Message-ID: <20726eli$9903220450@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Lei Bluet Subject: {Lei}"Mens Et Manus"(MF, (mild)exhib) <*> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset="ISO-8859-1" X-EXP32-SerialNo: 00000000 X-WM-Posted-At: MailAndNews.com; Mon, 22 Mar 99 01:51:13 -0500 Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: Warning: this story contains sexually explicit material This story is copyrighted by the author. You may not post it to a website or repost it to the newsgroup without my permission (I will most likely grant it, but I want to be informed in advance). You may download and keep a copy of this story as long as this warning and my email address (lei@MailAndNews.com) are kept with it. This is my first story, and any comments and criticisms are appreciated. Please, send them to lei@MailAndNews.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mens Et Manus I always meant to find out the name of the architect for the school library and send him a note praising his work -- it is important to thank people when they do something well. The construction itself was fairly unremarkable -- ordinary three story building, filled with books and periodicals. There was a feature, however, that redeemed it all for me -- the windows. They were huge, spanning almost entire riverside wall, from the floor to the high ceiling. Their grandeur was ingeniously simple and uncluttered, so as not to take the attention away from what really mattered: the breathtaking view outside. I often came to the library to study. The noisiness of the main hall irritated me, but I discovered a truly remarkable place -- the map room. Although its entrance was just to the right of the main entryway, most students seemed to pass by without ever noticing it. And there, beyond the tall glass doors, lay the little kingdom of sunshine and quiet. Most of the time, I was its only visitor, sharing my space with the huge maps on the wall and carelessly thrown volumes of some forgotten encyclopedia. The windows were covered by heavy shades patterned with the seal of the institute -- two not entirely Roman-looking men busily proving to the world that everything in life could be achieved through some work of "mens et manus." The shades moved quietly apart as I pulled on the strings, and the room was filled with the light and sunshine. Outside, past buzzing Memorial drive, Charles River lazily moved its waters, dotted with the white sails of boaters and cut by the blazingly fast crew teams. And behind the Charles, beyond the shallow shell of the Esplanade, lay Boston in all its glory. I never tired of looking at the Boston skyline - businesslike skyscrapers and old churches and squares seemed to get along so beautifully in the midst of the architectural cacophony. The streets, the buildings, the parks, the river, and the endless Institute hallways all radiated the unbounded vitality of life, in all its intricate confusion, mess, and undeniable glory. In one of my usual visits to the library for a night of study and Boston-gazing, I picked my favorite table in front of the huge window and tried to focus on my homework. The probability problem set I was working on turned out to be not as dull as I expected, so it was quite late when I closed my notebook, feeling good about having completed something. The sun had set by then, and the lights of the city played and glistened, forming a myriad of ornamental chains. The view always aroused me. Maybe, it was because of the secret exhibitionist in me that liked to sit there in the well-lit room, or because the excitement of the city called for the similar response from my body. The thoughts of copulations, active and passionate, flashed through my mind; the confetti of images of beautiful women and men, convulsed in pleasure of intimacy and raw sexual power, danced in my head. It's not common, even for a woman, but ever since I was twelve, I have known that just the right combination of grinding my legs together and squeezing a particular set of muscles, coupled with some very intense fantasies, would invariably cause me to orgasm. The action was simple and fast: no hands involved, and nobody needs to notice. I've done it in public places - in that very library, in that very seat. It was not spectacular, but it was satisfying enough, and it helped me quiet my ever-active imagination. That time, however, filled with the inspiration of having completed one problem set, I wanted to continue working. Reluctantly turning away from the view, I picked another desk, facing away from the window. But I was too busy battling with my own sex drive to be able to concentrate on the problems of good system design. I read for a bit, then closed my eyes and sat still, welcoming the images that came to mind. