The Fifth Floor — G.G. Royal

Fumio shelved Milton’s Paradise Lost and pushed the cart down the aisle. Next came Nabokov. He tsk-tsked as he put it back on the shelf. He’d found a mysterious substance gluing some of the book’s pages together. Again. Fumio wondered what sort of person delighted in jacking off to such a beautiful treatise on the dangers of desire and the consequences of alienation. The library should keep Lolita in the reference section, where responsible librarians, such as himself, could monitor the readership.

As he rounded the end of the aisle, he heard a cell phone ringtone. He gritted his teeth. Clear notices hung all over the library: NO CELL PHONES. He pushed the cart briskly through the study carrels, searching for the offending student.

I count the days, Fumio thought. A few years working at this less-than-academically-focused college library and he could to move to a prestigious school.

The sound grew closer.

Her. Olinda Marquez, freshman. He knew her all too well: consistently returned books late, major undeclared, and often times fell asleep on the fifth floor, sprawled out on the carpet, her head on her backpack.

He’d found her up there and warned her. Things happened on the fifth floor. Things innocent freshman like herself should not be subjected to. Even now, despite the fuzzy blaring of “Single Ladies” issuing from her pink Nokia, she slept, her head down on an open copy of a book about the art history.

Brat. Fumio left the cart and walked over to Olinda’s carrel. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her.

“What?” She raised her head. He couldn’t help looking down her shirt. Her dark olive skin called to him, drew him into the crevice between her ample breasts. He doubted she wore any kind of support beneath that strappy pink tank top. Fumio shook his head and steeled his resolve.

“No phones in the library,” he whispered. It finally stopped ringing and now beeped with a voicemail reminder instead.

“Oh, sorry.” She didn’t even have the decency to lower her voice. “I was just using it to keep track of the time.” She turned the phone off then stood and stretched.

Fumio hissed in a breath. Her denim skirt rode up when she reached over her head, nearly showing the bottoms of the globes of her ass.

“You fell asleep again,” Fumio told her quietly.

“Sorry. My roommate is just so noisy, you know?” She smiled at him. “At least it wasn’t on the fifth floor, huh?”

Fumio narrowed his eyes. She teased him. “Things do happen up there. I don’t want to have to be the one to call campus police when you wake up with jism on your face.”

“Oh, please.” She laughed. “That’s like an urban legend or whatever. All university libraries have a story like that.”

“I’ve caught people…up there…doing…it.” He glanced around. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

“Right. Prove it.”

I have work to do, he thought.

But, as much as he hated the girl, he couldn’t tolerate her disbelief even more. “I need to finish reshelving. Then I will come back and get you.”

“Yay!” Olinda clapped her hands mockingly. “An adventure.”

Fumio walked toward his cart again and returned to the stacks. As annoying as she was, he couldn’t ignore the reaction his body had to her. Even now, his prick felt tight in his briefs.

When he’d finished reshelving the books, he parked his cart at the end of one of the stacks and went back to find Olinda. He could hear her voice clear across the study carrel area.

He walked up behind her and snatched it out of her hand.

She turned in her seat, glaring up at him.

“I told you. No cell phones.”

“It was important.”

“Then take it outside.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“You did not just stick your tongue out at me.”

“Did so.” She did it again.

“Are you six?”

“You treat me like I’m a little kid, I’m going to act like a little kid.”

“Treat you like a little kid?” He slipped the phone in his shirt pocket and grabbed her wrist. “Fine.”

He hauled her to her feet and dragged her to the elevator. He’d put an end to her brattiness. He hit the Five button, and the elevator began to ascend.

Olinda tried to pull her wrist out of his hand, but the grin on her face showed she enjoyed the game. Fumio narrowed his eyes. He wondered how much she would like it when she learned his intention.

Finally the elevator doors slid open. He towed her through the stacks to a secluded corner. There, a few chairs upholstered in orange fabric sat in a loose circle. Fumio sat in one and then pulled Olinda down over his knee. Her skirt bunched across his thighs, riding up to show, again, that hint of the bottom of her ass.

She squeaked and tried to reach back with her free hand to pull the hem of her skirt down, but Fumio slapped her hand away.

Then he pushed the hem of her skirt all the way up.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought. He touched the toned skin of her ass, caressed the sliver of her thong at the top.

“You act like a little kid…like a little brat,” he said, “then you get punished like one.”

“Ooo, what are you going to do?” Olinda sounded a little scared and a little sarcastic; it drove him on.

“Brats get spankings,” he whispered then raised his hand and brought it down with a satisfying smack on her tight rear.

Olinda squealed and writhed on his lap, bringing his cock to full attention. He spanked her again and again, relishing the feel of her skin beneath his hand, the bright pink bloom of a welt that appeared.

When he thought she’d had enough, he pushed her up and looked into her face. Though her eyes seemed a little shiny, she grinned, a wicked little smile that invited more punishment.

“Now,” she said. “You said you’d show me.”

