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Bait at the Library (1)

Posted by: Author: Age: 40, 21 then Posted on: 0 comments
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This site so totally rules, I had to share something. Was meant for something longer, but I want you all to have it.


True Episodes of My Eclectic Masturbatory History, in No Particular Order.

While still an undergraduate at university, I conceived an idea that combined two of my favorite turn-ons-erotic stories and the library. Here's how it 'came about.'

I had, over the previous two years, discovered (or re-discovered, really) that fabulous and trashy genre of literature known as the 'letters' magazine. The classiest example, which most everyone knows, is Penthouse's various 'Forum' columns and periodicals.

But there is a nearly infinite variety of 'letters' mags, at least there was back in the 80's when I was in college (although the internet has probably devestated their former high levels of circulation). They exist and flourish in every conceivable eco-niche of the kinkesystem, from bondage to scat, from swinging to incest.

One day, I was leaviing my downtown temp job, and decided to pick a few new bits of fodder for my overactive imagination at my favorite newsagent, just past where I would catch the bus. Having selected and made my purchases, I stowed my new loot in my backpack, and I caught the bus and psyched myself for the long ride home.

However, I suddenly remembered that that evening my housemates were going to be hosting a get-together at our house, and I realized I'd have little opportunity for privacy to enjoy my new purchases.

On an impulse, I realized that on a Friday night, the university library would be virtually vacant, and so at the last moment I jumped off at the bus stop just past the library and walked back through the cold December wind.

Warmly ensconced in a remote study carrell in the immense library's basement, I carefully turned my back to the world and pulled out a few of my purchases.

I had long ago as a young teenager discovered the joy of 'edging' (as I find it's called here-I always just thought of it as erotic procrastination, a perfect extension of my other personality traits) and so wasn't at all new to the joys of furtive, public self-stimulation. I'd stopped at the restroom and removed my tight undies, and the loose, commando feeling was very enjoyable and gave my unit maximum latitude for manual maneuvering. Except at work or giving class presentations, I always prefer to go commando.

I had my winter overcoat as cover, should I feel the need to hide the throbbing, turgid, fat, six inch cylinder that made a diagonal slash, pointing vaguely northeast, in the front of my beige Dockers.

I decided I'd read some nice letters and see how long I could go without breaking down and stroking myself. Utter, self-denying bliss.

So I read the nice letters for almost three hours (or it seemed like it, anyway). A particular story (I don't recall exactly what happened in it) involved someone spying on a couple in a library-how appropriate, I remember thinking-but stuff like that never happens to me.

But as I sat there pulsing and resisting the urge to pet my prod, I was struck by a moment of inspiration. Taking the mildest of the letters mags (that I'd just finished), it occured to me-well, I'd probably just throw it out anyway-why not, um, share it around a bit?

Making sure nobody was observing me, I stood, placed the little 8 x 6 inch magazine-format text between two hefty volumes at the end of a waist-high shelf. Someone would be truly delighted (or disgusted) I supposed!

Having done a profoundly dirty deed, I decided to resume my journey home, perhaps to eventually fulfull my throbber's yearning for hugs and caresses, once tucked between the chilly sheets in my underheated room.

No, nothing exciting happened-not that first time. But it opened a new vista of possibilities.

After that, I always carried one or two 'used' letters mags in a pocket in my backpack, ready to leave between two heavy volumes (or inside one) in some corner of a library. At first, I was always too self-conscious to stick around after making the plant-worried a library employee would discover me. Often, I'd return to find some text I'd planted on a previous visit still nestled in its spot. Other times, they'd have disappeared.

Once, I found that one had migrated several volumes westward over the course of about a week.

With time, I became braver-I'd make my plant and stick around nearby (not too nearby, to avoid a possible accidental association). Sometimes, I'd be reading my own newer text while I waited, but most often, I'd be 'legitimately' studying (if you could call my aimless wandering through only optional supplementary texts 'studying'). Either way, I'd generally be terminally turgid-ah to be so young and, well, sturdy! Nowadays, I still edge myself for hours (even days) at a time, but I rarely stay so rigid so continuously... it more rises and falls with a certain unsteady rhythm, driven by tides of circumstance and imagination.

Finally, I became impatient. I despaired of ever catching a 'customer' as I liked to think of the chance recipients of my, er, largesse. I decided I needed to be more blatent, for I wanted nothing more than to watch some young thing (male or female didn't hardly matter!) discover my discarded text and witness their reaction. So, one brave or foolhardy evening near finals week, I placed a text in a study carrell and put myself several seats down.

Only to have a middle-aged library custodian sweep upon it some 30 minutes latter and place it with hardly a glance into her pile 're-shelves.' Was she illiterate?! Was she frigid? Did she not see the almost-explicit, full-color pictures of fucking, frollicking lesbians on the cover? Or perhaps she just thought it a particularly alarming bit of recent, second-rate literary criticism?

Oh... I was soo disappointed. I fled the library in self-pity.

But a few days later, hornier than ever, as spring finals week began in earnest, I gave it another try. About an hour or a little more later, an earnest, muscular asian guy in flip-flops and basketball shorts and a 700 kg backback set up shop just one carrell down from my bait.

'Master-bait' I'd taken to calling it, in my head. Both heads.

