[Breeder] A Carrel Story (For Trey)

[TheBreeder]

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My reader Trey was so impressed with my use of the word ‘carrel’ last time (and to be fair, it’s not a word one sees much) that I thought I’d share another library-related tale from my college days.

My librarian friends will cringe at the following admission, but shortly after I checked out the library’s facilities, my freshman year, I found a easy way to bypass the circulation policy, for those books that I needed to keep for the two weeks the standard check-out would allow. I didn’t do it often, I hasten to say. Just occasionally—such as when a textbook that the library carried on its shelves was too costly for my already-lean pocketbook.

The library had a glass wall at its rear that was surrounded by a narrow balcony that wrapped around the entire window. If I needed an ‘extended loan’ of a book, I’d take a place at one of the study carrels at the very back of the library’s first floor, casually open one of the half-dozen louvered windows that admitted fresh air into the building. Then I’d let the book fall out of the window and onto the balcony, where I’d pick it up a few minutes later. When I was done with the book, of course, I could just bring it back and slip it into the return slot, and no one would be the wiser.

I was a poor college kid working my way through school on loans and money I made scooping ice cream for tourists. Don’t judge.

One day during my junior year, I’d taken a spot at one of the back-library carrels with the intention of ‘borrowing’ a book I needed for a six-week project for one of my classes. Two of my female friends—I was always surrounded with female friends during my college days—sat at behind me, studying at the double carrels that met back to back. The desk facing mine was occupied by an older guy surrounded by a stack of books. By older guy, I mean that he was at least all of twenty-four or twenty-five; he certainly wasn’t a septuagenarian.

I’d noticed the guy several times during the course of the previous hour. It was difficult not to; he took frequent breaks to the water fountain not very far away. Every time he’d stand up and shuffle over and take a few sips, he’d occupy his trip back by giving me the once-, the twice-, and the thrice-over. He had thinning hair on top of his head, and what was left of it was wild and untamed on the sides. His eyes were the most unfortunate feature of his face. They were wide and round and hadn’t much in the way of lid. In a word, they bulged. Or at least they gave the impression of bulging, much like that pop-eyed lady whose video was making the YouTube rounds a couple of years ago.

Okay. He looked crazy.

But he wasn’t bad-looking, despite the intensity of his eyes. His hair was a pleasant golden-brown color, and he had a mustache that was thick and bristly—an attractive thing to me in 1983. His arms and legs were covered with a thatch of fur that, when it reached his chest, was so thick it pushed out the fabric of his shirt to an extent that it never touched his skin. I thought he was fucking hot, and I knew—I just knew—every time he shuffled back to his seat, rubbing his stubby-fingered palm over the bristles on his chin and his thick mustache, that he wanted me badly. I was never more confident of anything in my life.

So strong was my confidence, and so persistent my hard-on about it, that I did something unimaginably bold and probably pretty stupid. I wrote him a note on a scrap of notebook paper. I want your dick, was all it said. I folded it up in quarters, stood up, and threw it over the top of the carrel so that it landed on his desk.

I had a few moments of terror to regret my decision when I sat down again immediately after. I’d just written down my need for dick on a scrap of paper while sitting next to two of my best friends, neither of whom knew of my sexuality. If the guy stood up and started ranting at me, I’d be exposed for everyone to see. And when the guy did stand up to look at me with those bulging eyes, I began to sweat for a moment.

But then he walked away, looked back over his shoulder, and jerked his head for me to follow. I scampered after, telling my friends I was going out for a breath of air.

We ended up going down in the basement, where there was a secluded men’s room that no one used but the staff. The guy pushed me down to my knees without a word, and undid the impossibly large buckle on the belt that held up his corduroys. His dick was a thumb-sized pink mushroom growing from a nest of dense coppery pubic hair. It was ugly, but he was rock-hard and pulled me down onto it. All the while I sucked, he growled and mumbled obscenities that I couldn’t quite make out. I understood what he wanted when he backed me off his dick and bent me over the toilet seat, though.

I went back to my carrel with a thick load dripping from my ass. He came back a few minutes later, staring at me with those unsettling pop eyes. And because I hadn’t been bold enough before, I did something unthinkable. I slumped down in my chair, kicked off my deck shoe, and extended my leg beneath the back-to-back desks so I could bury my foot in the guy’s crotch. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve never done anything quite like it since. For the better part of a half-hour I kneaded the guy’s hard dick with the ball of my foot while I pretended to study and even occasionally carried on whispered conversations with my girlfriends.

I can’t imagine what that guy thought of me, that afternoon. Besides that I was a nymphomaniac, I mean. Oh, and that I was pretty fuckable.

The guy turned out to be a law student. We had a fairly steady fuckbuddy relationship throughout the rest of my junior and senior years. He lived a block off campus in a little house divided into student apartments, and I spent many a night there with my legs in the air while he covered me like a very furry blanket and and pounded my pink little hole into submission with his stubby dick. He was a terrible kisser and not much of a talker, but man, he liked to fuck.

I didn’t find out any of that except the last that first afternoon, though. After I’d driven the guy half-crazy with my foot action, he took me down to the restroom once again, yanked my pants to my ankles, and fucked me brutally. His dick might have been tiny, but I remember after the second time, I was limping back to that study carrel with a very sore behind, carrying a scrap of paper on which he’d written his phone number and address, for later that night.

It was a good day. But I never did get the extended loan of that library book.

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