Fumio stood and nodded. He led her through to another part of the fifth floor, one of the most secluded spots. The arrangement of the shelves in the area created an alcove, the acoustics of the ceiling kept the area quiet, and somebody had, long ago, dragged one of the industrial-style library sofas into the ad hoc room.

Fumio raised a finger to his lips to show Olinda that she must remain quiet. Then he placed her behind one of the stacks where she could look over the top of a row of books to see into the alcove. He put his chin on her shoulder and watched too.

Fumio knew it was the perfect time of day to catch someone, and sure enough, there was a couple on the sofa. A woman sprawled out beneath a man. He stroked her breasts under her shirt. The woman wore a long floral skirt, but it did little good in concealing anything shoved up around her hips. The man’s pants were undone and rode low, below his ass. He thrust as he fondled, and the woman breathed heavily, gasping and raising her hips with every drive the man made.

Fumio heard Olinda catch her breath. Then he felt motion. He glanced down. One of her hands had pushed up the front of her denim skirt and peeled aside the fabric of her thong. She played with herself. Fumio could see the slick juices coating the ends of her fingers as she dipped them in and out of her cunt.

The other hand… Oh God. She’d reached behind and started to undo his pants. He already felt hard as a rock. His zipper went down, and her small, dark hand reached into his fly. She fumbled for a moment, searching for the opening in his briefs, but then she found his cock and brought it out into the light.

Fumio sucked in a breath as the cool air hit his member, but Olinda’s hot hand stroking its length soon remedied that. She worked them both now as the two on the couch rutted.

She knew how to touch him, how firm to hold him, the right way to stroke. Fumio gripped the shelf and gritted his teeth. At this rate, he’d come all over the vintage local history books on the shelf in front of him.

“I’m hot,” Olinda whispered. “I want you.” Still holding his cock, she backed him away from the shelf. In the small alcove, the man and woman shouted their releases within moments of each other. “Where else can we go?” Olinda asked.

Fumio knew just the place. “Come on.” She dropped his cock and took his hand.

They found one of the small study rooms, closed the blinds, and locked the door. Olinda climbed on the sturdy table at the center of room, her skirt around her hips, and spread her legs.

“Come on,” she said, dipping the fingers of her left hand down over her clit, rubbing it.

Fumio was not a stupid man, and it was the modern age; he took his wallet out of his back pocket and found the condom he kept there.

“Suck me a bit first,” he told her, and stood on a chair so his cock reached her mouth. She licked her lips, then the tip of his prick, then took the whole thing in her mouth; he could feel the end hit the back of her throat. God, it felt so good.

He pulled out, got off the chair, and slipped on the condom.

Fumio reached around and slapped Olinda’s ass as a reminder. Then he grabbed both cheeks and drew her to the edge of the table. His cock met her cunt. He drove inside.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, hooking together at his tailbone, and she used that leverage to her benefit, pulling herself up to meet his thrusts. Fumio looked down, watching their joining, his cock covered in her juices.

Olinda took her shirt off over her head and freed her breasts. She grabbed her nipples, pulling them up and out. Fumio couldn’t remember seeing anything so decadent or arousing. And so wet.

She made little moaning sounds as her hips slammed into his. Red blotched her cheeks, and she pressed her lips together in a tight line.

“You’re going to fucking make me come,” she told Fumio.

He could feel his orgasm simultaneously unfurling and gathering inside him, like a supernova, but Olinda’s own distracted him. She came, crying out so loud Fumio was sure the entire library would hear.

“Brats who scream like that get punished,” he stammered then came too. He felt like screaming as loud as she had as his body shook, but instead he stifled it to a long, low growl that left his throat raw.

Olinda unlocked her feet and pushed back on the table, sprawling out, knees up.

Fumio thought, I could take her again, right here, like that. Her cunt still swelled with blood, and her nipples sat taught and red at the peaks of her breasts as her chest rose and fell with her deep breaths.

Fumio took off the condom and threw it in the small wastebasket among the math scratch paper, candy wrappers, and research notes. He had to get back to work. 

#

From the circulation desk he watched Olinda. She crossed right in front of him, wearing Ugg boots, jean cut-offs, and one of those sorority sweatshirts with the neck cut out. Her breasts bounced beneath it. He couldn’t believe she had the balls to walk right past him like that, talking on the cell phone.

She made a beeline for the elevator. As she entered, she turned and looked right at him. She held up her empty hand. Five. The doors closed.

___________________

G.G. Royale began writing erotica in the English student lounge at a small California university in the 1990s. After taking a few years to perfect her craft and earn her MFA in creative writing, she began submitting short stories. Her work appears on Web pages, in anthologies, and as eBooks. She lives in New Orleans, raises chickens, and edits for erotic romance publisher Loose Id.  You may find G.G. here: www.ggroyale.com.

The Fifth Floor -- G.G. Royal, 4.4 out of 5 based on 8 ratings