I’ve never had sex in a library. I really want to have sex in a library or a bookshop, with a girl or guy who loves words as much as I do. It’s probably top of my I Really Want To Fuck Here list, to be honest, followed closely by ‘on a hillside’, and less closely by ‘in a train toilet’. I want to be fucked while surrounded by books. Occasionally, this desire presents a problem. And by presents a problem, I mean that I cannot stop thinking about it.
On the first day of my period, when sky-high hormones mean that Horny Jadis is rarely more than a few seconds away from slipping out of her restraints, I am in the university library. Turned on. I’m sitting forward in my seat, my legs slightly spread, so the seam of my jeans presses against my crotch. I’m squirming slightly.
The lengthy to do list in the back of my planner-diary means I know I should focus on productivity for a few more hours at least. Despite this, I’m weighing up going back to my flat – where I could curl up, read and eat chocolate, or stick my hand down my knickers (the latter being far more appealing) – versus staying in the library to finish the tasks I’d set myself. The main problem is that I don’t have the software required for completing the assignment on my laptop, and the deadline is getting closer.
It’s difficult to concentrate. The problem is, I think, that as hard as I try to fill my mind with equations and algorithms, it keeps creeping back to sex. I look up at the girl walking gathering up her things from the desk opposite, and watch her reach down to pick up some papers when they slip out of her folder, my gaze lingering slightly as she walks away from the computer cluster where I’m working. It takes a while for me to realise that I haven’t even looked at my screen for several minutes: instead I’ve been wondering if the athletically-built girl would be able to pick me up to pin me against the toilet-stall door and finger fuck me. Hard.
Shaking my head, I return to the strings of numbers, but it isn’t long until the tapping of my fingers on the keys reminds me of the friend who deliberately takes ages to reply to my texts, just to make the oscillating dots indicating that he’s typing a Facebook message dance for longer. Why does he do this? Because I admitted to him once that when we’re having slightly sexual conversation, waiting for his replies makes me anticipate what he’s going to say, which often makes the words he eventually sends more arousing when I read them.
Pushing thoughts of my friend’s long, calloused fingers (and the wonderful things I imagine they could do to me) aside, I push my chair back from the desk and stand. I do need to find a book to help me with this next bit, and hopefully the distraction of movement will help. A few minutes later, I’m standing with a heavy textbook in my hand, imagining a guy fucking me against the battered book spines. He would fuck me quickly and roughly: his hand over my mouth to muffle my moans, grinning at me as he squeezes my nipples…
Damn, I’ve done it again. I sigh – both in frustration and in longing for the fantasy fuck that I somehow feel denied. I trudge back to my desk. I work away on the next few problems, but Horny Jadis will not shut up now.
I imagine putting my jumper over my lap and slipping my hand downwards, so the movements of my hand would be hidden from a casual observer. I think about how I would try to remain composed while I touched myself. I wonder if I could rub desperate circles on my clit until I found some kind of release, without anyone realising what I was doing. I’m tempted, for just a second.
I go further into the fantasy. I imagine there is a girl sitting next to me who notices what I am doing. She moves her chair closer, running her fingers up my leg. I freeze in shame, and her hand comes to rest on my inner thigh. A feather light touch, but it enchants me completely. She moves closer, her hand sliding under my jumper to touch denim, then touch the lace-edge of my underwear. Then she’s touching my skin with her fingers. I sit there breathless and flushed, my heart racing. She bats my hand out of the way. I tense, every nerve ending alive even though her hand is only pressing gently against my public mound. Then she begins making tracing light circles, moving slowly – tortuously slowly – downwards.
I am so wet, both in fantasy and reality.
As it is a fantasy, I imagine that I have to hold myself back from coming at her first swipe of my clit. She takes delight in exploring my dripping cunt, stroking my folds and teasing me with the briefest of touches where I want them most. She whispers in my ear that it was obvious what I’ve been doing, and she was going to making me come while everyone could see what she was doing to me. I bite my lip, choking back a moan. Shame. Arousal. I don’t care who can see, I just want her to touch me.
A crash coming from a toppling pile of books jerks me rudely out of the fantasy. I realise that my hips are rocking slightly. I’ve let Horny Jadis, who I try so hard to keep under control (when I’m in public at least), run riot in my head, and she won’t be forced back into her bindings without me doing something about the chaos she’s released. I need privacy. I get up again and walk away from my computer, this time heading for the bathroom. I lean against the door of the toilet stall, and don’t even pull my jeans down, just stick my hand down and move my wet knickers to the side. A few minutes later and I’m sated. For now.
I visit the bathroom again before I leave the library, assignment completed.
As an endnote, Horny Jadis would like me to let you know that her bindings in my head are varied, but on this particular day she’d been bound to a chain, her hands tied behind her back and her legs tied to the legs of the chair so she was spread and open. Her own ruffled knickers were stuffed in her mouth to gag her. This is an important detail.