Ghosts in the Library

Author's note: This story is a bit longer than most of mine because it covers several characters with differing sexual tastes. That also made it a little difficult to pick a category but I have settled on Exhibitionism since no one involved is at all reluctant about having sex in a semi-public place. Enjoy.

I was in my third year of college and money was tight. The cash I had saved from my shitty construction job over the summer would cover tuition and provide a start on room and board but it wasn't going to meet all the costs. So the first thing I did when I got back to campus was to seek out a part time job. I wound up working in the campus library, Bowden Hall. It wasn't much of a job—minimum wage twenty hours a week, manning the check-out desk and shelving books as required.

Manning the front desk wasn't too bad. There were people to interact with, even cute girls to flirt with. But when I was assigned to shelving books . . . it was torture. The library was a huge old pile of a college building with a few big, well-lit reading rooms filled with undergraduates flirting and whispering as they were shushed by aged female librarians wandering about with seemingly nothing to do other than to suppress any sign of life in the library with a wheezing "Hush, this is a library." They knew better than to give that job to me. I wasn't about to go around telling kids that were my peers, maybe even girls I would like to date, to shush. That job was reserved for the professional staff, dried up looking old women who I was sure had nothing to do in their life beyond being home early enough to feed their cat and then curl up rereading their favorite Jane Austin book for the third or fourth time. You know the type, or at least as a wise and experienced twenty-year-old I was sure I did. I thought of them as the 'Witches of Bowden.' But in fairness they were the people who kept the place running.

Bowden Hall was the oldest building on campus, having once been the entire physical facility—classrooms, faculty offices, living facilities for students and faculty, and everything else required to start a 19^th century college in the middle of nowhere (where our little college was then and remains now). Over the years as the school grew and specific purpose dedicated buildings were constructed Bowden went through multiple transformations, additions, and supplements, always standing as a massive gothic pile of stone at the heart of the campus. Today it's sole function was to act as the school's library.

There was a rumor every freshman learned that Bowden was haunted by the ghost of a young woman, the first ever admitted to the college, who had died under mysterious circumstances. The more creative versions of the story claimed that she died when pushed down a flight of stairs in the library stacks by a would-be lover she had rejected. Not believing in ghosts, I had never bothered to learn the details.

The vast bulk of the library was in the stacks, floor after floor of low ceilings, metal grated floors that looked right through to the floors below, and never-ending rows of metal shelves filled with musty books that couldn't possibly be of interest to anyone, not even the dried-up old ladies who held sway over the reading rooms. That was where I had to actually work for the pittance I was being paid. Working my Monday, Wednesday, Friday check-out desk shift and flirting with the coeds could hardly be called work, but Tuesdays and Thursdays were tough; pushing a cart loaded with books whose significance to me was limited to the filing code on the spine in and out of the ancient elevator that took me from floor to floor, through the narrow, dimly lit, paths of the stacks, and seeking out the right slot in a shelf (was it near the top where I could barely see the ID codes or was it next to the floor where they were even more impossible to read). That was dull, boring, mind numbing, work and the rickety old elevator was terrifying. I admit there was no heavy lifting involved as in my summer construction jobs. Here the work part resulted from the psychological strain required to prevent the inherent oppressiveness of the place from driving me to despair. To make it worse, I was all by myself. The job might have been marginally tolerable if there had been someone to talk to as I wandered through the stacks into places I was sure hadn't seen human occupation since sometime in the 1930s.

Masturbating in the Stacks

The one redeeming virtue to the otherwise oppressive time spent in the stacks was that there was no supervision whatsoever. The Bowden Witches didn't seem to go anywhere near the stacks, delegating all the reshelving to peasants like myself. That meant that within reasonable limits I could do what I wanted while in the stacks.

