Sunday, 17 May 2015

Gone Girl

In order to improve my employability, and thus placate my mother's wrath, I'm currently taking a college course. This is, of course, in addition to the other four higher education qualifications I've got, but it's quite fun, and it's enjoyable, and - crucially - it's incredibly easy, so I'm not taking a massive leap here. Plus, it's only one evening a week and therefore it's not really deducting massively from my time in any major way. And, as I found out on Thursday, it's perfectly possible to blog from the computers in the library.

So, yeah, I'm okay with that.

My classmates are all of a similar age to me, if not a little older in many cases. There isn't anyone of standard college age, anyway; no undergraduates - we're all people who are doing this for something extra (or, in my case, nothing extra). There are also a few European students who are now working in the UK and doing this to gain more skills (this includes the teacher; she's Greek). By and large, they're all pretty nice people.

Thursday evening.

The little group of people I talk to, whose names I can't remember, are always a little late back from stuffing themselves at the café in the little break between lesson halves. We came back in and sat down, taking our things out in an effort to look studious and keen, and yet none of us - not even our teacher - seemed to notice that one of our number was missing. One of our European students - Spanish, I think. Tall, slim, beautiful, nice smile. Laughs a lot. I helped her with her work last week and she's a good talker. But she wasn't there.

Fine, you might say, she's just gone to the toilet. Or lost track of time and she's still in the refectory. Or she's gotten lost - it's a bit of a maze. There are so many possible explanations for this.

But you can see where this is going, right?

Back she came... with signs that I'm not entirely sure if I'm imagining or not. Bright wide smile, hair a little out of place, and emitting a healthy glow similar to that you'd get in the Ready-Brek adverts from the early '90s. She looked very pleased about something. Of course she did, I said to myself, as I carefully inked "where did she go?" on my hand for future reference.

I counted out the possible situations in my head. Our classroom is right next to the library, and the library's being redeveloped, so there are plenty of places to hide. Boxes and books everywhere - a real mess. It wouldn't be too hard to slip into a corner un-noticed.

And then what could you do there? Would she delicately slide a hand into her skirt, just loosening her belt one notch, deftly stroking her clit to feel the pulses running through her? Would she tease her pussy lips just enough to feel them engorge? Or would she just go full-on, bringing herself to a silent, sneaky climax in the solitude of the evening library stacks?

What if she wasn't alone? Hsd there been someone who'd gone out there with her? Or, even better, someone waiting for her somewhere in the library itself? He - or she - had been quietly standing there in the corner knowing she would emerge around the same time very week. A fumble in the quiet, a little teasing and a lot of skin. Quick, dirty and awkward, and then a shy goodbye as she straightens herself out and skips back to class.

Maybe she was reminiscing right now. She might still have the taste of their lips on hers, a small kiss mark on her neck, or a pulse between her legs, slick with satiated desire or needing more. She may just have been pleased with herself. It's okay, I wanted to tell her, there's nothing wrong with it. It's the sort of thing I'd encourage.

Very briefly, she looked around the room and our eyes met. She flashed me a smile and put her hand to her mouth. I, in turn, adopted an expression of mock surprise and hazarded a grin back... and then glanced at the message on my hand once again.

Scandalous, ILB. Totally, deliciously scandalous.

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