He righted me. The doors opened. A student, a small girl in a large sweater, got on. We continued upwards.
“This way,” he said, tugging me out of the elevator when we reached our floor. “Must keep up. We have deadlines to meet.” I hurried after him in my heels.
He rounded a corner, then another. We leaned against a frighteningly high railing, looking down at the dizzying pattern of black and white tile we’d walked over earlier.
Behind me, I felt him reaching under my coat and my skirt, fingering the tops of my thigh highs, interweaving fingertip and lace. I could see everyone, it seemed. But to everyone else, I was simply a girl taking in the view. The few people on this floor were working quietly. He was behind me, blocking the view of my skirt edging up. The pads of his fingers worked softly over my thighs. His fingers went up, almost to the curve where my ass began, then dropped down. They went between my thighs, slowly, deliciously up, then down again.
“That’s just unfair,” I hissed.
“This. Is. A. Library,” he said through clenched teeth. “Need I remind you—”
I mimed zipping my lips, throwing the key away over the railing. It would fall, and fall, and fall before finally making a tiny clink as it landed.
He righted my skirt, tugged my wrist.
“Come along.”
I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t have broken from his grip if I’d tried. And I did try, but it only made his fingers encircle my wrist further, grip tighter.
We found ourselves in a corner of the stacks, where he stopped suddenly.
Medical books. Of course.
“You could study my anatomy any time you want,” I offered, but he was engrossed; there was something particular he was looking for.
When he came to Essential Medical Physiology, Third Edition, he flipped open the book and buried in its pages, found a small leather bookmark. When he picked it up it unfolded into twice its length, and from the way he fingered it I could tell it was his.
“Come here often?” I asked, but my question went unanswered.
“You’re. Speaking. Too. Loudly,” he hissed inside a whisper. “Do you have no respect for the institution?”
“Uhhh…plenty of respect.”
“Plenty of respect…sir.”
Sir Grouch-a-lot, I thought.
He started smoothing the bookmark over my behind.
“Get that book,” he said, pointing to a heavy volume on the top shelf. It was very, very high. Even with the use of one of those library stands—the three-lobed stools from the seventies; thank goodness one was nearby—it’d be tricky.
I bent over, keeping my back flat, like I’d learned in yoga, hoping it’d make my posterior more attractive as I stooped for the stool, brought it beneath the book, and set it down. This would be precarious in flats, let alone heels.
Maybe he’d change his mind. I snuck my hand to the front of his khakis, and—
Smack. The bookmark stung delightfully.
“No,” he said.
“Sir,” I said. In the quick grasp I’d had, he felt very, very thick.
Holding onto the bookcase, which thankfully was screwed into the wall, I put one foot up, then another. I was already on very, very slim red heels and it seemed I’d have to be on tiptoe. I willed my body to stretch further, extending my right hand up—
Then I felt his hand rising up my leg. When I looked down, I saw a young man reading quietly two aisles away. I couldn’t see his face—he was buried deep in his work, a shelf up and around his desk, blocking my (and, hopefully, his) view. But he was there. We would have to be quiet indeed.
The hand on my thigh grew tighter, gripping. It would provide some support. I leaned into it, angling further up—
“Get the book,” he said. And it did seem possible—
A hand cupped my ass, and squeezed.
“I…I can’t,” I said. Then quickly: “I can’t, sir.”
“You can, and you will,” he said. “Need I provide some extra motivation?”
Knowing the studying boy was so close—
“No! No,” I whispered when he snaked the bookmark around my thighs, using it like a bit of floss, pressing into the wet cleft between my legs. “I don’t need more motivation, sir.”
“Good.”
