A Dangerous Distraction

My graduate degree program at a major university had me spending long hours reading in two libraries. The research often involved books and other readings that were only available for use in the library stacks. I would often find myself on one of the upper floors of the stacks late at night, alone and horny. 

It didn’t take long for me to fall into a pattern of combining my need for release with my almost nightly visits to the library. The routine was anything but dull. It gave me something to look forward to and broke the monotony of constant study. I always dressed in comfy, loose fitting clothing and carried extra undies and a small towel in my backpack. I became very good at the subtle orgasm while seated at a library desk situated beside the rows of shelves along an upper floor wall. 

My habit led to a few important lessons in self-discovery. I avoided the library as much as possible during my period. It added unwanted complexity. During the rest of the month, I could usually edge for an hour while still being able to study and keep an eye out for people who might be catching on. The signs were someone making multiple passes by to subtly check what I was doing or finding a seat nearby where we could see each other. Sometimes I would have to stop or, in the worst cases, relocate to another floor. More importantly, I learned how much I could get away with before becoming a distraction to others.

Then one day my schedule was off. I had to go to the library in the daytime. Dressed in full student mode, wearing some old comfy sweatpants, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a hoodie, I parked on the street nearby and walked inside. It was crowded and I couldn’t find a private desk in the normal places. I found a seat midway down a row of desks that looked like a dividing line between an open area with lots of round tables for group study and the bookshelves. Leaving my backpack, I went to find the book I needed, then returned to my seat, retrieving a notebook from my backpack and settled into my work.

Talking was allowed at the group tables nearby, but it really didn’t bother me until a group of students took the table nearest my seat. I could easily follow along as they reviewed their notes together and talked about their assignments. Without being able to see them, I could tell there were four females, they were all undergrads working on a math assignment, and they were really serious about their work.

Up until that point, I had been focused on my work, but now my concentration faded. My mind wandered, straying into familiar territory, wondering if maybe I could work and play at the same time. I had a little privacy because my desk had half height walls on three sides with the open side facing the nearest bookshelf. Only someone standing near my desk could see over the top of the desk walls from the side where the tables were. Even then, if I pulled my chair under the desktop, my lap would be out of view. 

Just thinking about it had me excited. I knew that if I reached inside my sweatpants that my fingers would feel the warmth emanating from between my legs. If I pushed my panties aside and slipped a finger inside my labia, I knew I would feel the smooth slickness of arousal. The sounds of the library went away the moment my hand caught up with my thoughts. 

My right index finger held panties to one side under my sweats while the middle finger sent a message to my brain confirming how ready my body was. With slow, sweeping strokes, I lifted myself to a favorite place where my mind absorbed what my eyes could see with greater clarity. The sounds of the library receded. I read and gently massaged my inner lips and clit for page after page until I was content with the progress I had made and let my finger slip inside. I started with a slow motion at first, sliding my finger in and out, noticing I was wetter than normal and that if I did it too fast, there was a noticeable sound that was unmistakably coming from a wet, vaginal place. It startled me and I stopped to tune into the conversations around me.

Nothing suspicious.

I started again, letting the sounds happen and feeling even more excited knowing someone might hear me. 

Then I experimented with myself, seeing how the sounds changed with different speeds and finger motions. It started feeling really nice and then I heard one of the undergrads.

“Do you hear that sound?”

One of the others answered with a question. “What sound?”

I stopped, pulling my finger out and then feeling its warm wet presence on my clit. I let it rest there until I was sure the group next to me had refocused on their study. 

When I started moving my fingertip around again, I was hyper aware of every sense. Maybe I was paranoid at this point, but it seemed like I could smell my on sex, that tangy, pungent smell that is so hard to describe, but instantly recognizable once you know it. 

My finger felt so good on my clit that I gave in decided to try again, but this time pushed my hand inside the waistband of my panties, straight down and inserted both my index finger and middle finger. There was a clicky squishy sound, but not as noticeable. I worked my fingers slowly in and out, seeking a balance between the speed and the sound and the rush of pleasure that drove me forward. 

I failed. 

One deep and fast push in and out yielded the loudest slippery sticky slosh yet. 

“I heard it that time” came a voice from the nearby table.

I slowed but didn’t stop, letting the softer sounds of my pleasure escape.

“That’s really distracting. What is it?” Another of the undergrads.

I had to stop. Thoughts of being kicked out of grad school brought me back to reality. I squeezed the muscles in and around my legs, squeezing my fingers as much as I could with my vagina while slowly pulling them out, the sensation so delicious I had to stifle a soft moan. 

After quickly loading up my backpack, I stood to leave, not daring to look at the four young women for fear of giving away any acknowledgment that I was the source of their distraction.

It didn’t take long to reach the safety of my car. No one had followed me out of the library. I wasn’t being watched or noticed by anyone nearby. I threw my backpack into the passenger seat, locked my doors and rubbed myself to an explosive orgasm within minutes, pulling the towel out of my backpack to clean my fingers and absorb some of the aftermath inside my sweatpants. 

Driving home with the feel of sticky wet panties, my own scent permeating my car, was an intoxication that I relished in the moment. As I came down, it occurred to me that being too distracting was immensely erotic, but also dangerously addictive.