Girl on the Net

While I work on commissioning more guest audio, the usual guest audio porn slot will be filled with improv erotica: stories inspired by suggestions from Patreons, who have chipped in some amazing scenarios. They give me a name, a kink, a location and an object and I try to write these into fun pieces of horny flash fiction. This first piece is some hot exhibitionist erotica about getting fucked in a library – at the top of the story you can see the prompts which sparked it.

I’m into it

(fucked in the library)

Name: Tony

Kink: Exhibitionism/voyeurism

Location: Library

Object: Desk

Come on Friday afternoon at 4:15pm, to the desk that’s hidden in the back. Third floor, come out of the lift, take a left and then walk and keep walking – try not to hurry, it’s a library, no one runs in here. Beyond History and Politics and English Literature. Take a long hike past even Philosophy – ignore the draw of Camus and Kant and keep going. To the section where the windows to the outside got blocked up when they built the extension around the turn of the century. The section that’s visited only by the most esoteric scholars.

And – at 4:15 on Fridays – by us too.

There’s something about being watched, isn’t there? Maybe not to you, I guess. I know that to the watchers what we do is sometimes baffling. They’re grateful that we do it, but confused as to why. Those who stand behind shelves, peeking through the gaps left by dusty books swiftly removed just after 4pm are usually too shy to ever dream of joining in. They just stand, and watch, and touch themselves. But I like to be watched. I like to know I’m being watched. That moment when you feel eyes upon you, and hear the sound of rapid shuffling – clothes swiftly pulled down or aside, rustling in time to the movement of a stranger’s busy hands. That sound is sweeter to us than a chorus of cheers or a round of applause. It’s the furtive nature of it – the hushed, muffled, trying-to-be-silent aspect – that’s what gets our hearts racing. Weird, sure, but we’re into it. Are you?

The first time it happened was an accident, of course: we stumbled across it when Tony was looking for some ancient thesis or other – one of his colleagues had told him it might have something useful for a lecture series he was preparing on social cues and shame.

Shame is compelling, isn’t it? Like being watched is compelling. In real life we’ve never been caught but in my fantasies, we often are. Someone steps out from behind the shelves and takes us to task: orders me to take Tony’s cock from my mouth. Drags me to the front desk, tits out and hair messy and skirt hiked up around my waist. Gives me a dressing-down in front of the students who haven’t yet scarpered for the pub.

I fell for Tony because I liked shame. I enjoyed the way he talked about it. Playful. Teasing. Giving the dry, academic details of social science a hint of something more sordid.

The first time we were there at 4:15 I spotted that desk and whispered that he should take me over it. Told him ‘shameful of me, I know but…’ before bending over and arching my back in a kind of porn pastiche. Half-joking, half-serious, thinking I’d decide which way to go after seeing his reaction when I lifted my skirt. If he’d laughed, or turned away, I’d have done the same. But he didn’t. He scanned the stacks swiftly to make sure no one was watching, then took two quick strides forward and lifted my skirt completely. Yanked my knickers to the side to expose my bare cunt. Unzipped and beat at himself to get his cock just hard enough to slide in. Spat on his fingers and worked them into me to make sure I was wet enough before he plunged inside.

Back then, the hottest thing about it was the potential for shame. The secrecy of it. The way he reached forward with both hands, to cover my mouth and stop me from gasping as each stroke slammed my hips into the desk. The way he tried to muffle his grunt of satisfaction when he came.

When he was done, and we were still, each of us heard the telltale shuffle of someone ‘watching’ nearby. It was almost funny how slowly we got dressed once we’d clocked that. Exchanged one of those looks that means ‘weird, but I’m into it.’ We’ve exchanged quite a few of those, over the years. Look exchanged, silent pact made, we took our time getting dressed – kissing deeply, slipping oh-so-slowly back into our disheveled clothes, turning this way and that – so whoever it was could get a better view of the aftermath.

4:15 on Fridays, stop by if you like. You won’t be the only one there. There was just one watcher for the first few weeks, then a month later there were two. Behind separate shelves, each with their own little peep hole, created by nudging a couple of books from their rightful place. We don’t know anything about the people who come – we prefer it that way. Is it the same people each week, or different ones? Do they each have ‘their’ spot from which to watch, or do they pick a new one each time, to get fresh angles on the desk and what we do there? How do they spread the word to fellow voyeurs? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s just wisdom of the crowd: you see enough people heading somewhere on Friday afternoons, and one day you follow just to see what’s going on.

And it really is a crowd now. Last week we had twelve people watching as I rode him on the chair. With my back to them, so they could see in detail how his cock stretched my cunt out nice and tight as I slid up and down it. Twelve people watching as he gripped my hair in one of his fists and yanked me to one side, pulling my shirt down in the process and arching me back so they could see the way my tits jiggled as we fucked.

The week before, there’d been thirteen. More than enough to get me wet with hope that our shame might be exposed. That one of them was there not to enjoy it but to stop it. To shame us both. I know it’s weird, but we’re into it.

That week Tony had teased them. Played up to the audience. Whispered ‘sssh’ as he bent me over the desk, then spread my cheeks wide and poised with his rock-solid dick in hand, lubed up and ready to fuck. Pressing the tip of his cock up close against my cunt, then ass, then cunt again, as if waiting for a public vote before choosing which hole to fuck. I wondered if more people were thinking ‘cunt’ or ‘ass’. My guess was the latter. He’d not fucked me in the ass before – not in the library anyway. I liked to think that regular watchers would be rooting for him to slide it into a brand new hole. That they’d get to see something they hadn’t seen before: me biting my lip to keep from crying out above a whisper as he plunged it in brutal and hard. Above all I was wondering whether this would be the final time. Whether this was Tony pushing it too far, and someone would step out of the shadows and stop us. Yell: “enough!” in a voice so much louder than library whispers and march out to take hold of the slut bent over the desk. Grab me by the collar of my open shirt, exposing more of my flushed chest and rock-hard nipples, then march me towards the reception desk, and the climax of my shame.

4:15 on Fridays – at the desk at the back of the building. Beyond History and Politics, Camus and Kant. Come early, keep quiet. It’s weird, but I’m into it.

If you enjoyed this exhibitionist erotica, come check out more sexy stories read aloud at the audio porn hub. And support me over on Patreon if you’d like to get early access to new stories, and make suggestions of your own in future too!