I looked up. I could do this. It was within reach. It was—
His hand left my thigh. I was balancing on my left leg, in heels, on tiptoe, on a wobbly stand, with nothing—
Oh God. Just when I’d worried he’d disappeared, his hand pushed—with one quick, forceful motion—up my skirt, bypassing my lace thong into the deepest part of me. I was on an axis; he was steady. I moved my hips in slow circles around his fingers, letting them press against every wall and fold. He didn’t move at all; the strength of his arm kept everything just so. I tried to reach further toward the book, and still he didn’t move, though he slipped out of me about an inch. Another failed attempt: just out of my reach. My calves were getting tired. I couldn’t balance like this for much longer. Surely he wouldn’t keep me up here until—
“Please,” I whispered. “I can’t get it. Let me down, sir.”
“No.”
I couldn’t even stand flat. His fingers, long as they were, extended fully into me. I couldn’t move. I was pinned by the most sensitive part of me.
I know! I thought. I’d get another book, knock down the heavy volume—I picked one up, but found my hand slapped away.
“No cheating. For that…”
His hand lifted my skirt, sliding it up so one cheek was showing. My face was hot with shame. As far as I could tell, miraculously, the student a few aisles down hadn’t looked up. But that could easily change.
I reached—and failed again.
Skirt went up on the other side. My ass was bare to the entire library, pink and blushing from his contact with it.
“Shall I continue?” he asked. He pulled down my thong, and let it snap back into place.
I wobbled.
“Please let me down, sir.”
“Get the book.”
“I can’t! I—”
My whispering was desperate. He squeezed my ass, hard, then smacked it. I rocked against his fingers, held up by them. I was sure my wetness was dripping down his fingers which pumped inside me, as he stood up on his tiptoes and gently bit my clit. I almost collapsed on his hand.
“Get. The. Book.”
His continued, and my squeaks, I’m sure, were audible. It was a miracle the entire library didn’t come to watch the half-naked girl hoisted on two fingers. He tugged my shirt down, freeing my breasts which tumbled out. He sucked on one and then the other, then rotated within me and moved until his head was between my legs. I rested my knee on his shoulder. Would he let me? Yes. He didn’t seem to notice; he was preoccupied with the view. I slowly transferred more and more weight into it until with a slight push, I hoisted myself up and grabbed the book triumphantly. His fingers slipped out of me and I sank down in relief.
“Against the shelf,” he said. When I blinked, confused: “Must I explain it? Your hands. That shelf.”
I couldn’t bend backwards. I assumed he meant to grip the shelf at about the height of my waist by leaning forward. I did so. He stepped behind me, pulling my hips further until I was a tabletop. He balanced this heavy book on my back, then another. He reached around and unbuttoned my blouse the rest of the way, pulled my bra down further, and lifted up my skirt.
“Remember,” he said, “if anyone comes by, they’re going to see you getting fucked. Not me.”
It was true—I was nearly naked.
“Remember the library rules,” he said. “You must remain quiet.”
I couldn’t move much while keeping my hands on the shelf, the books balanced on my back—I did feel the palms of his hands slide over my ass and lift up my skirt. I tried to turn to see him.
“Eyes forward,” he snapped, still in a whisper, whipping the bookmark against most sensitive pink.
And I waited.
And waited.
My eyes started to glaze over.
Was he even still there?
Was the boy from the study desk watching? Was a librarian? Would an unsuspecting NYU boy stumble upon me presenting, as it were, and decide to help himself?
My back was getting tired. How long—
And, with that, I felt him thrust all the way in. I gasped so loudly, I was sure several floors heard. He offered his hand, the one that’d been inside me, and I sucked on it to muffle my sounds. He was insanely thick, the kind of cock you work up to, the kind you slowwwwly slide in the tip, and then move down the shaft—
He thrust in again. It was on the border of pain and pleasure, and this time, as he crashed into my cervix, I wasn’t sure I could go much farther in that direction. He picked up speed, his balls slapping my clit, his hand moving around to squeeze, to rub—then he stopped.
He withdrew.
“Eyes forward,” he said.
Oh, God, not this again!
Several moments of quiet. Of not knowing.