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew was a feeling of warm hands on my shoulders, massaging away the knots acquired during the day. Yawning, I tilted my head back until it hit a flanneled stomach and I was looking up at one of the most gorgeous chins I've ever seen. There is a spot on a male body that fascinates me -- it's the place where the chin meets the neck: the confluence of shared curves is breathtaking in its natural fluidity and beauty. "Hi, Dave," I mouthed, still half-yawning, "I saw you when I came in. Are you done working desk now?" "Well, seeing how it's midnight, it's about time, don't you think? I'm closing the library - you're the last one left." "Do you always give the last person a neck rub?" "Well, it's a special service from the library to our last customer of the day." He smiled, as I relaxed against his nimble fingers. "Mmm, you have good fingers - strong and expert. I see you've had plenty of practice on your 'last customers.'" "Jealous, aren't we?" "What is there to be jealous of? All the better for me now." "Good," he said and bent down to kiss my forehead. Dave and I have been flirting for a while now. Neither of us was looking for anything permanent, but we exchanged hugs and occasional kisses and cuddling. His hands became gentle now. Instead of massaging my back, he pulled aside the collar of my turtleneck and started moving his fingers over my neck, gently, softly, barely touching my skin. The action was both tender and arousing. "That feels nice," I said. "Glad you like it." His fingers were on my face now, moving in circles over my temples, on my cheeks, by my mouth. His thumbs touched my lips and I stuck out my tongue, trying to draw them into my mouth, but he quickly moved his hands away. "Shh, patience," he smiled, placing his hands back on my face only to move them to my chin, then ears, then the front of my neck. His slow, deliberate, light motions had their effect: my head was now comfortably resting against his belly, as I took deep breaths to draw in his musky scent. There exists a stage in woman's arousal levels, at which she is not yet enveloped in all-consuming passion, and yet every movement, every tentative touch, registers with magnificent clarity across every tiny part of her body, spreading in waves of most exquisite pleasure. The most that she can do then is to lie back, enjoying the caresses; the languid warmth prevents any active moves, but makes receiving so much more acutely sensual. At those times, even the surrounding air seems imbued with growing sensuality. I was in such a place then - swimming in the warmth of my own response. His hands, encouraged by my sighs and content smile, grew bolder, lifting my turtleneck and caressing the exposed strip of flesh right above my jeans, teasing my sides and dipping lower, below the waistband to play with my belly button. He must have been getting uncomfortable in his position; he was bent over the edge of the chair to reach down to my lap. Grasping my sides, he pulled me up, and I stood in front of him. Holding me from the back , he continued his exploration, reaching up to my breasts and teasing the nipples through the layers of fabric. Growing restless, he started to lift my turtleneck. I neither resisted nor helped him in that endeavor, and he tugged further, lifting it with one swift motion until it was over my head, forcing my arms upwards. But instead of continuing his motions, he grasped my wrists above my head with one hand, using the fingers of the other to unclasp my bra. "Are you nuts?" I gasped in surprise. "What are you doing? Someone will see us from outside." "Anyone wandering on Memorial Drive at this time wouldn't care what's going on inside here." "Oh yeah, what about campus police?" "I saw their car drive by right before I woke you up - they won't be back for at least another half an hour. " I relaxed a bit, thinking that he was tall enough that nobody would be able to see me from behind him anyway. Meanwhile, his right hand continued its quest, pulling my bra upwards and letting it rest on top of my breasts, while his fingers reached for my right nipple. I couldn't see anything because of the turtleneck draped over my head, and my arms felt awkward sticking up like that. I tried to free my wrists, but his hand held me tightly. Suddenly, he grabbed me roughly and swung me around, so that I was the one facing the window; he was now standing behind me. I froze for a moment, not believing what he had done, then became angry. "Let me go! Stop this! Let go of me!" I was struggling to free myself as hard as I could, shaking my body in outrage. But he was stronger than I, and already had control of my arms; the folds of fabric getting in my mouth muffled my screams. Holding my body close to his, he replied softly: "Come on, I am not going to hurt you. Nobody you know would be out there at this time. As for possible passers-by, it might tickle your fancy to be on display like this for a little while. They don't know you, you don't know them, but I bet you look absolutely stunning here, in the bright light." "Fuck you!" I was angry, but not scared. Somewhere in the back of my mind I made a mental note to be careful what I wish for in my fantasies. These thoughts coupled with his words had a calming effect, and I no longer struggled against him. Thinking that I had no choice but to resign myself to his power, I