My parents, the social workers, and my teachers all insisted that my ‘excessive introversion’ would even out once I went to college. Something to do with a more open-minded environment and myself finding ‘my own’, whatever that meant.

They were all really wrong. I’ve attended this college for almost a year now and still haven’t made friends, or even just talked to anyone outside of required interactions that mainly have to do with my major (sociology) (“Please can I get an extension on that deadline?”) or food (“No fries, thank you.”).

The good thing about this? I can really focus on my studies and sleep, both of which provably suffer for the sake of social interaction. I ace my exams, I will get my degree easily, and professors love me.

The bad things about this? – Yes, things, plural -
Well, firstly, without social interaction, there’s no interaction, either. Even in the age of tinder, you still have to talk to people – at least a little – before they start doing the sex with you. ‘Excessive introversion’ does not kill the libido. At all. I.e. Just because you don’t want to talk to people doesn’t mean that you don’t want them between your legs. It just kills all your chances of interpersonal contact dead, outside of being mugged and violated by some asshole who jumps out of a bush when you walk back to your dorm at night – call me old-fashioned, but that’s just not my thing.

And secondly: When there’s a bomb threat and an actual anthrax attack against a campus employee, people naturally suspect you. Because you’re weird and keep to yourself and your GPA is suspiciously high, overall.

Of course it wasn’t me. Personally, I think it wasn’t a student at all. Still, for the rest of the semester, it was much more complicated and time-consuming to get through several main building’s doors. Think TSA on red alert, with body scanners, metal detectors, x-ray machines showing every single butterfly knife (nail file) you are trying to smuggle into that one boring lecture to make things more interesting – the whole nine yards.

One day, I was walking from the student building over to the library, to get a paper done. There was a double line in front of the library foyer. I sighed and got into the girl line because, at the end of the girl line, there was a woman waiting inside the little privacy screen cubicle – one of those you would see at a hospital. At the end of the boy line, there was a man. Because, you know, proprieties had to be observed like it’s 1899.

Personally, I had never cared if I was patted down by a woman or a man at the airport – unconstitutional groping is unconstitutional whether the person doing it has man bits or woman bits. Plus, the airport employees are too underpaid anyway to really want to touch you, anyway.

What I did care about was the fact that the boy line went four to five times faster than the girl line, like the queues at the restrooms at the cinema during the break. When the boy line was down to zero, I rolled my eyes, hesitated for a single moment, checked around me whether anyone might notice – there was no one behind me yet and the girls in front were entirely absorbed by their phones – and switched into the boy line.

Seconds later, the curtain was drawn open a little. My cue. I shouldered my bag and walked forward, pulling the curtain shut behind me.

The Campus Security guy’s eyes landed on me as he turned around, his hands busily working disinfectant into one another.

The one thing that went through my head was, Those baby blues will hopefully follow me into my dreams tonight.

“Miss, this one is only for male students. Campus policy.”

And that voice can come right along, too.

“Uh, I know. It’s just that the girl line is so long. It’s a cinema-restroom-type situation, you know? When there’s no one there, might as well use the men’s. If you- I mean.” I gestured, aware that I was rambling – and exchanging more words with this handsome uniformed dude with the Ian Somerhalder eyes and the Heath Ledger voice than I had with any other person this past week. Month, really.

I blinked myself back into focus. “I think I just compared you to a restroom. I’m sorry. I just really want to get into the library before all the tables are taken, and, no offense, but your female colleague’s work tempo is positively glacial, so if you don’t mind… I mean, I don’t mind.” No, I really didn’t.

The blue eyes scanned me from my head to my toes and back again, and I swear there had been TSA pat-downs that I had felt less than that. I suppressed a small, happy shiver.

 He huffed once and shrugged one shoulder. “Alright. Put your bag onto the belt and stand over here.”

I did with a “thanks” that sounded way too breathy.

“Please take off your shoes and the sweater, too.”

Oh. Oh. I looked down at myself. The comfy, baggy, well-washed hoodie with the college logo I was wearing and the plain gray T I had on underneath that were literally the only things I was rocking today. Yep, today was no-bra day number thirty-two. I could literally smuggle live chickens underneath this hoodie and no one would notice, so of course I didn’t bother to wear one.