Then I felt him kneeling beneath me, sucking on my clit, taking it into his mouth, his tongue lapping against the folds, his fingers pounding. He gently bit my thigh. He returned to my clit, squeezed and fondled. Pounded. He took the books off my back and flipped me around. Suddenly standing upright, he reached under my ass and picked me up, then lifted me against the Anatomy shelf, his very large specimen drilling into me. Again, I was held up by something long and hard; this time, I didn’t want it to end. He thrust deep enough to slam into me, but slowly enough that I could feel my muscles work, squeezing, to accommodate him. When I finally came, biting my own hand this time to somehow muffle the noises, I was amazed by the strength of my body, all of the muscle spasms, having been so tense and taut and upright for so long—even my calves beat, my toes curled.
He pulled out and, pushing my shoulders down so I was on my knees, then tugging my hair back and my mouth open, came between my lips in an enormous load that sent me sputtering. He pulled the back of my head toward him, ensuring his seed poured directly down my throat, then lifted up my chin so none might escape. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight he looked almost as if he was crying. There it was: the strong man made, by feeling so much, vulnerable. I swallowed.
We collapsed onto the regulation carpeting, my breast on his shirt, my leg on his knee, my sweat absorbed by both.
“So,” he said, after we’d caught our breath. “Fondue?”
Straddling the Stroke Seat
by Dirk Taylor
Mark Walker was the most beautiful man at the University of Wisconsin. He was taller than most boys on campus and had a perfect V-shaped build. Mark was always jogging to keep in shape, even in the winter. He had a dorky job, in my opinion, as if though he were an anime character running to save the universe. Sometimes when I was leaving the comic book store I would see him jogging around campus in nothing but runner shorts and his black and red “Wisconsin Row Crew” jersey in forty-degree weather. But he never noticed me as he passed by nor did I think he had any interest in comic books.
Mark held the stroke seat on our university’s row team, which basically meant he sat on the stern of the boat and set the rhythm for the others rowers. He was in the most important position on the team, and you could tell it was a right fit for him. He was a natural born leader. When I would walk into the classes I had with him, he was always early and always prepared. He could handle it all: academics, sports, and a social life.
He was a year ahead of me, I first saw him during my freshman orientation. Our tour guide was lost and we were walking passed the boys’ locker room. I staggered behind just to take a sneak peak to see what kind of men we hand on campus, and there was Mark. He was in nothing but a white towel and flip-flops. He was walking into the showers as my cock got immediately hard. I had never seen six-pack abs in real life before. His abs were tan, hairless, and he had a little birthmark by his bellybutton. I was full--blown hard and wanted to sneak in but I could hear our tour guide asking us all to stay together.
It wasn’t until I saw his face on the campus site highlighting the row team’s recent win in Boston that I put a name to the face. One day the following summer, I found out the row team was practicing on Lake Mendota, which wasn’t too far from my dorm. I rode my bike over there just to see him. Mark was sitting in the stern of the ship as he rowed with his other teammates. He was a sight. I sat on a rock behind a bush and pulled my cut-off shorts down. I began massaging my cock as he was rowing harder and harder. His arms were just as tanned as his abs were and full of sweat. They were perfectly sculpted as if he were an Olympian god. His face was in agony, as he not only pushed himself but his teammates as well. His typically black spiky hair fell just above his forehead. He was pushing his physical endurance to its peak. I could tell.
“Just a little faster,” he said to his team. “We can do this!”
He wasn’t yelling at them, but his voice was commanding. It echoed right to where I was sitting. I was jerking myself now and couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He was gorgeous and seeing a gorgeous boy in physical pain always got my cock throbbing.
When they docked on the shore, Mark was the first to jump out of the boat after the coach and high-five his teammates. Then they started roughhousing; they kicked off their shoes, swung their shirts in the air, and wrestled with each other. Mark pinned one of the scrawnier members on the floor and playfully pinched his nipples. I was still behind the bush, jerking myself quickly now, running my hand down to my hole to finger myself. I shot a heavy load onto my chest. I had never come so hard before. I lay there by myself, my chest covered with come as I watched Mark and the other boys rolling on the ground.
