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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events or people, living, dead, or fictional is entirely unintended. Sexual activity should occur only between consenting adults in the absence of coercion. What is sexy in fantasy may be appalling in reality; do not confuse the one for the other.
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I leaned back and stretched my arms above my head, the wooden chair creaking under my weight. My small study desk, home to a physics textbook and notes, was tucked into a narrow alcove between library shelves, a wall, and what I was pretty sure was paneled over ducting for the AC system. I lowered my arms again, sighing as I felt the fabric of my shirt slide over my chest, and not for the first time thought about how much my life had changed, and how I'd ended up squirreled away in this particular corner of the Mag.
A couple of months ago I was trying to emerge from my shell, fighting back the damage that years as "Pancakes Drake" had done me. But then my friend, Mila, had offered me the chance to be a nude model for an art class. I still didn't know what had come over me, how I'd found the courage to agree, but I'd spent an amazingly pleasant evening showing off every inch of my body to two rooms full of strangers. And for a bonus, I'd managed to take a little revenge on Paul Hopkins, the asshole who had nicknamed me "Pancakes" in the first place. I'd walked out of the art building a winner, and thought that would have been the end of it.
I guess it would have been the end of it for some, but not for me. I'd spent year after dreary year hiding and concealing my body, and myself, from others only to discover all at once that I no longer had to. It was like starving for years only to discover a five star banquet! Being naked in front of so many people had made me feel powerful and in control. It made me feel real and I wanted more. In the weeks that followed I noticed things that I hadn't before, like when I stopped to tie a shoe and my shirt fell forward a little, I noticed boys trying to sneak a peak at my tits.
And once I'd noticed, it suddenly became very important to me that my shoelaces were always tight, especially when my neckline dipped a bit lower or my shirt was a bit looser. I noticed that I didn't wear bras quite so much anymore, and especially not when I knew I was going somewhere a little bit cold. I liked how I looked when my nipples stood up under my shirt, and I liked how men looked at me when they did. My usual pants had started to feel confining and I found myself wearing shorts and little skirts. At first it was enough to know people were looking at my toned runner's legs, but before long I wanted more. I noticed I was choosing to sit where it would look like, with a little luck, you could see right up my skirt. Some days, I think you could.
As if that wasn't enough, every so often I'd run into one of the artists. I saw the girl with a nose ring in line in the cafeteria and she gave me a smile and a subtle thumbs up. One of the custodians in my dorm really had been one of the amateur photographers. Since that night, any time I saw him, he stared at my chest as if he could see right through my shirt. Most often I saw the boy with the brown hair, whose penis I'd imagined myself sucking. Our schedules overlapped more than any other and when they did I could always feel his gaze hot on my skin. If only he knew what I'd been thinking about while I posed naked for him!
That night of posing had awakened in me the need to be seen. Most of the time I barely noticed it, like when I was hanging out with friends, or eating, or in class. It hit me worst when I was somewhere public, and felt a little bit bored. I used to study at tables in the student union; it was comfortable, and close to my dorm, and I was good at concentrating. But one day I was bored with my work and started thinking about the people walking by. I imagined slipping my shirt off and studying there with my tits out. I imagined them all looking at me, drinking in my round tits and little perky nipples. And that's when I realized my hands had drifted to the hem of my shirt and had started to lift it. I'd quickly shoved them down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles and went back to studying, but I knew that I had a problem. I'm sure I could find excuses to show off my tits (and Mila was promising to help me find the perfect bikini for Spring Break to do just that), but I needed to be at least a little bit choosy about where.
I couldn't study in my room, not least because my roommates only stopped talking to me when they were asleep or gone, and they weren't either one nearly enough. And it was pretty clear that if I kept at it in the union, sooner or later I was going to do something that would be hard to explain away. Which is what brought me to the Mag.
Near the center of campus is the John T. Magou Library, which everyone just calls the Mag. It is, to put it nicely, a beast. It had been built after World War II with three levels below ground and eight levels above, a sprawling edifice packed to the gills with books, journals, microfiche, and all of the other odds and ends that university libraries accumulate. After a couple of decades, another library was built right next door and, a decade later, the two were connected together to create one, even bigger facility. Then the renovations started; first one building, then the other, and then a sort of joint renovation. And finally a third building a bit further away was connected by underground tunnel. The tour guides, like Mila, liked to tell parents that it was the largest single library west of the Rockies. I don't know if that's true, but everyone on campus agreed that it was by far the oddest.
After the years of building, and rebuilding, and renovation, and re-renovation, almost nothing about the inside of the Mag made any sense. You could go down a flight of stairs and end up on a top floor, or follow a hallway around in a circle and end up in a different building from where you started. Windows would provide a fine view of a blank wall inches away and getting almost anywhere required at least two elevators or stairwells because the floors didn't all connect. The humanities types described it as "post-modern," the math crowd as "non-Euclidean," and the science crowd as "fucked up" (What can I say? Scientists are practical people). But whatever word you preferred, the Mag was a bizarre, eldritch space that wasn't so much left as escaped from.
For me, the Mag became my salvation. With a floor plan that weird, it was full of nooks and crannies that were almost impossible to find unless you were really looking. In my first year, when I was still trying to hide myself away, I'd discovered a study carrel wedged into the stacks in an obscure corner of an obscure floor. Tucked in between an interior wall, some duct that a renovation had forced them to punch straight through the floor and ceiling, and shelves densely packed with huge bound copies of journals, my little desk could only be accessed by making the right choices at several specific junctions and then sliding through a narrow space that looked as if it didn't go anywhere at all. In my first year I discovered that my little desk in the Mag was always free and nobody ever seemed to come to that part of the labyrinth. Back then I'd been hiding from others, but now I was hiding from myself, and my little desk was exactly what I needed.
Of course, there was a unique danger to the Mag. Since the start of the year a handful of female students had fallen asleep while studying in the stacks and had awakened to find cum in their hair or on their cheek. Campus police tried to keep in quiet, but the student newspaper caught wind and pretty soon everyone knew about "the Magoubator".
"I don't know how you can study in there," Mila had sighed as I packed up to go one day, "Most girls are going somewhere else these days. Can't you at least stay out in the open?"
But I couldn't, that was the whole problem. If I tried to study in a public spot, at best I'd just be sitting there with a soaking wet pussy thinking about undressing. At worst, I'd actually do it! And really, I was pretty safe. My own little part of my own little floor was hardly ever visited, and nobody ever found my desk. Even if I fell asleep, I was pretty sure the Magoubator wouldn't find me. At least, I had been.
At first it had been subtle. As I was tracing the arcane path to reach my study desk, I'd hear a faint sound of footsteps or just feel like someone was watching me. If I checked, I never spotted anyone who seemed out of place, but I kept noticing something. Then, one evening at my desk, I heard someone walking around my part of the Mag. That was unusual, and I stopped and listened while they paced around the floor and then left. I never heard them take anything off of a shelf, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. The Dewey decimal system would need to add irrational numbers to work in the Mag, so it wasn't all that odd that someone might just not find what they came looking for.
I mentioned it to Mila the next day and she immediately pulled a copy of the newspaper out of her bag and slapped it down on the table. The headline shouted up at me:
MAGOUBATOR STRIKES AGAIN!!
I mean, I never said our journalism program was any good. I looked up at Mila and shook my head, "No way."
"Shit, yes, Lana," she responded, tapping the paper with one painted fingernail. From the date and time of the incident the latest attack had happened while I was still there, studying.