I waited breathlessly. But alas, he didn't have the level of imagination necessary to wonder what might be in the carrell north or south of him. He studied studiously, like a gorilla doing calculus. And he was so cute!

But suddenly, up came a spritely, petite asian chick, to peck him on the cheek. Low murmurs that only intimate undergrads are capable of exchanging. And there she sat, beside him-in the carrell where I'd placed my ...

'Oh my god!' I overheard. Then, 'What's this?' in a soprano growl. Much more softly, again, 'oh my god, you perv.' Lower whispers I couldn't quite make out. She tossed it (I think-at his desktop). He called out to her. She flounced off. So quick? So final? Had I thwarted a perfect relationship? I felt guilty, and left as the young man brooded disconsolately-I didn't even wait to see if he kept the mag.

After that, I felt guilty for a while. But as summer session got into full swing, and I became immersed in trying to complete my senior thesis (which I should have finished in May but was too busy procrasturbating), once again the temptation to bait became too great. And so one Saturday afternoon, with the library almost to myself, I placed my worst-a fabulous, long-treasured little collection of letters on one of my favorite fantasy subjects: incest.

Perhaps my audaciousness was smiled on by the fates-or perhaps the god Pan intervened. Having placed the little text on a corner carrell and seated myself opposite, with a clear view, it was only a matter of minutes this time. Not even long enough for me to dig out my own bit-o-missives.

She looked so young! Was I getting that old, at 21? Surely, a freshman. Yum! She moved to a carrell farther down the row than the corner-about three in. Still in view, though. She put down her backback, flipped her hair back. Brunette, possibily latino. Not petite, tall, but athletic. Tiny breasts, infinite legs, high, slightly boyish butt. What the guys in the locker room alleged was the 'virgin butt'-some occult theory that virgins had visibly 'higher' butts than 'fallen' girls. Ridiculous, of course, but charming to think about.

She pulled out some binders and books, took off a light sweater and hung it over the chair. Clearly setting up for a bit of conscientious studying. Then, as often happens with focused procrasting college students, she immediately wandered off. To find a book? A friend? The restroom? Lunch? Sometimes it seemed the library basement was a campground up north in late morning, during hunting season. Lots of signs of occupancy, but no sign of occupants.

I toyed with the idea of getting up and 'migrating' my bait down to her carrell, but I decided it would be too obvious-she might notice that it hadn't been there before, and get suspicious. Meanwhile, the dude in my pants was having trouble sitting still. I felt its coke-can girth twitching violently in it's commando space: a loose-fitting pair of cargo pants.

Checking if the coast was clear, I dared to get up and make an elliptical orbit around the shelf behind my new neighbor's study spot. As I strolled past the corner carrell, I carefully slid the mag to near the edge of the desk, and made sure its garish cover was in fine contrast to the whitish formica. A good enough compromise with putting it right on her seat. If only!

Then I moved down the aisle and paused innocently near the young woman's gear, curious if I could identify her major or year based on the textbooks and handouts splayed upon the desk. Much to my surprise, I immediately did-and was just as immediately pushed to the next level. Oh, she was a young one, most definitely.

Right there, across the page-ends of a fat textbook entitled 'Algebra,' were the words 'Hancock Middle School.' Christ-well, I doubted she was a student teacher. And... I had, after all, noticed teenagers and preteens all over the library for the last several weeks-I think they were holding some kind of intensive summer school session on the university campus. I was unable to resist peering more closely at the xeroxed handouts nearby: something to the effect of 'Prep for eighth Grade advanced math' and, in squiggly, handwritten letters, with a heart dotting the i, 'Katie.'

I strolled away, altering my evaluation from 'She looked so young!' to 'pretty mature for her age!' Wow.

And would she... take the bait? My goodness, what would she make of it?

I felt as if a hot, chubby worm were trying to crawl past my waistband, upward, onto my taut, skinny stomach. A hot, chubby worm that was drooling just a little bit, at that. Damn.

I returned to my seat restlesly, and pretended to read something. And, much to my own personal amazement, didn't touch it. It.

About 10 minutes passed when I heard the flop flop flop approaching up the corridor. The long dark curly hair, now held back in one of those hair-clippy things. Past the corner... oh, straight past. To her seat, sitting down heavily. I could almost hear the echo in her head-'no more excuses, get to work, Katie.' Then, slowly, the head turning back ... shit, was she looking at me? Had she noticed my staring? I quickly lowered my face to my book, and hid behind the little wall of my carrell.

Scrape of chair, standing back up, approaching steps. Oh crap. Or...

Pause. Turn? I dared peek out, her retreating backside, right hand out of sight in front of her, oh wait, the little bait was... taken!

Furtive look left and right... but not so far left that she was looking my way-I was to her left and somewhat behind. And I saw the flash of the cover in her hands. Opening. Oh she was looking. I could barely breathe.

What would she be-13? 14? 13, going into 8th, I remembered. Hmm, at 13 what would I have thought of such literary productions as that which she now held? I don't quite know, but I'd surely have been unable to avoid consuming it utterly, and letting it's fantasies consume me, too.

I watched her raptly reading, rapt. The arched, thin neck, olive skin. A loose black curl on a cheek. Delicate, long arms, perfect fingers, holding the edge of that fabulous magazine.

More coming. ...



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