I had of course learned what every good youngster does which was that masturbation will cause you to go blind. But given my extensive experience with it and my still robust eyesight I had concluded that was a risk I was willing to take for the joys of self-abuse. Yeah sure real intercourse with a live girl was better, but that was easier said than done. You hear a lot about how easy everyone was in college, but talk is cheap and we all remained afraid of something: rejection; pregnancy; venereal disease; eternity in hell; and who knows what else. Only mutual lust could overcome that kind of fear. So, while I wasn't a virgin, my ambitions far exceeded my experience and something was required to satisfy my twenty-year-old sex drive.

In addition to be willing to jerk off as much as the next guy (or gal I've since learned) I developed what I guess can only be called a kink that remains with me today. Masturbation is fun, but it is even more fun when carried out in a quasi-public setting; not someplace where everyone can see you pounding your pud, but a place where they might if they just happened to look behind the hedge or in the car at the back of the parking lot or be wandering through dimly lit stacks of Bowden Hall. So with the benefit of unsupervised time and a quasi-private setting masturbation became a regular afternoon event for me on the days when I had to work in the stacks.

I didn't seem to need a copy of a sex mag or a dirty story for stimulus. My lewd imagination was more than adequate as I sat stroking my engorged cock thinking of sex with the young woman TA for my English 201 class, the last girl I had checked out books to at the front desk, or even more importantly and frequently Lucy. She was my go-to sexual fantasy. But more about Lucy later.

There was another aspect of my perversion that might be viewed as a kink. While working in Bowden I discovered I didn't want to stand in a dark corner and reach into my trousers and rub one out for immediate relief so I could restore focus on properly shelving books. A quickie followed by a return to the drudgery of shelving is hardly worth the risk of getting caught and declared a pervert for life. After I had been working in the stacks for a couple of weeks I decided the unsupervised isolation gave me an opportunity to do the job right. I wanted to take my time working my way up to the orgasm that defined my masturbation. For me masturbation is so much more enjoyable and my orgasms are so much stronger, if I take my time working up to it.

My job in the stacks gave me the opportunity to refine my approach to jacking off in a way that had never been available to me before. I learned to first spend time just contemplating my masturbation, well before I ever touched myself. Not doing it mind you; just walking about in the stacks pushing my cart before me, still fully clothed, while I pondered the question of where in the stacks I would get myself off and who I would fantasize about. That part of the process might even start while sitting in a boring lecture before my shift at the library began.

Then once I reached my chosen location I wanted to spend some quality time stroking my cock as I fantasized about my chosen lady or ladies—at least half an hour and sometimes more. But that was where my other major kink came in. Almost as important as taking my time, I needed to be indecently exposed. Sometimes completely naked or other times partially naked in a way that would be obvious upon discovery, typically with my jeans and underwear off. I especially like to wander up and down the rows of shelves in this condition, naked from the waist down with my rigid prick sticking straight out and my hands massaging my balls, stroking the shaft and smearing the precum that seemed to leak in copious quantities about the head of the shaft, all the while far from the clothing I had discarded making it impossible to disguise what I was doing if caught.

My unsupervised job in the stacks provided the perfect opportunity to indulge in my kinks of choice. Yeah. Okay, I was a bit of a pervert. But it felt good and I wasn't hurting anyone other than not fully earning the measly hourly wage the school was paying me.

One of the problems with my 'stroll and stroke' as I called it was that when I did finally climax I really wasn't able to control where my emissions went. I tried to keep them off the books but I never gave any thought to where they might go when they hit the floor. The floors in the stack were made of an industrial metal grate composed of parallel twisted steel that left room for air to move through the stacks. You could see right through it although the lights above or below weren't likely to be on unless someone was working there, which was rare. It never occurred to me to worry about what happened when my cum hit this less than solid floor. One day that turned out to be a problem, and ultimately an opportunity.

