Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Developing Good Study Habits

   -Having been assigned pointless busy work by a professor, I begrudgingly
visit the university's library.  I find more than just books in the library
as I first get a voyeuristic eyeful followed by an exhibitionist thrill of
my own.  I walk out of the library having learned of a new fun and sexy way
to study.  I came up with and wrote this story as I was working on the
actual arbitrary busy work assignment that inspired it.  (M/F, Voyeur,
Exhibitionist, Oral, NC?)-

   My cramping legs desperately pleaded with me, having remained locked in
a crouching position for far too long, yet I was frozen in the awkward and
anything but comfortable position by the sight unfolding before my eyes. 
Right there in the middle of the University of California, San Diego's
centerpiece of a library was an elderly not-so-gentle-man pawing away in
the most indecent of manners at a vulnerable young freshman girl.  Not
simply sneaking in a little grope here or there, but brazenly full on
finger fucking the girl for all the world to see.  And I had somehow
accidentally stumbled into taking on the role of voyeur to this public
display of debauchery and molestation.  My unintended hiding place in the
library's stacks provided me the perfect vantage point to witness the
soiling of this recently out of high school student's honor not more than a
few yards away.

   My heart rate and breathing pattern quickened as his fingers created an
obvious bulge in the front of the young woman's white cotton panties.  The
girl's dark forest green pleaded skirt, which had ridden up her thighs
either unintentionally or at the machination of some unnamed older man,
provided an unspoiled frame for the spoiling of the girl's innocence by the
movements of his fingers.  So focused was I on these finger movements that
I seemed to be able to perceive their every jerk, twist, swirl, and thrust.
I could imagine the hot wet sound they would make as they teased the
schoolgirl's clit or plunged into her moistening depths.  I was too far
away for any of the real sensations and yet I still seemed to be able to
experience the phantom perceptions of the primal animalistic scent of
arousal radiating out of the core of her unwilling sex and the
reverberation of skin slapping against skin in the carnal dance of passion.


   My own arousal was made all the more intense by the knowledge that I was
an unnoticed secret participant in this illicit display of public
indecency. I could not remember the last time I had been so uncomfortably
publicly erect.  Just as in puberty, here I was in school with an erection
I could not hide or will to go away.

   On the other hand the sight also evoked other non-arousal based emotions
and thoughts within me.  A fellow student was being groped and fingered
with me the one and sole witness.  Not to mention that all signs pointed to
the fact that the act was occurring against her will.  And I merely sat
there, a silent spectator, doing nothing to help her.  A deep seeded shame
was welling up inside me, struggling to drown out all the nice horny
feelings.  I imagined a similar kind of shame fixed with a paralyzing fear
was keeping the voice of the violated sexual hostage silent and preventing
her from fighting against the person who was harassing her.  Her violation
and terror made all the worse by her inability to even so much as call out
for help.

   As the ole codger's fingers began to work into the still maturing
victim's love canal at a faster pace and he molested...RAPED!...the poor
young thing all the harder, I wondered exactly how I had found myself in
this situation in the first place.

   I had thought that college level education would be beyond the need for
busy work, especially at a high ranking prestigious research university
like the University of California, San Diego.  But then I registered for a
class on Hellenistic Philosophy in which the professor had to go and prove
me wrong.  On the first day of class he asked each student to draw a list
of book titles from out of his hat.  Each list contained around 15 books
categorized by topics somehow related to Hellenistic Philosophy (such as
Cicero, Seneca, Epicurean, Stoic, Cynic, et cetera.).  He explained that
these books were all located in Geisel Library, the university's huge
multi-floored library that has also come to symbolize the university and
all it stands for.  We were responsible for checking out each and every one
of the books on our list from the library.