steadied myself, resting my body against his. "You are wonderful," he whispered, feeling me relax next to him. His right hand, no longer needing to control me, moved back to my breast. He kneaded and molded it, stretching my skin and making it surge with blood. Suddenly, he stopped his onslaught and instead moved his fingers on slow spiraling trajectory around my nipple. I gasped when he finally landed on the swollen center, erect under his probing fingers. Twisting and pulling it, he elicited from me moans of pleasure, which only encouraged him to continue his ministrations. At first I tried to block out any thought of my position - perhaps, if I forgot where and how I was, I could concentrate on the pleasure Dave was giving me. My only reassurance was that my face and hair were covered by my turtleneck -- at least the passers-by would not recognize me. But even that wasn't enough to take my thoughts off my situation. Instead, the image of Boston lights filled my mind, and I could not help but picture myself: standing in the middle of a lighted room, in front of the huge windows, exposed to anyone on this side of the river and beyond, sweater over my head, arms high up, top bare, chest exposed, Dave pulling on my nipple, my body contorted in pleasure... or would they think it was in pain? Worried again, I tried to mention it to Dave. "You are far too reasonable." He chuckled. "OK, have it your way." He released my wrists, lowering his hand to cover my breast. I was free now -- free to pull down my shirt, free to push him away, free to yell at him or run away. Instead, I stood still, as if in indecision. But who was I kidding? I sighed and pulled my arms slightly back, arching my back further, pressing my breasts into his warm hands. Now nobody could suppose I was being forced -- it was my choice, my shame, and my pleasure. Meanwhile, Dave lowered his mouth to the back of my neck, flicking his tongue on my skin, licking and teasing it. His arms wrapped around me, his hands were pulling on my nipples, more insistently now. He started grinding his body into mine. His breath grew ragged and the soft flicks of his tongue changed to bites. I pushed back at him, increasing the tempo, breathing hard and moaning. He let go of my breasts, unzipped my pants and pushed his hands under the elastic of my underwear. But the tight jeans didn't leave much room for roaming, and, impatiently, he withdrew the hands, grabbed the sides of the jeans and underwear and tugged them down almost to my knees in one fast motion. I was completely exposed now. The jeans on my knees, the sweater over my head and the bra hanging above my breast only magnified the feeling of nakedness: feeling their fabric on my legs and arms reminded me of what they were not covering. Cool air, combined with the heat of Dave's breath and the ravishing movements of his hands made me dizzy; the images of passers-by watching me in ecstasy made me progress from dizziness to almost swooning. My knees were shaking, but I tried not to fall, so as not to lose the eagerness of Dave's fingers, now busily buried in me. I knew that I was close and didn't want to hold the release any longer. Grinding myself against Dave, I urged him on, hither and hither towards the ultimate pleasure. The images in my mind spun around, colliding and twisting into an infinitely complicated and exciting collage that pulsated in rhythm with my vibrations. Dave's thumb reached slightly higher and started moving in tiny circles; and as it slid around the slippery surface, I shook with feeling, ready to crumble under the pleasure waves. The orgasm, so powerful that I would not dare to compare it to anything I've experienced before, possessed me until I could no longer stand up and slid along Dave's body, still glowing in the aftershocks. Did Shakespeare use "little death" as a euphemism for orgasm? Was it a standard thing to say at that time? A little death, indeed. Well, momentary loss of consciousness and reasoning are certainly there; but the trouble is, no matter how little of a death it is, you must awake to face the consequences. Strong emotions have a way of transforming into each other -- grief into happiness, pleasure into sadness. In this case my pulsating joy suddenly turned to almost hysterical panic as I came out of the sweet narcosis of sexuality: what had I done? What if someone saw me? What if someone I knew had seen me? What will Dave think? I was at once terrified, fearful, and angry with myself. Unreasonable? Perhaps, but at that time I wasn't thinking clearly. Almost crying now, I hastened to get my clothes into some semblance of order. As I started nervously to tug the sweater down, it occurred to me that the first thing I should do was turn away from the window. Caught in the folds of fabric on my shoulders, neck, and chin, but having freed my eyes, I twisted to get away from the haunting window. And then, glancing at what I expected to be my last view of the now-feared street, I froze in mid-turn. Where I expected to see convoluted strings of lights and the glare of rushing past cars, was just a gray