Melting in Your Words

"..Yeah...I ah -- I could tell. I guessed. I mean -- just looking at the cover. But -- it's fine I just -- carried on with other books I had." Her eyes flicked down to her arms holding only Dripping Words, "I mean online sources!"

Her face looked flushed as she spoke and I could feel her rising embarrassment. She was not used to the type of novel she currently held onto. Which did make me wonder why she had not put it down quicker.

"Could I get -- I mean borrow the other one now? For my writing. The one you meant?" She continued. I wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed for her or amused at the display.

"Sure you can," I answered and started checking out her book and preparing for her to swipe her student ID which doubled up as a library card.

"I take it you want to hand back that one too?" I said, gesturing at Dripping Words still held tightly in her arms. Was she scared of others seeing her holding it and was trying to hide it?

She looked surprised that she still had it with her and hurriedly passed it over to me, stumbling over her words as she agreed.

"Yes. Right! Better do. No need for it anymore. I mean at all. Like -- It wasn't the one I needed. For my writing."

Her way of speaking really was humorous I decided.

I put it back in my pile of books to shelve as she continued to speak. I didn't run it through the system as a book she had borrowed however, no need really. It was my fault. She didn't need a book like that on her record because of my accident.

She watched Dripping Words disappear under the other books and her shoulders finally dropped, like she couldn't relax until it was out of sight and hidden from view, before her eyes nervously returning to me.

"All done!" I said, passing her Writing Love. 101 ways to...whatever. The one I'd recommended. It hardly seemed important anymore but at least it meant I had finally completed my task, properly this time. Better late and post-embarrassment, than never.

"Any other books you'd like to return or borrow?" I asked, remembering she'd been reading another book when I'd wanted to apologise.

"N-No thanks! All the books I have been using have been online. Yes. Aside from this one." She replied, patting Writing Love and sliding it into the pink backpack slung across her shoulder.

"All good then!" I replied. She must have finished and returned that book to its shelf before she came here, or she'd found that it wasn't useful. She had seemed to be reading it intently though. Whatever the case, I was glad that me handing her Dripping Words hadn't completely damaged her progress with her assignment and that despite her obvious embarrassment she was able to continue.

She seemed reluctant to leave, as if she had more to say but if she did, she never shared it with me. She straightened herself out, said goodbye and walked to the door, leaving me staring after her.

Ellie

I couldn't believe it. It was a shock to see such a thing. To be handed it. I'd never come into contact with such a book. Was I sheltered perhaps? Was it normal to have seen those books in your life? So much time spent indulging in solitary hobbies yet I'd never explored such books before.

This couldn't have been what she meant to give me, right? She had mentioned that other book, The writing tips book, so this was a mistake, right? She had had an armful of books and she'd made a mistake. That was all it was. She'd probably realise her mistake soon. If she did she'd be expecting me to hand it back in to her right away. That was what everyone would do. That was what anyone would do when handed this kind of...dirty...book.

Except...I didn't.

I couldn't help it. It was a book. I'm curious. I love reading. So...I...read.

And read.

And read.

And turned page after page. Eyes racing over the lines as they flowed from cover to cover. Following the twists and turns or rather, being carried by the waves that the words formed. I got caught in the swell as it rose and washed me violently away from the dry land I was comfortable with. My head barely staying above the surface as I read and I many times forgot to take those necessary breaths, ignoring the need for air. It was all encompassing.

I had read it all before I even realised I had started.

I lost awareness of my surroundings. I didn't notice the people who had sat around me. That was definitely embarrassing. For people to see me so engrossed in such a book while my university work sat disregarded.

While I read, I didn't notice my response to Dripping Words. Well, I didn't keep track of it at least.

Maybe it was only after I had finished reading that my body had reacted? Yeah.

Maybe.

Maybe it was only when I became aware of my surroundings once again that my heart had started pounding in my chest? It's possible. It's possible that my breathing only started coming in pants as I put that book down. Right? It's possible that...that the evidence of the book's effect on me, it's stimulation of me, only happened just as I became aware of it...