Well, I brought this on myself. If I hunched a little, he wouldn’t notice, probably. They were barely B-cups. With a fortifying breath, I slipped out of the hoodie, one sleeve at a time and over the head last to make absolutely sure my T-shirt didn’t go along for the ride. Just because I really liked this guy’s eyes and voice didn’t mean I wanted to flash him, and he also didn’t need to see the little pouch of my belly.

I loosely folded the hoodie and put it onto one of the trays, sending both into the x-ray machine. Next, I toed off my fake Vans to do the same with them. Dark blue pantyhose, knee-length dark jeans skirt, and the gray T. I wasn’t going to win any pageants today, that was sure.

“Step onto this platform, facing this way.”

I did, standing before him in my T-shirt, looking at him waiting for new instructions, and feeling like an idiot for some reason. At least the platform was made of some foamy material that warmed right up under my near-naked soles.
 
“Feet a little farther apart.”

I widened my stance slightly.

“Arms up.”

So much for the hunching. I lifted my arms and felt the shirt stretch just a little over my small chest, and the material brush against my nipples. Correction: Now I felt like an idiot.

The thought must have shown on my face, because Campus Security dream boy smiled a little. “Good girl,” he said.

“Ha!” I gave a single, sarcastic laugh and grimaced at him. “Very funny. Do you ‘attaboy’ every guy who comes through your, uh, little cubicle?”

“Only if they follow instructions as beautifully as you do,” he replied.

Yeah, I had nothing.

He commenced to pat down my arms, starting with my right, moving from hands to shoulder, then switched over to the left.

“I feel like this is a little excessive, don’t you?” Man, his hands were big and warm. He wasn’t wearing gloves but I was trying really, really hard not to notice it. “I mean, it’s not like I could be hiding a baggie full of anthrax in my sleeves right now. You know, because I don’t have any sleeves.”

“Just being thorough,” he said and slid his fingertips into the hollows underneath my arms. I inhaled sharply at the ticklish sensation and at the thought that he must be feeling the small damp patches there, on my skin and on the seams of my T-shirt. I wasn’t an excessively sweaty person and I did use soap and deodorant, but today was a relatively warm day and my hoodie was made for chilly Midwestern springs, so the little spots were inevitable.

Also, the touch and closeness of this random guy definitely drove my body temperature up.

“You are Isobel Wilkinson, aren’t you? You were one of the suspects for a long time,” he said, and my heart stumbled, undecided whether I should be delighted that this handsome stranger knew my name and could identify me, or horrified that a) he knew my name while I didn’t know his and b) that he thought I could be a freaking terrorist.

“Uh, yes, that’s my name, and yes, I was. I didn’t do anything, though.” Why did that practically sound like a confession? I huffed. “I would never do something like that,” I finished lamely and shut my mouth before the lady did protest too much. Instead, I focused on keeping my arms in a perfect T-shape and looked at a spot just above his shoulder as if my life depended on it.

His hands swiped down my sides all the way to my hips. Next, he used the outer edge of his hand to wipe down my front – one, two, three swift movements from my chest down to slightly below my navel, exactly to the area of my body that suddenly felt expanded, like there was a hollow that had just formed there and now pushed outwards.

My cruelly ignored tits still tingled with the fleeting contact, and my nipples tightened like little knots.

His palms flattened against the front of my skirt. The material was too thick and sturdy to really feel his touch through it, but I saw. I saw. The visual of his big hands lying flat against my abdomen burned itself into my memory.

He went to his knees and came face to face with my middle – I forced my eyes up and away before I started whimpering – as his hands grabbed onto my left foot and slid upwards on my calf, my knee, my thigh, underneath the skirt – Just as I flinched, he switched to my other leg. Foot, ankle, calf, knee, thigh-

Oh, holy Jesus. I was really starved for affection. Get a grip on yourself, you needy- 

“Turn around, please.”

I complied, seizing the chance to hunch protectively and make the headlights disappear from his view, and to wriggle the tension out of my body with just a little movement. My eyes fixed on the blue curtain basically right in front of my nose.

“No, Isobel. Arms up, hands on the back of your head.”

I startled – at the casual use of my name as well as the unexpected order – and threw a glance over my shoulder at him. “Ruh-really? Is this necessary?”