   Now one would assume that these books would then be used to write a
research paper or something equally as academic along those lines.  But no,
instead we were tasked with artlessly crafting a completely useless and
arbitrary bibliography of the books from our list.  That was it, nothing
more and nothing less.  There was absolutely no other point to the
assignment.  We simply had to check the books out and then list them in a
bibliography.  We did not even have to read a single fucking page of the
fucking books!  All the information could be easily obtained from the
library's website or even from google, so checking out the books should not
have been absolutely necessary for the bibliography.  To make matters worse
and to be a complete and utter asshole the professor made it clear that he
would be checking with the library to make sure that each and every copy,
including multiple copies, of the books from his lists were checked out. 
It was a poor excuse of an assignment and I resented the Hell out of having
to do it.

   Yet that did not stop me from begrudgingly walking into Geisel, silently
protesting the injustice of it all, and starting my all too pointless
search for all but random books.  I felt even more betrayed by the
assignment because this was actually my very first time stepping inside the
library in the two years I had attended the university.  I could have made
it my whole college career without ever stepping foot in the library thanks
to the internet, but nooooooo.

   The list that I happened to draw out of the hat contained books all
dealing with Cynic Philosophy, a school of Philosophy I did not have much
experience with at the time.  After looking up the call numbers for the
books and writing them down, I found that luckily all the books could be
found on the 7th floor in relatively the same area.  This meant that the
farce of an assignment would not waste too much of my not all that
important or valuable time.

   Stepping out of the elevator onto the 7th floor I looked around at all
the people quietly studying, suckers I call them.  Studying has always been
a very alien concept for me.  I have never really had a need for it.  I
simply had to sit through a lecture to be able to understand or piece
together the material for a class.  By no means do I possess a photographic
memory or some similar mental gift.  I have always been good at
understanding the underlying concepts without the need to study.

   In fact I could not even seem to force myself to study even if I wanted
to.  Every time I had ever tried to study my mind would quickly drift off
on to anything else it could find to distract me.  The same went from the
assigned reading for classes.  Unless it was directly used for homework or
a paper I would not bother with it, even when it was necessary at most I
would usually skim through it to find quotes or the answers.  And yet I
always managed to achieve good grades in all my classes nonetheless.  What
can I say?  America's school system is broken.  So my inability to study or
academically read has never been a problem.  I have been able to ignore and
further ingrain the problem.

   Anyway, it took me a short while to figure out how the library's filing
system worked and then find the right bookshelf.  As it happened the
majority of my books were located at the end of the bookshelf.  So every
now and then while looking up from my list to the shelf I could not help
but glance past the shelf to the study table not far behind it.  Sitting at
the table facing me was a girl.

   The first thing about the girl to strike my attention was the simple
fact that she was a fellow non-Asian.  It is always somewhat of a novelty
to run into a student who happens to not be Asian on my racially and
ethnically non-diverse campus.  The second striking fact about her was that
in every conceivable fashion she seemed to personify the term mousy.  She
had wavy brown hair, slightly frizzy and unkempt, which she probably
frequently used to try to hide behind.  She was also very small and thin.
From what I could see of her face, that was not hidden by her hair and huge
coke bottle glasses, both her nose and ears were just on this side of being
slightly too big, completing the image of a mouse.  Her attention and
concentration were so nervously focused on the book which she had her nose
buried in, that it did not seem that she had noticed the creepy much older
man who was sitting uncomfortably close to her left side.

   The man had to be somewhere between 50 and 70 years old.  He was almost
completely bald with nothing but long stringy grey hair left in the back
pulled into a ponytail.  The ponytail gave off a sleazy producer or used
car salesman vibe.  If you replaced the faded t-shirt and jeans he was now
wearing with a cheap suit you could picture him handing out his business
card to attractive younger women telling them that they would be perfect
for modeling and should stop by his office so that he could help them to
shoot some "tasteful" portfolio shots.

   But the mousy girl must have at least known about his presence, because
it looked like he was whispering something as he leaned into her.  For
which he was receiving what appeared to be a shudder from the girl in
response.

   For my part I returned my attention back to my reluctant quest for
books, realizing that whatever was going on with the two strangers was none
of my business or concern.  No matter how creepy or sleazy the old bastard
might appear, he was probably a professor tutoring or otherwise helping the
girl.

   "Besides," I thought to myself.  "I am rather creepy looking myself and
voyeuristically observing them in the shadows is not exactly helping my
case." So I tried to focus on completing my task, but I have already
explained exactly how badly I do when I have to concentrate on something I
really do not give a shit about.

