Fucked in the Library #2
Forty year old almost — 39, she corrected herself, stupidly, while he was fucking her — and a 23 year old with his work shirt still on and his pants at mid-thigh.
His hands looked huge on her hips. She watched the place where he disappeared into her and felt her mouth fall open.
He reached around and found her clit again. Two fingers this time, sloppy, matching his strokes.
“You’re dripping down to my balls,” he said. “Feel that.”
She felt it. She also felt how close he was and how he kept choosing not to be.
His rhythm stayed long. Deep. The table inched toward the wall with every thrust until it bumped the outlet and stopped.
The fridge compressor kicked on. Somewhere in the building a freight elevator chimed and kept going.
“Cole. I want you to cum.”
“Not yet.”
“I didn’t ask if you were ready. I said I want it.”
He laughed once, wrecked, and it vibrated through his cock. He draped himself over her back, mouth at her ear, and the next stroke was meaner.
“Say it again.”
“Cum in me. Fill my pussy. I want to feel it run out of me when I walk back to my office.”
That did it.
He slammed in and stayed, a sound punched out of him, and she felt the first pulse of his cum hit deep, hot, a lot of it, his cock kicking while he ground through it.
She pushed back to take it. He kept her pinned to the table and emptied into her in long, helpless jerks, 23 year old stamina finally breaking because she had told it to.
She came around him while he was still pumping cum into her, her cunt milking him, her forehead on the fake wood.
He stayed in her after.
Breathing. One hand spread on her lower back. The kitchen smelled like sex and cheap coffee and the salt that had spilled. Her slacks were a joke around her boot. His cum was already leaking along her thigh, warm, then cooling.
He pulled out slow. She felt the wet leave of it, the gape, the drip. He looked down at what he had done like he wanted to put it back in.
“Office,” she said. Her voice was shot. “Couch. Lock. We’re not done sleeping and we’re not done with the rest of it.”
He nodded. He pulled her panties and slacks up without making them decent, just enough that a camera in the hall would only see two people who should not be walking together at 2:40 a.m. She put the cardigan on inside out. He tucked himself away still half hard.
They left the mugs where they were. The ice machine dumped another tray behind them.
In the service corridor the waxed floor threw their footsteps back at them. She could feel his cum sliding. Every step made it worse and better. He walked half a pace behind her like he was still on shift. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist once, a question.
She opened Special Collections with the key she was not supposed to use for this. The office couch sat under the emergency blanket she kept for late catalog nights. The door clicked. She threw the deadbolt and turned around.
“Take your shirt off,” she said. “Then get on your back.”
The office smelled like old paper and the lemon oil the day crew used on the desk.
Mara shut the blinds even though the quad was empty.
Cole pulled his work shirt off over his head and dropped it on her visitor chair.
Twenty three year old chest, a thin scar under one pec, dark hair trailing into the open belt he had not bothered to fasten in the hall.
She pushed him onto the couch.
The emergency blanket scratched. Navy. Pilled. She had slept under it during grant weeks and never once thought she would straddle a night custodian on top of it with his cum still leaking out of her.
She got rid of the slacks and the ruined panties and left the boots on. Climbed into his lap. His cock was already filling again, slick from her and from himself. She wrapped a fist around it and felt the pulse, still oversensitive, still willing.
“You came ten minutes ago.”
“I know where I came.” His hands settled on her hips. “Sit on it.”
She did.
Sore in a way the kitchen floor had not been.
She took him in inches, hissing when the head popped past the swollen rim of her pussy, then sinking until her ass met his thighs.
Different from the counter. She was the one who set the depth.
She could feel last round’s cum inside her, wetter, messier, making the slide filthy.
She rode him slow on purpose.
Hands on the back of the couch. Tits in his face.
He sucked a nipple and bit the underside of her breast hard enough to leave a mark she would have to hide with the cardigan tomorrow.
She rolled her hips and watched his jaw go tight.
He was trying not to thrust up. She did not let him stay polite.
She picked up the pace until the couch springs complained and her clit dragged the base of his cock on every drop.
“Fuck. Mara. That cunt.”
“Say it like you clean this building.”
“Your cunt is soaking my lap. I can hear it.”
She could too. Obscene. Wet. The leather under them was going to be a problem for whoever sat here at nine.