* * * *
I had a biology class with him that fall. I was a sophomore now and he was a junior. But he felt so much more accomplished than most. It wasn’t just physical attraction. I admired him. Even our biology professor joked with him during class, saying we had a “big man on campus” in our midst. I sat behind him, but again he never seemed to notice me. He always stretched back in his seat and would almost hit me with his fist. He would never even turn around to apologize. I was invisible to him.
One Wednesday a few weeks after the fall semester began, I was in the library reading the comic books I’d just picked up from the comic book store. I was in a study cubicle anxiously reading the DC comics 52 re-launch of Batgirl. I was excited that Batgirl could finally walk again and that she was no longer known as Oracle. Mark walked by my desk. I felt my cock growing hard as he took the study cubicle behind me. I heard a light thump, followed by an identical thump. I turned around and looked on the floor. Mark had taken off his sneakers and let out a slight cough.
I couldn’t concentrate. Mark was sitting right behind me, and the only thing separating us was a cubicle wall. I turned around and saw his socked feet resting on top of each other. I stuck my hands down my pants and stroked my cock just a little. I heard his iPod blasting and thought for a second it was my favorite band, For Our Hero (who incidentally was playing our auditorium next week), but I couldn’t tell what he was listening to.
I mean, look. I know I’m sounding a bit like a stalker. I actually got a lot of play from other gay boys on campus. In fact, not to sound full of myself, but I was pursued by other upperclassmen on campus all the time. It was one of the advantages of being “fresh meat on campus.” So it wasn’t like Mark was the only guy in the world whom I wanted. But like I said, there was something special about him
I didn’t want to jerk off in the library and, for that matter, I didn’t want to risk Mark hearing me, so I took my hands out of my pocket. The fact he was sitting behind me could have me coming later on when I could masturbate. I’d probably even masturbate three times just thinking about his socked feet. Heck, I’d jackrabbit all night: As a side note, I called myself a jackrabbit because I could come pretty quickly but then get hard again in seconds.
I
went back to reading my Batgirl comic when the most unlikely thing happened.
“Yo,” I heard someone say out of the corner of my ear.
I stuck my head up to find Mark standing right in front of me. Thank God I had stopped masturbating. This was the first time I had ever been face to face with him, and the last thing I wanted him to see was my wet cock whipped out in public.
“S’up?” I said trying to be cool, but I’m pretty sure my voice squeaked a little.
He gave a little smirk. I had never noticed how defined his jaw line was from his Facebook photos, nor did I ever notice the pale shade of pink his lips were.
“You’re in my biology class, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said, obviously knowing I was in that class. “11am, Auditorium room with Professor Somerville?” I asked.
“Man, ever notice his last name is supposed to be a town on the side of the road and not the name of your college professors?” Mark said.
“Yea,” I giggled. “Maybe he should go back to that town and just give us all As.”
Mark gave half a laugh as if he wanted to laugh at my joke but didn’t find it funny.
“Are you studying for the quiz?” he asked. My heart began to pound. I was getting nervous just speaking with him. A million thoughts were going through my head. I wanted to be witty and charming, and at the same time I tried not to look down at his feet. I knew he must have still been in his white socks because I didn’t hear him put his shoes back on before he came by to speak with me.
“In theory,” I replied, showing him the Batgirl re-launch.
“Niiiiice,” he said picking up the issue. “But dude, I gotta tell you. Oracle all the way. Barbra Gordon is supposed to be Oracle. Not Batgirl.”
He started flipping through the issue. “How can she walk again? Lazarus Chamber?”
He held the issue with one hand as he studied the pages, then did the quintessential straight boy thing. He stuck his other hand under his shirt and started caressing his stomach. “’Cause that’s the only way she could walk again,” he said. “Unless she had some nanotechnology placed in her spine. But I think that’s more of a Marvel comics thing, right?”
Geek Lust: Erotic Stories about Hot Nerds Page 12