Lucy

My favorite part of the checkout desk was Lucy. Lucy was a coed about the same age as me and stunningly beautiful—a rounded pink face with blushing high cheek bones, sparkling blue eyes, full lips, and a thick mane of light brown hair that hung in easy curls down her back and onto her chest. She wore almost no makeup but it was a face that could devastate without it, and on the rare occasions when she smiled—my god the room would light up. At least it did for me. Her dress was conservative. Never pants or god forbid shorts. Always a dress or skirt that went to well below her knees. Flat shoes. The dress, or if a skirt the white blouse above it, buttoned tightly to her throat, just below a black cloth choker ornamented with a tiny cameo. But the clothes couldn't disguise and my imagination could conceive of a stunning figure beneath it. Her hips were firm and broad, but not excessively so. Her breasts were full and large. And her legs certainly slim, but still muscular rather than fashion model starved. And how did I know all this? Clothes can't hide everything, especially from a twenty-year-old with an optimistic imagination.

My optimism went beyond mere speculation about her figure. I was sure that if I could get her to date me I could learn more about that obviously lush body hidden beneath those dowdy clothes. But that was where my optimism overreached reality. She checked out books nearly every day always responding to my flirtation with a demure smile (not the one that could light up the room) and then politely rejecting my request for a date. A lesser man might have given up and focused his energy on the other girls coming and going past the front desk, but not me. Every time she approached the desk I did my best to make her mine. About all I accomplished was learning her name which I obtained from her library card. Lucy was my obsession and my frustration. I even asked the Boden Witches for information about her but they were tight lipped, claiming not to know anything about her other than she was a frequent user of the library.

After politely rejecting my advances each time she gathered her books, pulling them against her full chest and walked out the front doors of the library disappearing into the crowd of students hurrying between classes on the walkway before the library. On one occasion I followed her, but by the time I got to the library steps she had disappeared into the crowd of students hurrying by on the walkway.

But Lucy was my thrill for Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I was relegated to the stacks where the most I could do was to engage in lewd fantasies about Lucy or other ladies of my choice. On one particular Tuesday I had been strolling down an aisle pursuing an outrageous fantasy about fucking Lucy. We were on the lawn on the campus main quad late at night, both naked and perversely enjoying each other. Lucy was on her knees her ass in the air with her big tits hanging down and her engorged nipples scraping the lawn. I was on my knees behind her with a firm grip on both sides of her soft, fleshy, ass. My cock was buried deeply in her hot, steamy, cunt. She was such a perfect fit for me, snug but not so tight as to be unpleasant; hot and steamy wet, but not sloppy. Even better the stunning young woman who would do little more than smile like Mona Lisa at me as she checked out a book was now groaning, crying, and swearing profanely as I pounded her cunt and slapped her ass. "Oh fuck yes. Fuck me. Fuck me, Lucien. Your cock feels so fucking good. Oh Yes, yes, yes. Oh shit yes. That's it that's it. Just keep that up. Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stock." I had no reason to believe any of this might be accurate of course, but it made for great masturbation whether accurate or not.

I had been jerking off for most of half an hour now so I couldn't hold out much longer. Knowing that, my imagination let Lucy trip into a screaming orgasm when I reached below her and teased her clit perfectly matching the release of the huge orgasm I had been holding back in the real world of the stacks. I squirted stream after stream of cum out and away from my body to land on the grated floor a few feet from me.

I was leaning on a bookshelf gasping for recovery when I heard a feminine voice from the floor below scream, "What the fuck?" I realized in horror that my copious cum had dripped between the grates and landed on someone below me. Before I could do more than think, 'Oh shit,' I heard a set of feet pounding up the spiral metal staircase from the floor below. "My pants?" I thought in horror. "Where did I leave my pants?" Not that a pair of pants was going to be of much help in this situation. Imagine having an outraged victim find you zipping up and all you have to say is something idiotic like, "My gosh it's raining cum. There must be a pervert around."

No, pants would be no help. I just stood there, naked from the waist down, my prick wilting but not really shrinking. There was something perverse about actually getting caught that didn't bring me back to a full erection but didn't let it go away either.

My victim stormed around the corner of the book shelving and came to an abrupt halt starring in fury, a gob of my cum on her cheek. My god! It was Lucy. The girl of my dreams from the front desk.

"Hi."

