Touching Myself In The Library
Their eyes are glued to their screens, unaware that I’m about to masturbate right in front of them. Okay, before you start, I know it’s fucked up, all right? You don’t have to tell me that. Getting off by masturbating in public is not normal. Even I realize that. But that doesn’t change the fact that I fucking love it. The adrenaline, the dopamine, the oxytocin… They all mix together into an addictive hormonal cocktail, so potent that I can hardly cum behind closed doors anymore. Mmmph… Just thinking about it makes me want to… I’ve done the dirty deed in about every public place on campus that you could imagine: the library, the local Starbucks, the gym — hell — I’ve even done it on the quad at night… in the nude. I almost got caught by the university’s security that time and got my legs all scratched by thorns for my trouble; you try running through the woods buck naked back to your dorm room and see how you like it. Anyways, I’ve become pretty adept at scoping out a likely spot for some public self-gratification. I can tell at a glance whether people are likely to be nosy, or if a seat is too on display. It’s my special gift, a sex sense if you will (sorry, dad joke). But I wasn’t always this cautious. In fact, my voyeuristic career almost came to an end prematurely when I… but why rush my tale? Just relax, and let me tell you about the time I almost got caught flicking the bean in about the worst place you could imagine: a place infamous for not tolerating any noise of any kind, moans, groans, and whimpers included — the university library reading room.
I arrive late in the morning, when most of the tables and private desks have already been taken. Setting my stuff down, I glance around: a packed house. Perfect. I love a captive audience. As I scope out the venue, I happen to spy my friend (and occasionally more-than-friend) Charlie sitting a couple tables away from me, which takes me clean aback. He’s a notoriously lax student, famous for showing up to class on exam day high as a kite on coke and Ritalin. Bastard still gets better grades than I do too, which just goes to show there’s no justice in this world. He’s sitting next to some Indian chick (Swetha? Smrithi? Shampa?) his eyes glued to her, I hate to admit it, impeccable cleavage. That explains why he’s here so early. Charlie’s after another “study-buddy” as he likes to call them. “They teach me the material,” he always says with a twinkle in his eye, “and in return I teach them that their vibrator isn’t the only thing that’s good for fucking.” Idiot. Yeah, he’s a fuck-boy and a tool, but he’s my fuck-boy and my tool; and he just so happens to be A-MA-ZING in bed… so I put up with it. I wave at Charlie to catch his eye. He looks up from her cleavage and, catching sight of me, rolls his eyes: he knows about my little predilection you see. I wink and wiggle my tongue at him suggestively. He snickers, drawing ugly looks from those around him, especially — to my satisfaction — the pretty Indian girl (seriously, what is her name? Lakshmi?). I smirk and glance down at my laptop, all sweet and innocent. Nothing to see here. Inhaling slowly, I try to keep my breathing even and measured. Casually, I rest my right hand in my lap. I bite my lower lip. Glancing around, nobody seems to be taking the slightest interest in what I’m doing. All their eyes are glued to their screens, unaware that I’m about to masturbate right in front of them. Carefully, I slide my fingers under my summer dress, doing my best to keep my expression indifferent. I intentionally forgot to wear underwear this morning, as is my habit. Panties are nice and everything, but they’re a pain when you’re trying to finger-fuck yourself without being noticed. My fingers brush my clit, making me jump. Some guy sitting across from me glances up. I smile. He smiles back and looks down hastily at his screen again, all embarrassed. Poor baby. If only he knew what I was doing right now… My fingers are working my clit in little circles, each rotation sending zaps of pleasure up my body. God, I wish I could play with my nipples, but I’m pretty sure someone would notice that. I can feel myself growing wetter. I spread my legs a little more and lean back, pushing my hips forward. There we go. I slide a finger up my soaking river, savoring the sensation as it stretches my walls. Slowly, carefully, I slide my finger in and out, in and out, my ears perked for any wet smacking sounds that might give me away. Fuck though, this feels good… so hot, and dirty, and wrong. That’s it. Right there. Good girl, I coo to myself, as my finger slides in deeper. I can feel myself gushing now, probably soaking the chair beneath me. I have two fingers in now. I just want to — just want to — I moan on instinct, having momentarily forgotten where I am. Heads turn in my direction. Charlie looks up, his face no longer smiling but tense. Shit, did I give myself away? Paranoid, I look around again. Is that Indian girl Charlie’s with on to me? She keeps looking over, frowning. No, no, it’s just my imagination. Just my — Oh, my god! I shudder, my finger inadvertently pressing my G-spot. My knees come together of their own accord. More heads turn to look my way. I pretend that I’m having a coughing fit. I suck in my breath, my face flushing with lust and embarrassment. Just a little more, I promise myself. Just a little longer — “Excuse me,” says a harsh voice behind me, making me start violently. My back straightens in an instant, unintentionally trapping my fingers in my cunt. Shit! I turn slowly to face my inquisitor, the blood draining from my face: a moth-eaten librarian stands behind me, her foot tapping in irritation on the floor. I wet my lips; my fingers still buried knuckle-deep in my throbbing pussy. “Y-yes?” I whimper, trying not to move my fingers and draw her eyes to my lap. “Young lady,” she says in a high-pitched, reedy voice, like an owl’s, “do the words, ‘Quiet Reading Room’ mean anything to you?” She inspects me quizzically like I’m some kind of idiot. “I… I… I…” I’m babbling, trying desperately to form coherent sentences. Meanwhile, an orgasm, unbidden but inevitable, threatens to overwhelm me. My pussy twitches irritably against my fingers, impatient for more pleasure. “I’m sorry,” I finish lamely, unable to think of anything else. She stares at me, squiggle-eyed. Oh, God, please don’t make me stand up, I silently beg. Please don’t expose me in front of all these people. Please… please… please… She sighs and shakes her head, like a parent with a disappointing child. “Just try and be more respectful, dear,” she says. I nod my head and, after another searching look at me, she departs. Whew! I lean back and exhale in relief. That was close. I smile to myself and, looking up, see Charlie leering at me from across the room. He flicks his tongue out at me and makes a rude gesture. The Indian girl (I swear to God I know her name) shoots me a withering look. I smile placidly back at her and lazily let me eyes wander to her lovely breasts. Mmm… My pussy awakens again at the sight of those soft, brown melons, peeping coquettishly from out of her deep-cut blue sweater. Maybe I’ll just finish up before getting out of — “Ehm… excuse me…” says a voice so close to me that for a moment I think it’s my conscience. “What are you doing?