wall. It took a moment for my eyes to focus and for me to realize that I was looking at the mass of fabric hanging from the valence bar. The wide gray folds were covered by burgundy ovals with outlines of two men, one with a book, another holding a hammer, and the words "Mens et Manus" underneath. The shades were closed. Speechless, I pulled down my turtleneck and freed my arms. Still wrought with emotions, now confusing and contradicting, I turned to Dave and pounded on his shoulders with my fists: "You, you, you...." Obviously impressed with my eloquence, he drew me in his arms and squeezed tight. We stood motionless for a while, clinging to each other. I was still reeling from the experience, not sure whether I was pleased or disappointed. After a while, I raised my head and he kissed away the errant tear on my cheek. "I drew the shades before I woke you up; and since you were enjoying yourself so, I though it better not to point that out." There was genuine amusement in his voice. "Oh, don't think you'll get away just like that," I finally had my mind under control, "You'll have to pay for this dearly." "And what kind of punishment would my mistress desire to bring upon my sorrowful head?" he asked, obviously musing on the possibilities. "Don't smile quite so much," I snapped. Then I immediately smiled wide myself. "It will be cruel and unusual, so incredibly horrifying that you'll wake up at night remembering it." "Will I want to stroke myself while lying there awake?" " I sure hope so. You are such a wonderfully conceited louse," I mumbled as I pushed my body closer against his. "Such a fool... Such a liar... Such an inconsiderate ass," I whispered, breathing heavily and kissing his face tenderly in the intervals between words. The intervals grew longer: "You kept the sweater over my eyes... You made me believe I was watched by all of Boston... You led me astray... You liked being in control.... You liked it when I acquiesced.... You enjoyed my exhibitionism.... You.... You.... You...." "Of course," he easily agreed, shifting his face and covering my mouth with his. Our jokingly antagonistic wordplay changed into a game of tongues, twisting and sliding around each other. While our lips remained locked, my hands moved to his shoulders, back, and buttocks, exploring the curves of muscles and kneading his skin through the layer of flannel. The shirt decidedly got in my way, so I released my mouth, stepped back and unbuttoned it. Feeling impatient, I was almost disappointed to see a t-shirt underneath. "You wear too many layers," I mocked, pulling it off together with the shirt above. "There, that's far better." I bent my neck, bringing my mouth to his left nipple, licking it with my tongue while my fingers traveled the furry expanse of his chest. "Hey, that tickles," he complained when my hand touched one of his sides. "You'll live," I retorted, moving my head to the right nipple." Besides, you only deserve it." But I was careful not to tickle him -- I had different reactions in mind as I trailed my fingers above the line of his jeans. "Let's see how you perform, my dear," I unfastened the button on his jeans and pulled the zipper down, pushing my hands into the opening and playing with his obvious erection through so boringly-white underwear. I tried to push his jeans down, and he moved his legs closer to make it easier for me, but in doing so he lost his balance and we both tumbled down. "Hey, we don't want any injuries," I said, placing his back against the large metal cabinets that held hundreds of rarely-used maps. Now that he was resting against something, I returned to my explorations, moving my adoring mouth and hands over his chest and groin. "Oh God," he groaned as I lowered my mouth on his erection. "Oh God," he repeated, as I licked and sucked it. The briefs were stained and wet now, but he didn't seem to mind, breathing hard as I continued my manipulations. He pushed his hips higher, and I used the moment to draw his underwear over his hips and to his knees. He was gorgeous, exposed to me like this. I reveled in the silkiness of his skin. I remember the first time I touched a man's penis -- I was surprised by how soft and good it felt against my hand: so warm and smooth. Gliding my hand on Dave's hard cock, I told him how beautiful he was. "Thank you," he said softly, and I leaned to kiss him deeply, still letting my fingers travel across his skin. Stopping my kiss, I trailed my tongue down to his neck, kissing the spot I so liked, then still lower, to his chest, his stomach. I dipped my tongue into his belly button, and continued downwards. "No, you deserve a punishment, not a reward," I said, lifting my head. "No such luck for you today." "Oh. . . ." He sounded genuinely disappointed, "We can stop, if you want." "Not quite" I didn't want to stop, just to continue in a different fashion. "I want you to touch yourself for me." He blushed under my gaze, moving his hand uncertainly. There is something amazingly beautiful about a man pleasing himself: the motions are graceful and natural, gorgeous in their fluidity. Little