've pinned my hands behind my back and pushed me into the aisle. "March," you bark into my ear, your intimidating frame looming over me as you guide me through the stacks.

I am acutely aware of the musky scent radiating from us, of the crimson flush across my ivory skin, both advertising my desire to anybody bothering to look up from their work. I make accidental eye contact with an attractive dirty blonde student doing some work-study shelving and my face feels hotter still—does she know, *could* she know? The thought of this pretty angel innocently popping into your office with a classification question while I'm being drilled atop your desk delivers the familiar twinge between my legs again.

The fantasy leaves me as soon as I hear the lock to your office door turn, however. Our respective places of employment are off-limits where my exhibitionist tendencies are concerned, of course. I know you'll make it up to me tomorrow night, when we fuck like drunken teenagers in the ladies' room at our favorite wine bar.

But before I can think too much about that, you are leveling me with that look, your arms crossed, your eyes piercing a hole through me. "I want you naked. Now."

I remove my sweater, reach behind to unclasp my purple satin bra, unleashing my pale, soft breasts with their upturned, dark pink nipples. I never tire of the way your eyes widen when I reveal myself to you like this. An appreciative moan escapes your lips as you reach out to cup me, my nipple hardening instantly at your touch. Instinctively, I want to feel your hardened parts, and my hand gropes at you, still fully clothed.

"Willful today, aren't we?" you mumble, snatching my hand and twisting it behind me. In seconds, my hands are flat on the top of your desk, my body bent over it with my ass in the air, contorted just so by you. You pull down the side zipper of my skirt so hard that I'm briefly afraid you've broken it, but a sharp, loud smack on my right ass cheek instructs me not to be concerned with such mundane matters. I imagine the bright-red handprint I'll find in the mirror later, and I shudder with pleasurable pain.

You force my legs apart with your own, and I hear your belt buckle clink as it hits the ground. No preparation is necessary; your cock is still slick and hard as stone and my cunt is screaming for you to assault it, to pound it into place where I will be sated, if only for a little while. You smack my other cheek with your left hand, and with your right, you clutch the back of my neck, squeezing hard as you enter me. I cry out at the initial impact, louder than intentioned, and then your fist is entangled in my hair, snapping my neck back.

"You want somebody to hear us, don't you?" You don't wait for an answer. "You little slut...are you trying to get me fired?" You are so strong and your cock is thrusting so forcefully that my petite body is nearly raised off the floor as you fuck me, turning me inside out, making my teeth vibrate, my eyes water. Occasionally you reach for my tits, pinching the nipples between your large thumb and forefinger, likely leaving bruises that I will photograph and send to you later, when we both should be working.

You fall perfectly into my rhythm, in and out of my dripping pussy, playing it like an instrument you might break during the final notes. Your fingertips digging into the scruff of my neck communicate that you know I am close, and that's enough to send me into a delirious state—bucking, shaking and contracting around you as wave after wave crashes over me. Half of a shriek rings out before your hand is clamped down firmly on my mouth, muffling the following screams. "That's a good girl," you purr, your voice much more tender than before. "My slut comes when she's supposed to, and not a minute sooner," you nearly coo as the last throes of my orgasm subside, leaving me crumpled against you, leaning on you for support. And then--

"Turn around," your tone goes from sweet to authoritarian in an instant. I acquiesce, facing you, completely naked except for my knee-high boots. You grab my pale, narrow shoulders and position me so that I'm half-sitting, half-laying on your desk. You bite down on my nipples; you nip at my neck, rubbing your swollen, massive cock as you go. "You better be ready," you say.

Then you are stroking yourself over me, and I arch my back and thrust my breasts out to receive the geyser of cum that erupts all over them, hot and wet and marking me yours. You rub the head of your cock against my nipples, the last masterful strokes, painting and signing me. I am a ruined, beautiful and thoroughly fucked piece of art, and you stand over me a moment to survey me.

I smile up at you, punch-drunk, absently rubbing your cum into my skin, licking a bit off my index finger before you allow me to get up. "Yum," I remark, grinning at your own big, gorgeous grin. This earns me a long, lingering kiss before we both start to dress.

We are decent for precisely ninety seconds before there's a knock on your door. I hold your arm back to restrain you; the room reeks of our sweat and sex. As you shrug me off and cross to the door, I feel the blush spreading across my features, and that familiar twinge between my legs again.