“Absolutely,” he answered, and when I eventually did weave my hands together at the back of my head like a murder suspect that had been apprehended by the police, he added, “And you’ll leave them there like the good girl you are.”

I pressed my lips together. Anyone else, any other situation, any other tone of voice, any other day, this would have been intolerable to me.

This guy, in this situation, with this voice, on this day, though – I thought it was sexy. I was also taken aback, but mostly, the bossiness and the touching and the illicitness and the strange intimacy of the situation… It thrilled me.

His palms glided down my back – with enough force to make me sway forward a little – and touched every square inch there. One hand quickly grazed the back of my neck, just long enough to raise all the goosebumps. Fingers slid into my armpits – again, making my exhale tremble with embarrassment – and down my sides, brushing by the sensitive outer swells of my breasts and coming to rest on my hipbones.

Please, pull me into you. The thought was so loud in my head that I feared it had slipped out of my mouth. I bit my tongue, hard.

I heard the rustle of his uniform as he went to his knees again and inspected the sensitive hollows of my knees thoroughly, then put his left hand back onto my hip.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he murmured and slid the other hand up on the inside of my left thigh.

Up.

And up.

“Yes,” I breathed. “Yes, I will.”

The fingertips reached the gusset of my hose and panties and it was like I had been zapped. First I jumped, then I stood, absolutely frozen.

Oh, God, he was touching me.

There. Right there.

They pressed the little puddle of my own wetness that had formed in the material back up against my puffy flesh. I tilted my hip forward to escape the overwhelming sensation, but it only intensified. His fingers slid forward to my mound, and back along the seam of my pussy, brushing carelessly over the hypersensitive little nub that pulsed like a second, much smaller heart, dipping into the hollow of my opening where the wetness dripped down, and on to my perineum, and back.

Forward, and back.

Forward, and back.

Almost too softly, too gently, causing my juices to make little wet noises, making my legs tremble.

“You will come to the library again tomorrow, Isobel,” he suddenly spoke up, startling me again. The movement and the sensations it caused were so hypnotic.

“Uh, yes,” I answered, dry-mouthed, fat-tongued. “After the afternoon lecture, around 4.”

“You will get in line for this cubicle again,” he continued. “and it doesn’t matter if people stare, or if you find it embarrassing.”

I inhaled deeply and nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“You will not be wearing panties tomorrow,” he said.

A little “oh” slipped out of my mouth, that was all.

Forward and back his fingertips went.

Forward and back, lingering ever so slightly on my clit.

“The day after tomorrow, you will submit to a cavity search,” he continued.

I shivered. My whole body, every nerve in my body, shivered. “Yes,” I almost sobbed.

“I will search all three of them,” he said and circled my clit by scratching a fingernail against the two layers of fabric that covered it, sending coarse vibrations straight into the hot, molten core of me like little needles of too much pleasure. Too much, too uncomfortable to orgasm from it and not enough at the same time, but then the pad of his thumb pushed up and into the yawning, grasping, empty, weeping hole that was my pussy, as far in as the pantyhose and my panties allowed.

“Thoroughly,” he promised, threatened.

And just like that, the slick, hot friction of soaked cotton and the feeling of being invaded, coupled with the pinprick pain in my clit and the low, dangerous timbre of his voice as he told me what he would do to me, made me splinter and explode, from my pelvic floor outwards.

I clenched, unclenched, twitched, bowed, unbowed, gushed, trembled, breathed hard, breathed sharply, and screamed on the inside. My eyes screwed shut until I saw flickers of light in the black. Then, everything inside me went gloriously slack.

When I regained my senses, his hands had disappeared from my hip and from my middle. I swayed where I stood, dizzy from all the rushing of my blood in my brain and my body. “Oh, God,” I whispered, transferring the hands that had been cupping the back of my head to the front, to my forehead, to cover it, and my eyes.

“Good girl,” he said, standing behind me, not touching me except with his presence, all over. “I will see you tomorrow.”

As fast as my shaky legs allowed, I fled the little cubicle, grabbed and stepped into my shoes, hugged my hoodie and my backpack to my chest, and ran into the library, straight towards the restrooms that were tucked to the side of the entrance.

I meant to clean myself up, wipe the cooling, slimy juices from my panties, and dab the sweat out of my armpits.

But I didn’t.

TBC