fascinates me more than watching a man I adore as he touches himself. The curve of the fingers, the pace of the strokes, the flush of the skin, the arousal and excitement it brings -- every detail is precious and sensual, arousing and enticing. And the scent of a man, so intoxicating and addictive, so comforting and exciting! So much pleasure lies in leaning close and watching someone stroke himself, enjoying the sight and the scent, the radiating warmth and wetness! "Don't be shy," I encouraged Dave. "I do love watching it so much. And you'll like it as well -- we all have at least a bit of an exhibitionist inside of us." Shrugging, he brought his hands to his cock and started his motions. Fascinated, I watched him, indulging in the view and the sound of his heavy breathing. I savored those moments, relishing the exquisite pleasure of watching him. My breathing became ragged in tune with his as my arousal grew with the speed of his strokes. Knowing that he would come soon, I urged him on by licking his nipples and bringing my hand to join his in the escalating manipulations. When he finally came, when the stream of warm fluid hit his stomach, forming puddles around the belly button, when I spread the remains of it on his slick member, we both breathed heavily with relief and pleasure. "Messy," I murmured, "I like this kind of mess. See, wasn't it fun?" "Yes," he sighed with content. Dave drew me close with his arm, tenderly holding me. "Thank you," he kissed me. "You are welcome." I kissed him back. I put my head on his shoulder, still delighted by what happened between us. I was almost falling asleep again when a loud sound startled me. Quickly raising my head, I was suddenly surprised to find myself still sitting at the table, with my back to the window. Instead of resting on Dave's shoulder, my head had been lying on my book, and my back was stiff from being bent so much. Still not sure of what was a reality and what was a dream, I turned my head to see Dave closing the window shades. He was dressed and showed no trace of the disarray that I imagined him in. "Good morning," he smiled, noticing that I was awake. "The library closes in fifteen minutes, and I thought I'd close the shades while I am at it." He tugged impatiently at the fold that got caught between the desk and the window. "Hey, careful with that," I protested. "You might rip the emblem." "Since when are you so school-spirited?" he inquired. "Do you even know what "mens et manus" means?" "Sure do," I replied. "Do I get a prize?" "No, but you get fifteen minutes to get your books together while I check up on the rest of the library and then, if you're nice to me, I'll walk you home." "I can walk by myself, you know." "Sure, you can, but wouldn't you like the benefit of my company?" "Well, I suppose." "Sounds like a deal," he said. Boston and the river disappeared from my view as he closed the shades tight and walked out of the map room. I sat quietly, wondering what exactly had transpired earlier. Did I dream my up wonderful sex adventure while I was asleep, or did I sit there fully awake, composing it in my mind, making every detail brilliant with description? Probably the latter, but the difference didn't matter now; what mattered was that I was extremely excited and aroused and needed a relief. If I concentrated, I knew I could bring myself off, thinking of the situation I drew in my mind just few minutes earlier -- me in front of the open window, Dave's hand on my skin, Dave's naked body and his graceful motions... But in my impatience, I felt I needed something more direct -- my body ached for contact. Looking around, I noticed how quiet the library was -- everyone had probably left by now, and Dave. . . well, he did say he'd be back in fifteen minutes, which gave me some time. Still furtively glancing around, I brought my hands under the desk and drew open my zipper, pushing my fingers inside, under the waistband of my underwear, down to where the slippery surfaces ached to be rubbed. I orgasmed almost instantly. Shuddering from the pleasure, I tried to hold on to the feeling, to the story still fresh in my mind. I sat motionless for a while, calming myself down; then I closed my zipper and rose from the chair to go back to the table in front of the window to collect my books. "Ready?" Dave asked cheerfully, walking in the room again. "Almost," I smiled, checking to make sure I didn't forget anything. Dave turned off the lights and the ensuing darkness suddenly made me excited. I stepped to him, kissing him hungrily. Our embrace grew closer as we got bolder, fervently exploring each other. "Hold on," I said and found my way to the window. He followed me, not letting go for a second. Pulling on the cord, I exposed Boston again. As I drew the shades open, Dave's hands found their way under my clothes. Distracted, I glanced at the seal on the shade: "Mens et Manus." Indeed. Mind and hand. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyrighted by Lei Bluet, March 1999 Comments and criticisms are welcome. 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