The Library

You can scarcely focus; something deep inside you insists none of this is a dream. Charles is real. This is really happening. The whole wide world, and all the women within it, are being remolded to your personal fetish. Perhaps this dizzying realization is why you fall back on old habits. Back in school, when you needed to get away from the buzz of campus life to drill down on studying, you'd squirrel yourself away in a local public library.

Taking a deep breath, you call to mind the handsome stone exterior, the musty dim alleyways of towering bookshelves, the hodgepodge furniture decorating the nooks and crannies.

As you step forward through the door, the voice of Charles prods you one last time, if a touch more kindly than usual: "Don't overthink things. It's that simple, you hear?"

. . .

. . .

The steady drumming of rainfall wakes you.

You're curled up in a ratty old armchair, one of an eclectic collection that the underfunded local library system purchased on the cheap over the years at local yard sales. Yet you aren't stiff. Your body also isn't heavy with sleep from a stolen nap. But then, you were only just deposited here, weren't you? Easily standing, you examine your surroundings. Aisles of books and nothing more. Outside, through a water-speckled window, the street is deserted.

Maybe you should've picked a more populated area.

You reach, reflexively, for a backpack that you haven't used since graduating, before ambling off toward the staircase. Your heartbeat is fast and thready in your chest. There were always things going on downstairs in the lobby, like tutoring sessions or even just librarians on station to check out patrons. Your cock stirs at the possibilities.

You're so lost in that vivid daydream that you yelp in surprise when you stumble across another human being amid the shelves. Sitting indian-style on the floor, she glances up at you over the top of pages yellowed by age, but then returns to reading. You?

You keep staring.

This young woman isn't Cleopatra or Helen of Troy. A hawkish nose dominates her heart-shaped face, lending her a severe air. She's okay-looking, you suppose. A solid 'six'. You feel a touch generous because of her copper hair. Its luster draws the eye in a way her other features don't. She's bound it up in a sloppy ponytail. A cute blue and white striped long-sleeved shirt clings to her body, showcasing a modest bust. The fleshy baby fat in her cheeks suggests she's still young, but clearly only looks so. You'd peg her for being eighteen or thereabout—because she's bottomless.

Creamy bare flesh stretches up her coltish legs. From the bare ankle of her liner socks to the hemline of her long-sleeve striped shirt, everything is exposed. The trim curve of her buttocks ever-so-slightly pancakes against the hard floor. Thanks to the book in her lap, you can only make a glimpse of a wild thatch of red hair, but that's enough to knock the wind from you.

You don't know how long you stare, but then it needn't be long in a library to creep on someone. The copper-haired girl looks up. "What?"

"You, uh, don't have pants on."

"...Are you seriously carding me?"

"What?"

"Only minors and old ladies wear bottoms, and I'm neither if you couldn't tell. Not that it's any of your business. Jackass."

You nod shakily, mouth dry.

"Don't overthink things. It's that simple, you hear?"

"Sorry," you say. "Can I make it up to you with, uh, a kiss?"

That was a simple enough proposition. If the other half of the agreement with Charles falls through, you can play off the kiss question as just being an asshole. It won't send her running off to the cops like fishing out your dick would.

That's a Grade A plan worthy of your degree.

"Whatever," the redhead replies, not bothering to look up as she turns to a new page.

Goddamn it.

Right. She's probably still a teenager.

"I want to touch your legs," you admit, heart racing.

"Yeah. Go ahead."

You settle down onto the tiled floor, rigid cock an obstruction, but you still don't trust the situation enough to free yourself from the confines of your jeans. Instead, you awkwardly hobble on your knees over to—to—

"Um, ah, what was your name again?"

The hawk-faced girl huffs, annoyed, but seemingly only at being kept from her book. "Olivia."

You kneel beside Olivia, strangely aroused by her total obliviousness to your looming presence. The redheaded teen simply goes on reading, lost in the little world of prose she's enraptured by. Biting your lip, you reach out and transgress what should be an insurmountable boundary—you rest your hand on her kneecap. Olivia doesn't respond then, and she still doesn't as you tentatively run your hand down the length of her thigh, inching your way towards her unguarded slit.

Your stare at the copper curls covering her soft mound. Your fingertips ghost along the edge of them, but even now you can't quite work up the courage. "Definitely a grown woman."

Olivia glances up at you, clearly skeptical, but quickly averts her eyes. Still, the tension in her shoulders eases a little. "Um, thanks."

"Sorry about before."

"Nah. It's cool."

You cup Olivia's fleshy cheek. Her skin is unexpectedly cold. She doesn't react at all.

Rubbing your palm along her cheek, your savor the subtle texture of Olivia's face, and then get caught up in the moment. Cupping her other cheek with your free hand, you cradle Olivia's head, and then press your lips against hers. The copper-haired teen isn't into the kiss—at all. You might as well be planting a wet one on a dummy. But she doesn't object either. All Olivia does is exhale through her nose, and her breath simply tickles your upper lip.

You've never been as hard as you are right now. It actually hurts.

Breaking your one-sided kiss, you idly tug Olivia's hair from her sloppy ponytail and then fuss with it, smoothing her copper mane out. A carefree laugh bubbles out of your at how the teen lets you play with her. The hair scrunchy is heavy with her scent. You pocket it. Panties might be a more appropriate trophy, but those were never a thing that much interested you. They're also not an option anymore for just that reason.

