Where?

We're the only two people left on the fifth floor of the library. The intercom has already given the message about the library closing in blah blah minutes so get out please and thank you. I walk over to his desk. I look tall but I'm not. I look it because I'm slim bordering on skinny. Because my butt, which I think has a certain shapeliness - from certain angles, can't resist the dowdiness my trousers give. Because my boobs are small. Because my hair is straight and my arms and legs gangly. I am a series of parallel lines suspended off a too fertile mind.

I don't dress like a slut. I don't call attention to myself in any real way. Not really. I don't act like a slut either. But I have memories. And those memories become too much when I'm buttoned down with study - when deadlines are approaching and an essay still needs work. At the moment I'm thinking about taking three cocks at once. In my puss. In my mouth. In my bum hole. Three at once. And my thoughts are overwhelming me.

If he doesn't get what I want I'll make up some question and get an answer and head straight home to frig myself off. Maybe I won't even make it home. Maybe I'll find some shadow on campus grounds and let it hide me. Maybe I'll drop my jeans around my thighs and squeeze my hand between my legs and squeeze my fingers into me. Maybe.

He looks up at me as I stand there with my arms at my sides. I'm expressionless. The last time I tried this the bloke said what? I want this bloke to say what too. I want him to make me ask some nonsense question, get an answer, and walk away. I want him to make me stop and frig myself off, alone, on my way home. I also want him to get that I need his cock. He looks at me straight in the eye, and says:

"Where?"

I tell him, "in my mouth."

He says, "where in the building?"

Oh. So I tell him, "the stairwell."

He packs his books and laptop into his bag. He packs pens and paper and notes and shoulders his bag. I lead the way. The library has three stairwells. North, south and east. East is the main one. South is hardly used. We head south because danger is not part of what I want. He puts his bag on the floor of the stair landing and backs himself into the corner. He can see the flights up and down and the smoke stop doors to our floor. He can see me hesitate.

It surprises me a little when I walk to him and sink to my knees. I fumble at his belt and fly and reach my hand in. I fumble his underwear out of the way and wind my long parallel fingers around his shaft. He's big. Bigger than I have seen or held or taken into me. He's long and thick and growing in my hands. I shuffle closer and take him in both hands. There's no time for ceremony as I open wide and place my mouth over the head of his dick. I circle my tongue around him - feeling his shape. After a moment of orientation I slam my mouth over him until I gag.

He pushes my head back a touch. Probably doesn't want a tough explain about the passed out student he found in the stairwell. He tells me to wank him off into my mouth. So I do it. I wank my hands along the lower half of his shaft and occasionally I whack myself in the face. I suck and blow and lick as best I can on the rest of him until he grunts out a warning. He explodes down my throat. I feel the warmth of him and I taste it too. I feel the soak of my panties as my puss reminds me that I have greater needs. I feel my bum hole clench around the imaginary cock my brain tells me about. I squeeze my hand around him and drain him and drain him and drain him into my mouth with long slow and tight strokes until he starts to go flaccid.

He says, "I live near by." He says it as a demand.

I tell him no. I tell him this is my fantasy and not his. I tell him that if he mentions this to anyone I will deny it and make a sexual harassment complaint against him. I am still holding his dick in front of my face as I say this. He shrugs and takes his dick from me and tucks it into his pants and zips up. My hand stays empty in front of my face as he says I have a ten year moratorium. After that he will tell others about his one time at band camp. That seems fair. I'll probably end up doing the same; probably to a therapist. Then he picks up his bag and walks off.

I have cum on my shirt. I don't realise until I get home. I don't see him for another week.

My problems started during the summer, when I spent three months down south picking fruit among the itinerants - a mixture of local students and foreign backpackers. Poor money and cheap accommodation and freedom I wasn't used to. I wore tee-shirt and shorts - sometimes braless and no knickers. I got sunburnt and strong from carrying fruit bags. My back and legs and arms and fingers ached. I learned to drink vodka and I learned to fuck. I fell in with a bloke from some tiny piece of Europe. We were monogamous for the month leading up to his visa expiring. If I'm ever in Europe town I can knock on his what ever door.

