Fucked in the Library #4
She watched her mouth fall open when he bottomed out. She watched his hand span her hip. She watched the place they joined, shiny, obscene, her cunt stretched around him. He fucked her so she had to see every inch leave and come back. The vanity shook. A drugstore toothbrush fell into the basin.
His other hand slid down her belly and rubbed her clit in tight circles. She tried to drop her head and he caught her hair, not cruel, just firm, and put her eyes back on the glass.
“I said watch. I want you to see what you look like taking this cock.”
She came looking at herself.
It pulled a broken sound out of her. Her knees dipped. He held her up and fucked her through it, then through the aftershocks, then slower, waiting. He was shaking. He still had not spent.
“On me,” she said. “Not in me. I want it on my tits. Now.”
He pulled out with a wet sound that made her pussy clench on air. She turned, sat on the closed toilet lid because her legs were done, and pushed her tits together. He stroked himself twice, 23 year old fist slick with her, and came with a groan he bit off on his teeth.
His cum hit her chest in thick stripes. Hot. A lot. It landed on her nipples, ran into the valley between her breasts, dripped toward her belly. She looked down at it, then up at his face, and dragged two fingers through the mess and put them in her mouth because she wanted him to see that too.
“Fuck,” he said, like the word was all he had left.
They did not make it to the mattress.
The kitchen was six steps. The table wobbled.
She went to her knees on vinyl that was colder than the bathmat and took his cock into her mouth while he was still oversensitive.
He hissed and grabbed the table edge. She sucked him dirty, tasting her own cunt and the ghost of his cum, spit running down to his balls.
He hardened in her throat like the night was not finished using either of them.
“Mara. That’s— you don’t have to—”
She pulled off. “I want to. Then I want you to fuck me on this table and cum in my pussy this time.”
He lifted her, turned her, bent her over the cheap wood.
A takeout napkin stuck to her forearm. He pushed in easier now, her cunt sloppy, used, still hungry.
The table legs stuttered toward the wall.
Street noise came through the cracked window — a motorcycle, somebody laughing on the sidewalk — and none of it belonged to the wet sound of him driving into her.
He draped over her back. Mouth at her ear. One hand on her tit, smearing what he had left there.
“You told me where,” he said. “Say it again.”
“Cum in me. Fill me. I want to leave here with it running down my leg.”
He lasted through another climb she did not think she had.
Her third of the room. Maybe the fourth if the shower counted separate.
She broke with her cheek on Formica, cunt clamping him, and then he slammed deep and gave her what she asked for, cock pulsing, heat flooding her, a sound punched out of him into her shoulder.
He stayed in her after, twitching, breathing like he had run the river road. His cum leaked around the seal of him and cooled on her thigh.
He pulled out slow. She felt the slide, the drip, the open ache. Neither of them spoke for a full minute. The bus took the corner again. A drop of water fell in the shower because he had not shut the handle all the way.
She stood. His shirt was on the chair. She did not put it on. She found her blouse on the bathroom floor and held it instead of dressing.
“We should say what this is,” he said.
She looked at the table. At the bathmat. At the 23 year old who had just come on her tits and then inside her because she had used both sentences like orders.
“No,” she said. “Not tonight.”
He nodded once. He did not look relieved. He looked like a man who would take the no and still open the door at 5:50 the next time she buzzed.
She dressed in the bathroom with the mirror still streaked where his hand had been. His cum was a tacky map on her chest until she wiped it with the towel. The rest of it she left where he had put it.
Outside, the river road hissed. She took the stairs. The entry buzzed behind her like it wanted the last word.
Someone was in the west stairwell at 6:22.
Mara heard the door bar clack from her office and went still with Cole’s mouth on her throat.
He had come up the service elevator with a work order that did not exist.
She had let him in because the building was supposed to be empty for another forty minutes and she had spent the night smelling his soap on her skin.
Footsteps. Not student footsteps. Heavier. A key ring.
Cole lifted his head. Twenty three year old eyes sharp. She pointed at the kneehole of the desk. He dropped into it without argument, folding himself under the wood, his breath suddenly loud to her and silent to the hall.
The cataloger from maps knocked once and opened the door because faculty did that to each other.
“You’re early,” the man said. Coffee. A stack of call slips. “I need the 1912 plat before nine. Dean’s on a tear.”