"Have you ever had sex?"

Olivia looks up, vaguely interested, as if you'd just offered to buy her a coffee to make up for accidentally insulting her before. "Uh, no. Not really."

"Define 'not really'."

"You know," the teen says, shrugging, "fingering and stuff."

"So I'd be your first?"

"Well, yeah. No shit. I already said I'm a virgin."

You kiss Olivia again, just because you can. Her mouth tastes of mint and roast coffee. The teen goes back to reading her book as soon as you draw away.

"Well," you say, eyeing her bare folded legs, imagining all sort of interesting things you could do with them, "I think we should change that. The only question is how to celebrate you punching your V-card."

"Punching my V-card? Like, seriously?"

So, "Free Use" apparently doesn't mean "No Snark". Good to know. You wonder if Charles arranged it so you'd be sassed by the first piece of ass you came across on this side. But whatever. You've got more important things to care about.

Hands shaking from an excitement you haven't felt since your dates in high school, you unbuckle your belt. Olivia doesn't look over at you when you drop the coiled leather beside her, nor does she raise an eyebrow as you unbutton your jeans. You watch her closely for any reaction. If you asked her to do, she'd unzip you, you're almost sure, but there will be time for that later.

Ziiiiiiiiiiip.

Fishing your painfully hard cock of the tangle of your boxers, you almost gasp at the kiss of air library's chilly conditioned air. Olivia smiles quietly at something she comes across on the page, shifts her weight to keep her legs from falling asleep, and then just keeps on reading.

"Stretch out in the middle of the aisle," you order.

You meant it in the sense of laying face-down, so you could have easy access to Olivia's tight ass, but instead the hawk-nosed girl simply settle on her back. Be crystal clear in future instructions, you mentally note, but don't really mind. There's an expected joy as Olivia, still lost in her book, still stretches out on her back, lazily kicking one leg up and settling it across a bent knee. One sock-clad foot gently weaves in beat to the tune of some unheard song. It gives you a wonderful view of the teenager's delicate inner thighs, as well as a lovely view of the apex where they meet.

Shucking off the last of your clothes, you crawl between the carefree Olivia's legs. You sniff a bare ankle, catching a hint of rainwater mixed with an undercurrent of spicy body wash, but set such exploration aside for now. You desperately need relief. A brush of your hand spreads Olivia's legs, leaving her innermost womanhood fully bare to the world. Short curls of copper drape her moistening lips—a signal that the teenager's body is anticipating what's about to happen even if she herself is otherwise indifferent to your advances.

With one hand, you line yourself up with her slit, while the other presses down on her still-clothed belly. It's not to keep her in place. She won't run. It's to steady yourself. "How many men have seen you like this?"

"Nobody," Olivia replies, turning a page. "I'm not a skank."

A pang of guilt hits you. You're sure, somewhere, Charles is rolling his eyes.

"We're you saving yourself for anyone special?"

She shrugs, but doesn't put her book down. "It just, you know, never happened."

Rubbing yourself between the girl's badly swollen lips, you lubricate the tip of your aching cock. Where her face was cool to the touch, Olivia's womanhood is offering a decent impersonation of an furnace. "But you wouldn't mind if I fucked you?"

You'd be lying if your heart doesn't skip a beat in the instant it takes Olivia to respond. "I guess not."

"You guess not?"

"I don't really care either way, although I'd always kinda—oww!"

You bite your lip, a strangled groan trapped in your throat, as Olivia's drenched tunnel grips your cock. You ease yourself out of this girl, and the dark red staining your cock is evident. Jesus. You did it. This definitely isn't a dream. You've never popped a girl's cherry before, but this is just the first. Your whole life is different now.

You glance up at Olivia. There's no crying, no begging you to stop—or to keep going. She's indifferent.

So, you press forward.

Olivia squirms, trying to stay comfortable as she continues to read her book, but your short thrusts eventually lead her to finally give up. Hooking a finger inside it as an impromptu bookmark, she closes her eyes, sighing contentedly. The palm you're pressing against her trim belly feels Olivia's insides strain to contain each slow, deep thrust. You're captivated by how peaceful the hawk-nosed girl looks despite that. Like she's taking a cat nap on a lazy Sunday afternoon, indifferent to her own vigorous deflowering.

You're too keyed up to last long. Eyes locked on Olivia's oblivious expression, you climax with a bellowing roar, your seed pumping itself deep into her womb. As your vision begins to blur from the sheer pleasure, you feel Olivia's cunt spasm around you, and the softest "Oh!" passes from her lips. She lolls her head around, riding her own private climax.

You collapse on top of Olivia. Eyes closed, you press your sweat-beaded forehead against the chilled skin of hers. You gulp down air, heart racing.

It takes you a minute or two to become cognizant that the hawk-nosed teen is poking you.

"Hey," she rasps, tone full of warning.

You crack open your eyelids. A bleary world only slowly comes into focus. Olivia, still laying beside you, has her book out again yet her attention is squarely on you. She brings an index finger to her lips. "Shhh! Don't yell like that in a library. Some people are trying to read."

Grinning, you kiss Olivia for that crack, even if she thinks she's being serious.