He and I fucked a lot. I took his cock in my mouth many times. He ploughed me so often I lost count. He'd roll me on my side and crouch my legs up with me hugging my knees to my chest so that I was in a pretzel shape. He'd slide up to me on my narrow bed and wedge the angle of my exposed arse and puss in between his thighs and fuck my puss as hard and as deep as he could. He'd work one hand between my thighs and use his thumb to frig my clit while we fucked. He'd hold the palm of his other hand against the base of my spine while his other thumb took some of my juices from around his cock before thumb fucking my bum hole.

One time he went five days without coming, and on the sixth he had me play the pretzel while he licked my arse. I loved it. I loved it and frigged myself while he worked his tongue around and around and in as deep as he could force it. He jerked himself as he licked - and after I'd come and come again he stood up and shot his load over me. On my hip, up my side, over my face. Then I took him in my mouth and sucked him until he was hard again. I never left my pretzel pose. I never stopped fucking myself with as many fingers as I could. It ended with him fucking my bum hole.

He didn't have the biggest cock in the world and my licked out bum took him easily enough. I had never felt so full of cock. I worked my fingers deep inside my puss while he fucked my bum. I had never imagined the ways I could take a fucking. I felt stretched out. I felt filled up. I drove my own fingers into my puss to match him driving into my bum. I felt his cum dry on me and I tasted him in my mouth. And I came so hard that I've been chasing such a hard come ever since.

When I see him he says that he had to work a bit lately and that he has fantasies too. So I lay naked on my bed with my legs sped and I frig myself as he watches. I play my fingertips across my clit sometimes slow sometimes in a blur. I watch as my nipples grow erect. I feel my orgasm build but try to hold it off - this is for him and not me. If it were for me I'd close my legs and squeeze my hand in tight and squeeze my fingers in tighter and tighter and tighter and chase the memories of some now distant first time hard come. Instead I use both hands to part the lips of my puss for him and delve a single finger in deep. I poke and poke and poke then go back to frigging with one hand while the other squeezes and pinches my nipples. I tell him to take his clothes off. I want so badly to come hard with him watching. I ask him if he wants to see me fist myself.

He does. I've never fisted in front of anyone before. I hope he realises how special this is. I slide towards my pillows piled up against the bed head and I sit up. I arch my shoulders forward and curl my spine so that I'm in a 'C' shape as I sit with my legs not so wide apart - my knees bent a little. I rub my puss up and down with my fingers flat and together as if they are covering me for modesty - all the time moving my fingers up and down the lips of my puss. I dip the middle two fingers in nice and deep. I keep at it until I'm ready. I know he's watching me and I feel his eyes on me. But this is for me.

The flat of my palm covers my mound and the heal of my hand presses against my clit as my middle two fingers crook over and dive deep into me. My juices flow as I cock my wrist so that I can slip a third finger in, then a fourth. I point my crooked elbow at him because it's easier with my hand and forearm more directly aligned like some weird dildo. I stop my in and out. This needs to be one way now. One way of slow millimetre by millimetre stretching of my poor puss as slowly the bump of my knuckles force their way in.

I bend my thumb tight across my palm until its tip is against my pussy lips. Part of my brain remembers the first time pain and picks a fight with the part that remembers the first time flood of fullness, the flood of one of the hardest comes I have ever had. My heart pounds and tries to jump from me. My lungs heave and my glistening puss looks odd and weird as it throbs and fights and resists and welcomes. I stare at him. I stare and smile and edge my hand into me and I challenge him to look at me and not my hand. He's astonished. He's unbelieving. I'm drowning in how real this is. In how much I love this moment. In how proud I am that I can even do this.

My puss stretches around the heel of my palm. My thighs want to clam together. My thighs want to fly apart. I try to keep from shaking too much as I force my puss wide. I bite my lip and feel the bridge of pain that I'm almost across. Almost. Oh fuck, that I am across. Oh fuck. My puss closes around my wrist. My brain floods with memories of the first time I managed this - with memories of the first time that I opened my eyes and saw that my hand was in me and that I realised that my puss wanted it to be so. The sheer flood of achievement overwhelms me as it always does. I smile like a gormless idiot as I come hard. Fuck.