She did not stop. She chased the angle that made her thighs shake and came on him with her forehead against the wall, pulsing around a cock that stayed hard through it, 23 year old stubbornness showing up again now that he had already spent once.
He flipped her before she finished shaking.
Not rough enough to scare her. Rough enough that the blanket went to the floor.
He put her on her hands and knees between the filing cabinets, metal cold against her shoulder when she drifted, and shoved back into her from behind in one stroke.
The cabinets rattled. A hanging folder tab clicked against the drawer.
This was uglier than the couch. Narrow. Her hair stuck to her mouth. He gathered it and held it and fucked her in short, deep strokes that made her arms fold. She went to her elbows. Ass up. His balls slapped her clit. She could smell metal and dust and sex.
“Between the grant files,” she heard herself say. “That’s— Cole—”
“I know where we are.” He reached under and rubbed her clit with two wet fingers. “Give me another one. Then I’m going to lick this pussy until you can’t tell what’s mine and what you made.”
She came with her cheek on the carpet tile.
It pulled a sound out of her that the archives were not built for.
He followed this time without being told, driving deep and holding, cock kicking as he pumped a second load of cum into her already full cunt.
Hot. Too much. She felt it squeeze out around him and run down to her wrist where her hand was braced.
He pulled out.
She stayed there, wrecked, dripping onto the tile between the cabinets. She heard him breathe. Then she felt his mouth.
He had said he would.
He licked her from clit to asshole in one slow pass, tasting both of them, and she jerked like she had been shocked.
His hands spread her ass so he could get at her pussy properly.
He sucked his own cum out of her. The thought should have been disgusting.
It made her moan into the carpet. He found her clit and worked it with the flat of his tongue, unhurried, 23 year old patience again, like the kitchen had been a first draft.
She came on his face.
No warning she could use. Her thighs clamped his ears.
He made a satisfied sound and kept licking, slower, cleaning her, stubble burning places that were already raw.
When she shoved at his head he caught her wrist and kissed the inside of it, then the mess on her inner thigh, then the back of her knee.
“Enough,” she said. It did not sound like enough.
He sat back on his heels. Mouth shiny. Chest heaving. His cock hung half hard, spent twice and still not looking sorry.
She crawled onto the couch because standing felt theoretical.
He picked the blanket up off the floor and shook the dust from the cabinets off it.
Covered her. Then he squeezed in behind her, 23 year old body too long for a faculty couch, one arm around her middle, his mouth against the damp hair at her nape.
The office clock said 3:07.
Morning meeting at seven-thirty. His shift ended at six. Four hours if nobody came in early. The leather under her hip was damp. She could feel his cum in her if she so much as shifted. Her boots were still on.
“If I fall asleep,” she said, “you don’t leave without waking me.”
“I’m not leaving.”
She believed that more than she believed the lock.
His breathing evened out first. She stared at the dark shape of the special collections door and catalogued nothing. The building ticked. Somewhere a pipe knocked. She closed her eyes on the smell of him and paper and the sour edge of sex, and let the four hours start.
The seven-thirty meeting was in the small conference room with the broken blind. Mara sat with her knees pressed together and felt last night every time she shifted in the chair.
Cole’s cum had dried on her inner thigh in a tight, tacky line she had washed off at 6:05 in the staff bathroom and could still feel anyway.
Her clit was swollen. The mark he had bitten under her breast pulled when she reached for the agenda.
She had put the cardigan on right-side out and a blouse with a collar high enough that nobody would ask why her throat looked scraped.
Facilities was third on the list. HVAC. A complaint about the third-floor ice machine. She wrote ice machine on her legal pad and almost laughed, which would have been worse than the ache.
Across the table, the assistant dean wanted extra weekend hours for a donor preview. Mara said yes because saying no required a voice she did not trust yet. When the meeting broke she walked the long way back to Special Collections so she would not take the service hall.
He was already in her wing.
Mop. Yellow bucket. The same 23 year old body that had been inside her four hours ago, now in a clean work shirt, name patch straight, eyes on the floor wax.
A student worker asked him if the west restroom was open.
Cole said yes, ma’am, and did not look at Mara when she passed close enough to smell the detergent on him.
She tasted metal. She kept walking.
Her office couch had a throw pillow over the damp spot. She catalogued nothing useful until noon. Every time the HVAC kicked on she thought about his mouth between the filing cabinets.