No. I knew the book had affected me before then.

Sadly I know and will always know that it was not the ending scene that had caused my response. Oh it was wonderful to see those characters start their relationship sure. But it was not that ending scene that had caused my heart to jackhammer, my chest to tighten, and...my legs to squeeze together. It was those other scenes, the earlier ones, the passionate ones.

I don't know if anyone noticed how I looked while reading. I don't know if anyone recognised the book I was reading. I have no clue if anyone put it all together. Even without knowing that I fled. I rushed from my desk, rushed to...to the bathroom, face flushed and sweat running down my face and chest.

There are people who are far more experienced with -- arousal -- than I am. It's possible they could recognise the fire in my eyes, and the way I was melting in its heat.

When I had made it to the bathroom...it was something else. I didn't even make it into a stall. I barely looked around to check that I was alone before I was leaning against the sinks. A long solid counter ran along the side of this bathroom, sinks embedded inside it. It was sturdy, and I could lean against it. Marble, or something cheaper? I didn't know. I wasn't paying that much attention. My jumper had shifted and risen so that my stomach rested against the counter, so cool against the inferno of my skin.

One hand disappeared up my jumper and pulled down my bra. My breasts were vulnerable to my grasping hand and my nipples stretched out towards my pinching fingers. The bathroom echoed with my gasp and I bit my lip to prevent more escaping.

It didn't work.

What I was left with was stifled rumbles deep in my throat. With air unable to escape as I bit my lip and forced my mouth shut, the sounds I was making were deep and resounded inside my own head. Low, throaty moans. I shut my eyes as if some act of synaesthesia would block out the sound as well as my sight.

Closing my eyes also prevented me from acknowledging where my other hand was moving towards until it reached it. Closed eyes locked me in my own world, as if I was not responsible for the actions of my limbs or the reaction of my body.

My thighs flinched as a hand touched them. The sensation on my fingertips, reminding me that it was my own hand doing such an act. My fingers were warm, but so were my thighs, the contrast was not great. The cool sweat running along them under my skirt was what truly contrasted.

My wandering fingers quickly homed in on the corners of the fabric that lay underneath my skirt. They hesitated for only a second before I urged them onwards. Under, and forwards.

Two fingers went either side of my lips and stroked along them, teasing them into responding. More sounds welled up in my mouth. I sought out the nub, my clit. It jumped and sent shivers throughout my body. My eyes shot open as I rubbed and my eyes locked with another pair.

It took me a few seconds to figure out they were my own brown eyes staring back at me, reflected in the wall mirror. They looked different. My whole face did. It was red, and not my usual embarrassment red. It was some red of...need? Longing? Desperation?

My eye makeup was smudged, it made the edges of my eyes look like they were vanishing. Blending in with the rest of my face. My biting had moved my lips into unnatural and mismatched angles. Sweat was rolling down my forehead as my mind overheated. I truly was melting. Soon I'd be a puddle, dripping onto the floor.

Still, it was not enough. The angle was all wrong. I needed better.

I spun around and sat on the counter. My hand withdrew from under my skirt and dived into my knickers from above. Better, so much better.

All my fingers now had access. My hand rubbed back and forth and three fingers at a time stimulated my clit. I pushed and pulled my clit and moved my lips around, drawing circles with my fingers. The effect built up rapidly.

My head started lolling from side to side as if staying still had become unbearable. Breaths came powerfully and suddenly, and my chest dropped heavily as pleasure forced air out of me. Who needed to breathe when something this incredible seemed not to need it?

My eyes shut once again and as they did my mind recalled scenes. Scenes from the story. That book, it had started it all and that book was going to carry me over the edge. A mirage of experiences I had never had but now could clearly imagine washed over me. Positions, settings, activities. Things I had only known to be factual possibilities, pleasures reserved for others, I now imagined myself enjoying.