My face aches with my smile. I feel sweat drip from me. I feel each of my fingers in me as they test their confines one by one - as they test me in unison. There was once space in me - and that's the joy. I'm full and I love being filled up. I come as I move my wrist ever so slightly in and out. I come as I frig my clit in the blur of my free hand. I come as I want so badly to throw my shoulders back. I come and I tell him to come on me - to unload on me - and I come as the thickness of his semen coats my heaving belly. I come as I tell him to get his face in between my hunched together shoulders and suck on my nipples. I come as he sucks me and sucks me and kisses me and drives his tongue down my throat and as his load dribbles down my belly and against my forearm and towards the sparse triangle of my pubic hair. I come and come until I'm spent and sweating and draped over him and curled into a ball with my hand still in my puss.

It's funny. Fisting is so funny in the way it makes me come so hard and the way it makes me not care at what I'm doing. I've chased the hard come I crave and I found it. The funny part is after. It's not like frigging before sleep because there's no gentle rolling over, no slipping a hand out from the confines of pantie elastic. Nothing like that. I have to disassemble myself. And he watches so very carefully as my hand draws from my poor brutalised puss with the heel of my palm pulling at me from the inside out. My wrist emerges all slick with my juices. My stubborn palm and thumb and easy fingers follow and I'm out and so empty and so full with the memory and the shock and the thrill and the knowledge of what I have done.

He stares as the lips of my puss regain their parallel lines. As my clit finally settles down. As my mad display becomes a memory and I end where I started - naked, with my hands between my spread legs. I sit upright and try to un-hunch my shoulders and uncurl my spine. I am completely fucked. I have no idea what happens after a thing such as this. There are no rules in my head for how this will end. I have fisted myself to the hardest orgasm of my short sexual life and I have done it in front of a stranger.

He takes my slicked wrist in his hand. He pulls my hand to his mouth and takes a tentative lick across my palm. He moves my juice coated hand to his flaccid cock and I take him in my fingers and jerk him as best I can. He slips in and out of my grip as I mix my juices with come. He guides my hand to my belly and circles my palm and spread fingers around and around as if he's trying to mop up his come and my sweat. He slides my hand to the modest swell of my tits and I feel my fingers slide over me until my palm is square over my left nipple. He glides me in sliding palm circles until my hard nipple feels every line of my palm. He does the same with my right nipple and I love him for it. I nearly speak as he sits next to me as he sucks on my tits. I lean back and enjoy. I have no idea how long he plays his tongue and mouth over me but it seems like hours.

I see my palm as he holds my hand in front of my face. I feel him lick the back of my hand as he releases my wrist. I lick too. We use our mouths to clean me lick by lick. We suck my fingers one at a time, my mouth then his, my mouth then his. It's gentle. It's thorough. We kiss regularly and often. I see his eyes and face and mouth and nose and welcome being close to him. I feel warm all over. And loved. And wanted.

He guides me on to my back and shuffles himself down my body. He lies on top of me and dives his face between my thighs. I put his cock into my mouth and start a long slow leisurely exploration with my tongue and lips and throat. He explores me with his tongue, his gentle and respectful fingers. I come first. A gentle come. Later, much later, he comes down my throat.

I sleep in his arms and it seems so divorced from my chase of the hard come. It seems so reasonable. In the morning he is gone.

I convince myself of many things. That sex is sex for one thing. That chasing the hard come is a chase that I have to make. That he watching me is vital and necessary and needed by both of us. A week later I see him and tell him of my occupying thoughts of late. But he tells me he has to work and that he isn't interested in sharing me. A week after that I see him in the supermarket. I actually want him to fill my three holes. One after the other, as part of the same sexual adventure: a night of fucking. Forget three men at a time. I want one.

He says he has to work.

I say, "what time do you finish?"

He says 1.00 am.

I say, "call around after work. I add "alone." I say it matter of fact. I give him my spare key. I convince myself that my needs are entirely sexual.

I go home.

I wait.

He doesn't show.

A week after that there's an envelope in my letter box. My key is in it. The note has his phone number. Sex is one thing, it says. But there are more things. He doesn't leave his name. A whole semester passes before I find myself in the library right before it closes. I am alone. I see the spot where I stood before him. I see the smoke stop doors to the stairwell. My essay stares back at me. I hold my hand in front of my face and contemplate it. Normal people want movies and a drink and food. Normal girls do not fist themselves in front of a guy they met by sucking him off in a stairwell.

I take my cell phone. I call him. He answers. I think of my hard come and the respectful moments. I think of all we've shared. I realise I have never told him my name. I say, "it's me."

He doesn't say where. He says, "what?"