It was late; the library should be deserted by now. I crept furtively from my comfortable seat by the window, the artificial streetlight briefly illuminating my skin, walked quietly across the library carpet. I was careful not to let my heels click on the floor as I reached the tile; if you could hear me, you wouldn’t allow it tonight. I adjusted my skirt, still unsure of the length. Aren’t these fantasies supposed to involve tiny mini-skirts and bleached hair? “Make sure you blend in, Rachel,” you said sternly. “If they notice you, it’s over. I won’t go through with it.”
Just the thought of your voice makes me quiver with excitement. My heels click very softly on the floor as I climb the stairs slowly, one at a time. My shirt is a plain white button-down, a men’s shirt, but it accentuates my full breasts and deeply tanned skin. The skirt to whose length I object is long and denim, with a slit up the back. I refused to wear pantyhose, and I wore slightly risqué shoes, knowing that you would disapprove. Sometimes I delight in your disapproval.
But I blended in easily over the few hours I was required to wait, until the library thinned out and people began to go home. My hair is dark, chocolate coloured you say, and my eyes green, but I wore glasses so I could appear studious. I sat in the corner in the reference room, never raising my head from the large volume I had procured from the shelf. I knew you were watching me, studying my behaviour, seeing how much I desired this meeting. “This must never be spoken about,” you said to me, softly. Your eyes ran down my body, desiring me. “Only once, Rachel. After that, I don’t want to see you again.”
But I knew I could seduce you. I got you this far, didn’t I?
I reached the top floor of the library and quickly noticed how much darker it seemed up here, how much quieter. I reached down and silently unbuckled the straps on my shoes, slipping them off my now naked feet and carrying them across the floor. The tiles are cold; it has been many hours since the sun has shone through the picture windows at the opposite wall. The walls are lined with books, but in the corner stand a few old desks, antiques probably, with worn vinyl chairs behind them. You sit at the farthest one; only your outline is visible in this dim light. The wooden desks glint with the light of the streetlight.
“Do they know you’re here?” you asked. Your voice is controlled, firm.
“I slipped away,” I reply.
“You didn’t answer my question,” you glance up at me and then out the window. “I have the keys to lock up. They know I am here. Do they know you are still here?”
“No,” I answered, although that may not be true. I simply wasn’t aware of the librarians any longer.
“Very well,” you said. “Take off the skirt.”
“Maybe I can do a striptease for you,” I said hopefully.
“No, that won’t be necessary. I want to see you naked, Rachel. Will you obey?” It isn’t really a question, it is an ultimatum. If I don’t obey, you will leave.
Resigned, I place my shoes on the table and reach around the back of the skirt to undo the zipper. “Can you get this for me?” I ask coyly, gesturing towards the clasp.
You are annoyed. “What kind of shoes are these?”
I stop fiddling with the back of the skirt. “They’re heels, high heels.”
“I can see that, Rachel. I specifically told you to blend in, and you came to the library wearing fucking stripper heels. What’s wrong with you? Do you want me to get fired? Is that what you want?”
Your anger isn’t real. I know it’s not, and you know I know. But it excites me, and I find myself hoping that you’ll pick me up and tear off my clothes. “I don’t want you to get fired, sir,” I say, knowing that my subservience will be the most satisfying to you.
“I would tell you not to do it again, but there will be no ‘again’,” you say. Seeing my slightly deflated look you add, “Turn around.”
You undo the zipper and your hands slide down my hips, taking the skirt down with them, my smooth skin rippling up into goose bumps at your touch. I’m wearing a black thong panty – in fact, it barely qualifies to be called a thong, because in fact it’s more like several elastics with a tiny triangle to cover my mound. My ass is pointed towards you, and your hands are massaging it, kneading it in tiny circles, your fingers running up and down the elastic that runs vertically.
“Turn around,” you say huskily. I oblige, my shirt still barely skimming my thighs. You begin to unbutton the shirt, your erection clearly visible, even in this dim light. Your hands are uncontrollable, and they cup my breasts even before the shirt has been unbuttoned. The coolness of the cotton shirt against my heated skin is erotic, your breathing is erotic, the heavy, solid wood of the desks is erotic. I am close to orgasm, and you haven’t even touched my pussy yet. The buttons seem to be coming undone too slowly, but I know better than to rush you. I long to reach forward and grab you, rip open your pants and pull out your massive cock; to straddle you on this desk I lean against, and ride you until I come.
But I don’t.
You finally finish unbuttoning my shirt, and your gaze shifts slowly down the length of my body. Pushing the shirt back past my breasts, you use your fingers to slowly pinch my erect nipples. My pussy is aching now, wanting you so badly. The black g-string is soaked through and my wetness is dripping slightly down one thigh. “Oh god, sir,” I whisper hoarsely. “Please…”
“What would you like, Rachel?” you say, your eyes meeting mine with a slightly amused quality to them. “Do you want me to touch you? How do you want to be touched?”