Mara stood on the public side of the desk with her blouse buttoned wrong and her pulse in her mouth. Cole’s shoulder was an inch from her knee. If the cataloger came around the desk he would see a night custodian on the floor and there would not be a story that survived it.
“I’ll pull it,” she said. “Leave the slips.”
He left the slips. He talked for ninety seconds about the donor preview. She nodded in the right places. Under the desk Cole’s hand closed around her calf, not sexual, just there, a 23 year old holding still like the job depended on his lungs.
The cataloger finally went. The stairwell door clacked again.
Mara locked her office.
Cole stood up. His mouth was a line. The work shirt was wrinkled from the kneehole. He looked at the door, then at her, and the heat that had been in his hands two minutes ago had gone sharp.
“That ends you,” he said. “It ends me. I mop floors, Mara. They don’t give me a hearing. They walk me out.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you buzzed my building last night like this was a room we could keep.”
“I know what it costs.” Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. “I also know I locked the door just now and you’re still standing there.”
Silence. The HVAC ticked. The plat map the cataloger wanted was in a drawer three feet from his hip.
He laughed once, no humor. “So we stop.”
She should have said yes. She put her ass on the edge of her own desk instead, the one with the grant files and the nameplate, and popped the button on her slacks.
“Or we don’t,” she said. “You can walk out. I’m not going to write you up for a work order you invented. But if you stay, you stay. I’m not doing the almost in the kitchen again. I’m doing this or I’m doing nothing.”
He stared at her. Then he crossed the office and kissed her like he was mad at both of them.
It was not the shower. It was not the coffee machine.
He yanked her slacks and panties down to her knees, spun her, and bent her over the desk blotter.
Pens rolled. The nameplate hit the floor.
He got his cock out and dragged the head through her pussy and found her wet, which she hated and needed in equal measure.
“Yes,” she said into the calendar pad.
He shoved in.
No slow first inch. She was still tender from his table and she took him anyway, a burn that made her grab the far edge of the desk.
He fucked her like the cataloger was still in the stairwell.
Short. Deep. His belt buckle tapped the wood.
She could hear how wet she was and it sounded like a confession.
“This is stupid,” he said against her spine, driving in. “This is so fucking stupid.”
“Then stop.”
He didn’t. He reached around and found her clit with fingers that were not gentle, rubbing in time with his hips, and she came on her own desk with her cheek on a permission form, cunt clamping a 23 year old cock that had no business being in this room in daylight-adjacent hours.
He bit the back of her shoulder through the blouse to keep from making noise and kept thrusting.
He lasted. She felt him fighting it, felt the shake in his thighs, felt him choose the long version even when the smart version was to finish and leave.
A radio popped somewhere on the first floor.
Both of them went still with him buried in her.
The radio faded. He started moving again, slower, meaner.
“In me,” she whispered. “If you’re going to do this, do it. Cum in my pussy and then we can pretend we talked about stopping.”
He made a sound that was almost a laugh and slammed home. She felt him break, heat flooding her, cock kicking against the sore place he had used last night. He held her hips hard enough to leave prints under the slacks she would pull up in a minute. His forehead dropped between her shoulder blades.
He pulled out. She felt the leak immediately, down her thigh, toward the hose she would have to deal with before anyone else opened that door.
He tucked himself away. She pulled her slacks up and did not bother with pretty. The nameplate was still on the carpet. She left it.
Cole stood there with his shirt tucked in wrong.
“Maybe we should stop,” he said.
She looked at the blotter. At the locked door. At the 23 year old who had just come in her on university furniture and still had wax on his boots.
She did not answer.
He waited long enough for the silence to become the answer, then he picked up the fake work order, unlocked the door, and went out into a hallway that was starting to fill.
Mara sat in her chair. She could feel him dripping. The 1912 plat was still in the drawer. She pulled it because that, at least, she knew how to do.
He was not in her wing for six days.
Mara learned it the way she learned most things in that building: by walking past the place he should have been and finding a different cart, a different name patch, a bucket that smelled like the same detergent and the wrong man.
She asked no one. She did not call Facilities.
On the third morning she saw him through the glass of the science annex, mopping a hall that had never needed him, 23 year old shoulders set like the floor had offended him.