I remember slipping into that médiathèque last Tuesday, the air thick with that musty book smell mixed with fresh coffee from the corner machine. I’m 27, and yeah, I was feeling bold—wearing this tiny red thong that rode up just right, hugging my ass like it owned it. Black skirt, short enough to tease if I bent over. No bra under my thin blouse. Why? Boredom. Craving that rush.
I’m browsing the philosophy section, fingers trailing spines, when I catch him staring. Tall guy, late 30s, sharp suit, name tag says « Director – Marc. » Power vibe, you know? He adjusts his glasses, eyes dipping to my legs. I pretend not to notice, but I shift, letting my skirt hike up an inch. The thong’s lace edge peeks out—red against pale skin. His throat bobs.
« Need help finding something? » His voice low, controlled, but husky.
I turn, smile slow. « Maybe. Something… intense. »
He steps closer, cologne spicy, warm. Bookshelves tower around us, shadows deep. « Philosophy can be dangerous. »
I laugh soft, lean in. « So can red lace. »
His eyes widen, flick down. I feel the thong dampen already, that tingle starting. He grabs my wrist gentle but firm, pulls me deeper into the stacks. Heart pounding—anyone could walk by. « Show me, » he whispers, breath hot on my neck.
I hesitate, glance around. Empty aisle. I lift my skirt slow, the fabric whispering up thighs. There it is: red thong, soaked crotch clinging to my pussy lips, outline clear. He groans quiet, hand brushing my hip. « Fuck, that’s… power right there. »
His fingers hook the string, tug light. It snaps against my skin—sting sweet. I gasp, knees weak. « You like control? » I murmur, pressing against him. His cock hardens through pants, thick ridge against my belly.
« Here? » he breathes, but his hand slides front, cups my mound over lace. Wet heat seeps through. I nod, biting lip. « Make me. »
He spins me, face to shelves. Books smell old, dusty. His zipper rasps—loud in silence. Cock springs free, hot velvet against my ass. He yanks thong aside, string biting cheek. « So wet, » he growls, thumb circling clit. Sloppy sounds—my juices slick.
I push back. « Fuck me. Now. »
He thrusts in—deep, stretching. Pussy grips him, walls fluttering. Inch by inch, burn turns bliss. « Tight, » he grunts, hand over my mouth. I moan into palm, salty skin taste. Hips slap soft—thwack, thwack—echo faint. His balls tap my clit, rhythm building. Sweat beads, drips down my back; his mixes, musky.
« Harder, » I whisper when he loosens hand. Legs shake. He grips hips, bruises forming, pounds relentless. G-spot hits—fire sparks. « Yes… there… » Books rattle slight. Footsteps distant—freeze. He stills, buried balls-deep, pulsing. We hold breath, my cunt clenching him. Steps fade.
He chuckles dark. « Close call. »
Resumes, faster. Pulls out sudden—wet pop—spins me. Knees hit floor, rough carpet bites. Cock shiny with me, veins throbbing. « Suck. » Salty tang floods mouth—musk, precum. I swirl tongue, hollow cheeks. Gags quiet as he fucks throat gentle. Drool strings down chin.
Up again—against wall now. Leg hooked his waist, he slams in missionary-style lean. Nipples scrape blouse, hard peaks. His mouth latches one through fabric—wet suck, teeth nip. « Cum for me, » he pants.
Pressure builds—coils tight. Toes curl. « Oh… fuck… » Waves crash. Squirt gushes—hot, messy down thighs, soaking thong pulled aside. He groans, thrusts erratic. « Shit… » Pulls out, ropes cum stripe my belly, red thong—pearly white on lace.
We pant, sticky. He tucks in quick, smirks. « Power’s in the details. » Kisses neck, gone.
I fix skirt, thong ruined—wet, cum-smeared. Walk out thighs slick, glow lingering. That red string? Held all the power.