An inane thing to say I know, but there wasn't anything else that occurred to me. I guess I could have said, "I'm sorry," and later I did, but the whole situation was just so absurd I just went with the first words in my mind.

"What the fuck were you doing Mr. Boardman?" she demanded still rightfully enraged.

Oh oh. She knew my name. I'd never told her my last name. Our conversations couldn't get that far. But she knew who I was and obviously what I had just done.

I dug deep for a smile and said, "Kind of obvious isn't it?"

She scrapped the glob of spunk off her cheek and smeared it on the spine of a nearby book. She was smiling now. Not quite her light up the room smile, but better than her initial reaction to having a stranger's cum drip on her.

"The Boden Witches aren't going to like that," I said.

"Who?"

"The old ladies who run this place."

"Fuck'm," she responded.

I began to wonder if there was hope for living through this experience.

"They're not my type," I said.

Then with more guts than I ever thought I'd have I continued, "But you are."

"I really should throw this cum covered book at you." But she didn't.

"Do you come here often," I asked, using the worst pick-up line in history.

It's not always true that the best thing to do when you are in too deep is to stop digging. Now she was laughing. "Yes," she said, "but perhaps not in the same way as you. These books are 19th century English literature which is the subject of my Senior Thesis."

"I wasn't reading any of the books," I said.

"Perhaps you should have been," she replied. "Some of them are as pervy as you seem to be."

"I'll remember that for future reference. Generally I don't use reading material."

"Freehand, eh?" Lucy said.

"Er . . . yeah."

"Whatever works," she replied.

"Do you have a preference?" I asked.

"Preference?"

"You know a style for . . ."

"That's a rather personal question don't you think?"

"Yes. But this is a rather personal situation don't you think? After all I'm standing here half naked with my semi-erect cock hanging down. . . and you still have a fleck of my cum in your hair."

"I see your point. Perhaps you could put some clothes on."

"Or you could take some off." It was go for broke time I decided.

She stared at me in silence as though she was trying to decide whether to have sex with me or call the cops. "All right I think I like your idea. But let's get some reading material first. There is a lot of really lewd material in 19^th century English writing if you know where to look for it." I could feel my cock twitch and see her staring at it.

"Okay. Lead me to it." We walked down the narrow slot between two bookshelves to the space at the end where my clothes hung from the frame of one of two study carrells.

"I'll be right back," she said. "No need to bother with those pants. You aren't going to need them." I stripped my T-shirt off so I was naked except for my running shoes (I had learned you have to leave shoes on when walking about on steel grated floors. You learn surprising things in college).

A moment or two later she returned with a book for each of us. Each was obviously at least a hundred years old, bound in a plain leather cover with nothing on the cover as to the title of the book or the author.

"What are these about?"

"Just what I told you: 19^th century porn." As she spoke she sat down in an open carrell opposite me and demurely crossed her legs The fabric of her long dress draped conservatively over her knees, but it was more of her lower legs than I had ever seen. They did not disappoint.

"Is it different than 20^th century porn?" I asked.

"Not really. I mean the biology is the same. People had the same nerve centers in the same places that could be fondled, licked, sucked, pinched, etc., to drive their owner to arousal and to climax. I do have to say that the Brits were a bit more creative in how they did it. Too much of Twentieth Century porn is put Tab A or Tab B in Slot C, Slot D or Slot E and get off. The Brits liked to play games with each other and drag the process out until their partner was screaming for relief."

"So is that your style?"

She smiled, a lascivious smile. "Read and you shall find out."

"Okay. But are you going to take your clothes off?"

"All in due time. But you must let me read."

She was right about the porn in the book she had given me being a bit different than I was used to. Of course there was nudity and ultimately orgasms but the process of getting there involved a lot more head games between the participants as they jockeyed for dominant versus submissive positions, both with and without physical restraints. The orgasms were almost an afterthought compared to the process of deciding who was going to direct the timing, positioning, and other aspects of the climax. It was far from what modern porn refers to as a quick 'stroke story.'