In the Library

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.