The hand that had been touching my chest withdrew and dived underneath my leg, lifting it so it could access my lips from the bottom. Soon my middle finger was pushing inside of me, matching the pace of my other hand as it rubbed.

A guttural moan finally burst forth. I heard it echo throughout the bathroom. Tiles threw my noise back at me. Soon I was over the edge. My head rolled forwards and backwards, my back did the same and I felt my body clench and release. I pushed harder, extending the pleasure that was coursing through me. Words from that book flowed over my mind, things I dare not say out loud were suddenly screaming inside my mind.

My hips rose and fell as if upon a ship and soon my head swung upwards and let my mouth release a long sigh. I sat there with my eyelids fluttering and felt the corners of my mouth move. A smile grew upon my face, my cheeks forced to bend to its shape and happiness flowed through me. A quiet, shaky laugh dropped out of my open mouth. An involuntary response, joy was leaking from me in all forms. Unable to remain within me, the overflow was escaping, running off the counter and onto the floor.

My eyes blinked and gradually, white tiles came back into view. It took me quite a while to move, and even longer to move steadily. When I did, I caught something in the mirror.

The face of the woman reflected back at me was different to the one I usually saw. It took me washing my face and redoing my makeup for me to recognise some part of my own visage in it. Even then, there was something about the girl that I saw in the mirror that day, that seemed just a bit, older.

That day, I had practically stumbled out of the bathroom. I constantly felt the eyes of others on me as I returned to my seat, even more so when I realised that book was still there, waiting for me. It felt like it was smiling at me, knowingly.

Sitting in the library now, even a couple weeks after the event, I could again feel my face burning at the memory. That had happened often since then. I couldn't get it out of my mind. That book, what I'd read...what I'd done. The woman at the library. That woman in the mirror.

Ari hadn't meant to give it to me. I was unsure at first but she made it clear at the front desk and I had no reason to doubt her. She seemed honest. It had been an accident on her part and she likely expected that I had instantly realised and then ignored the novel she had given me. Except I hadn't. That was why I was so embarrassed when it came to handing the book back and getting that one she recommended. I hadn't done what I was supposed to.

The book she had recommended was very useful. No doubt on that front. It did help my understanding of what I was supposed to write. Still, it had come at a price.

Throughout my lectures and seminars I was distracted. The topic of romance novels came up often and with my scene still requiring attention I could not escape topics that linked back to that day in the library. That day when my world had been opened up.

My work was suffering, I knew that. My analysis of literature was tinged, coloured in a way it had never been before because something I was never truly conscious of now filled my mind. It altered my reception of works so I dared not express my unfiltered, uncensored responses. I cut back and withheld my thoughts. I couldn't bring myself to say what I had truly interpreted so when asked for my analysis of works I was clumsy, uncoordinated and incoherent. It was just too embarrassing to speak of one thing when your mind was screaming that something else was present.

And I was likely wrong wasn't I? There was no way I could be right! There was no way that so much of fiction related to...sex.

But that was what was on my mind. At all times. Passion, lust... sex, in literary form. That book.

My creative writing practice had become affected too. I had been practicing writing small pieces for a long time, especially since I entered university. If I wished to become an author, and that was one path I considered going down, I ought to get some experience. Still, since reading that book, things had changed.

My topics dipped towards feelings in a way I never had before. They didn't really mirror the blush-inducing events of Dripping Words, but the way I felt myself describing the sensations my characters experienced had a physicality to it I had never experienced. And I couldn't deny that I felt my attempts to continue writing on the topic of romance were skirting around the edge of what Dripping Words featured.

I couldn't go any closer towards it than I was. It would be too embarrassing to write such things. Regardless I could sense that shying away from the topics that were bursting forth was stifling my writing. Each scene I attempted to write, felt like it stopped when there was more to say. I was unable to write more because I was desperately holding myself back. I knew if I unlocked that door, I would write and write and write.

This was just too confusing. No way to write academically without thinking of...it. And no way to write my fiction without brushing shoulders with the topic that was so distracting me.

