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I close my eyes and inhale.

Count to ten.

Sounds and smells invade the world behind closed lids, polite and subtle, not like the constant blaring insistence of sight.

The crisp metallic hum of the computer on the desk in front of me. Nearby, the steady, seductive rasp of pages turning–patient, smooth, the rate of a browser, not a page faster or slower like a skimmer or a reader. I hear the nervous rap-tap-tap of a pencil and open my eyes, annoyed. After a stupid second I realize it’s my own pencil. I stop.

The clock on my desk reads six o’clock, in scripty brown hands on a faux-antique face. Around the room, my eyes glare at a scattering of abandoned books strewn over tables. And one man. He stands by the nearest bookcase, dressed messily in ragged jeans and a leather jacket with questionable stains. I do not approve.

I clear my throat to get his attention. He puts a finger in the book to keep his place–(I grimace at the thought of grubby fingers leaving smudges)–and looks up. I inform him that the library is about to close.

He smirks and shakes his head. No.

I repeat myself.

As he sets the book down on a table–open, face down, that’s horrible for the spine–he’s looking at me with an incorrigible smirk. I’m looking back at him with the serious glare I reserve for noisy juvenile delinquents. He beckons at me and steps over to the door, pointing outside.

Annoyed, I navigate around the counter and over to the door.

The outside world is gone. A blizzard rages, flinging frozen pellets of snow at the glass doors. I stare and realize the worst. It’d be suicide to have to wait gaziantep escort until it blows over. I turn to tell him so, but I only see him for a second, arms folded smugly, watching me

That’s when the lights go out.

I jump and–much to my dismay–shriek. I’m terrified of the dark. I can barely see his outline from the faint moonlight filtered through the clouds and reflected off the snow.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and asks if I’m okay. I tell him to keep his hands off.

I relish silence, and the library has never been quieter. I close my eyes to fend off the lurking shadows, and focus on the silence. Freed of the monotonous buzz of machinery, the only sound is the twin hush of our breathing. I try to wish it away.

He introduces himself.

I don’t answer in the hopes he’ll just go away.

He asks if he can call me sugarbutt.

I tell him my name.

He makes a few feeble–and resolutely ignored–attempts at small talk, following me as I grope my way over to the table to sit down. When I trip over a chair and fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, he laughs.

I tell him to be quiet, we’re in a library.

He asks if I’ve ever done it in a library, as he helps me to my feet.

I will always wish I’d had the sense not to ask.

Done what?

His lips crush mine as he shoves me up against the bookcase, his hands fisted in my shirt. I can feel the material cutting into me at the seams. He’s holding it so tight I think it’s going to rip.

His tongue barges into my mouth as the seam at my shoulder starts to tear. He tastes like cardamom and cloves, and I wonder what he ate that tastes like cardamom and cloves. Under that a messy, stale tang that is sickening at first, but it subsides into a tingling neutral when his saliva mixes with mine. I can feel my taste buds buzzing, and I wonder if kisses are supposed to do that.

I’ve lost track of time when he releases my mouth, though not his hold on his shirt. My tongue runs out over my chapped lips, picking up a drop of blood where my lip split under his abuse. I recognize what it was that tasted of cardamom. His chapstick. There’s a waxy residue around my mouth. I reach up, wiping it away with the back of my hand.

I can’t see him in the darkness, but I can hear him, feel him, breath hot against my battered lips, the chafe of cloth as he releases my shirt.

I’ve always liked the smell of cardamom.

His body pulls away from mine but I don’t move. The shelf is digging into my back, travel books from India and Norway wedged painfully under my shoulder blades. I hear the sound when his knees hit the floor, the complaint of metal as he unzips my pants. It’s getting cold in here because the heat’s stopped, so I gasp aloud when my pants fall, baring my ass and legs to the cool air that hangs around us. His fingers work into my briefs, and they join the slacks around my ankles, leaving me mercilessly exposed when he decides to take my limp penis into his mouth and run his tongue over it like a popsicle at a Fourth-of-July parade.

I don’t make a sound, speechless at this obscene act, gallingly aware of the way my member twitches and grows engorged under his attentions.

He gives no warning when he turns me around. I trip on my tangled clothing and almost fall, hitting my nose on the shelf. He parts my buttocks with his thumbs, and I feel my heart stutter when he presses his nose into the crease.

I never knew such an act existed, but I don’t doubt that he’s done it before. His hands keep a firm hold on my hips, leaving a pattern of bruises at his fingertips, mouth making wet sounds that make me nauseous. I can taste blood dripping into my mouth from where the blood vessels broke when I hit my nose. It tastes salty, cloying in my mouth.

I’m almost grateful when he stands, even though I know better to hope he’s done with me. He must smell the blood, because he reaches around, smearing it across my face and using the blood-slicked fingers to mingle with his spit, pushing slimy fingers into me with brisk, impatient motions.

He grunts as he steps forward, guiding his bare erection into my sphincter, forcing his way sternly inside until my body accepts him, his hips melding with mine, the curve of my buttock tucked into his groin.

At least, I think, he doesn’t talk when he does this, even if his breath is studded with low grunts. His hand reaches around, forming a fist around my penis, stroking me gruffly in time with his thrusts, and I cry out in shame and arousal as my orgasm takes me, indifferent to my pain and discomfort. I can feel the hot, sticky slime of his ejaculate inside me when he pulls out.

I don’t know how much later it is when I open my eyes, peeling myself away from the sweat-sticky bookcase and gathering up my pants, zipping them up around my ravaged loins. The lights are back, halogen glowing steady and stale above my head, and I hear the glass door click shut on the other side of the shelves.

He’s gone.

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