I huffed. There was something I could do. A way to solve the issue, at least from one angle. There was something that creative writing and literary analysis had taught me. There was advice you were always given. 'If there is an itch, you ought to scratch it. If there was a theme you wished to explore, explore it, write it, investigate it'. This would be the same right? In a way...

I'd just be indulging my curiosity. Nothing wrong with that.

I saved my work, switched off my laptop and stood up. I packed up quickly. It was funny how quickly you could move when walking away from work.

I headed off. I knew where it would be.

I had seen the code on the book's spine and the back cover told me there were sequels. I just had to find them. Find them and disappear. Hide away so that no one would know. And so that no one would interrupt.

I found the correct floor quickly. I saw the letter indicating the aisle I needed to turn down and rushed round the corner. The numbers stretched out before me, it would likely be somewhere down the end. I paused for a second. The aisle seemed imposing, the books too colourful whilst also soaked in darkness. The lights overhead were spaced out every five aisles. Their light reached their neighbours, but missed every third aisle. Like this one.

The books were fiction. Modern fiction with colourful, expressive and eye catching covers. A far cry from the bland analytical research that adorned most of the shelves in the library. The aisle stood out as its own little world.

I pushed forward, deeper into it. My hand ran along the middle shelf tracing the letters, even though I didn't know if it would be on that shelf, or even this side with the way the numbers doubled back on themselves on the opposing shelf.

Ah! Too far. I'd gone past it.

I moved back a few steps but the bottom shelf on the previous rack was too early, albeit only by a few numbers. It was high up on the next one. It had to be.

I spotted it because I recognised its neighbour. I'd already seen that cover before. I stretched up and rested my grip over Dripping Words as if it was an old favourite. My hand already knew the size of the spine. The bond between us had grown rapidly. I pulled my fingers off it and moved one space over. I gripped, and pulled it down.

It sat there in my hands. Drenched Letters.

The naming motif of this series was easy to establish.

I hurriedly scanned the book at the self-service till with a pile of research books I needed. Thank goodness the machine could scan multiple at a time and I could hide it amongst them.

Now to find a concealed corner. I knew a place, on the fourth floor.

The nice rounded booth greeted me. It had a small entryway, two long, red, cheap leather covered benches, with very high backs and a long table in the middle, separating the two sides.

Enclosed. Comfortable. Intimate.

If I laid on one of the benches I could rest my back against the side next to the entrance and be hidden from view unless someone stepped into the booth itself. So that was where I settled down. This did mean that I had no chance of seeing anyone approaching but, considering what I was reading and planning to do. I doubted I would looked up anyway.

This time, I didn't wait till I finished reading.

I think I got twenty pages in before I unbuttoned my shorts. Twenty-one was when my fingers slipped underneath my knickers. From then on I read so fast it would have been hard to pin down the precise page when things happened. What I do know is...I had two.

The first almost shocked me out of it. I nearly stopped what I was doing. It rushed upon me so fast I hadn't realised how far I'd built up my - my pleasure. My body shook and my hips slid back and forth on the bench. My shorts were at my thighs by this point and so the smooth material underneath me rubbed against my behind.

All at once I became aware that I was being so obvious. If anyone were to look in there could be no mistake, I'd be caught. Shorts down and fingers busy. No way to get out of that.

I suppose it is one of the curiosities about myself, ones I am only beginning to understand, that is the reason that the idea of getting caught did not prevent me from continuing. It only encouraged me to place my jacket over my waist. It would do little to conceal my activity, but it would give me a chance to deny it.

The voice that told me to stop was so small. The voice that told me to be careful was slightly louder. The voice that told me "more" screamed.

The second came a long time after the first. I was enjoying it, the act of playing. Just that. I wasn't working towards anything, I was just enjoying the intensity of the stimulation. I was just enjoying reading while my wet fingers slid in and out. It was wonderful.

Eventually however, it seemed I could not hold out, and I crashed over the edge somewhere around the third sex scene after the conference scene. It was a good scene.