   The last few books I needed were located on the very bottom of the
shelf. Stooping down to grab them, I once more found myself glancing
towards the study table.  Only this time at my new eye level I could see
under the table and what I saw made the accusation of voyeurism ring all
the more true.

   I squatted there transfixed, watching as the old man's hand wormed its
way up the girl's leg past her skirt and into the dark shadow of the sexual
Promised Land.  There was no mistaking what was going on.  There was no way
to try to cast it in an innocent light; the old man had his hand in the
girl's crotch!  I was not close enough to hear the two, but reading their
body language was pretty simple.  From the lecherous look in his eyes and
the smirking sneer he wore I knew that he had to be whispering bitter
somethings into the poor girl's ear, somethings involving dirty names and
inappropriate acts.  Like the very acts her was performing at the moment,
for instance.

   The girl on the other hand, his hand that is, sat extremely rigidly,
trying desperately to hide herself inside the book in front of her.  Every
so often a shudder of what had to be disgust would run up and down her
entire body as the digital maculations created unwanted feelings in her
sexual organ that were carried to her brain.

   Minutes that felt like millennia went by as I witnessed the brazen old
geezer having his sick way with this innocent defenseless tiny thing.  A
sexual game of cat and mouse played out before my eyes as the perverted old
Tom cat toyed with the cute little mouse.  I watched as his left hand
slithered across the table, suddenly striking out and latching itself to
one of the girl's apple sized breasts.  His fingerish fangs sank into his
prey's likely previously untouched flesh, pinching and twisting to his
heart's content.  The harsh kneading evoked a further response from his
victim's body, the outline of her hardening nipple made it clear to any
observer, like me for example, that she had gone braless today under her
plain off-white cotton shirt.  Since the girl's tits could not have filled
anything larger than an A-cup and the horny old goat's hand was bigger than
both breasts combined, it did not take the hand long to grind into the
stiff nub and take notice.  With a revitalized gusto and hunger the
venomous fangs attached to his hand tweaked and teased their new target.

   From behind her book and through the shadow of her hair I saw the girl
bite her lip, striving hard to hold in a scream or moan.  Her voice was
probably the single thing she felt that she had any power over anymore,
being at the mercy of the merciless assault.

   Then suddenly our eyes met, crossing that short distance on the 7th
floor of UCSD's library.  I saw in those eyes a desperation and need that I
had never witnessed before in anyone else.  They called out to me,
shattering my aloof apathetic misanthropic shell that I have cultivated
painstakingly over the years and waking something deep inside of me.  At
that moment the chivalry I deny and denounce, keeping locked away, made a
valiant escape from the deepest darkest dungeon of my soul.  I could not
merely continue to uncomfortably squat by and watch as this defenseless
damsel in distress was molested by a vile beast, no matter how extremely
arousing the sight might be.  I had to do something!

   Grabbing the only weapon in sight, my humongous pile of books dealing
with Cynic philosophy, and wielding it like my shield of justice, I marched
on over to the table.  Raising said books over my head as high as I could
manage, with my short stubby hairy little arms, I brought them crashing
down...onto the table as I pulled out the chair to the right of the girl
and plopped down into it.

   The sudden loud noise caused the ancient fellow to almost leap out of
his chair and possibly even shit himself.  I am a little surprised it did
not cause him to have a heart attack actually, but relieved I would not
have to fight a manslaughter charge.  Looking like the proverbial kid
caught with a hand in the cookie jar, he removed his adult hand from the
x-rated cookie jar and made a break for the elevators.  I never did find
out who the fuck the hoary moth-eaten fuck was or what he was doing in the
university's library, other than fingering the school's young ladies. 
Maybe he really was a professor, in which case I would need to sign up for
his Sexual Assault 101 class next quarter.  Then again he could have been
some homeless man coming to the library to masturbate, but taking advantage
of a prime opportunity instead.

   Glancing over at said prime opportunity, I noticed that she had not
moved or made a sound since uttering a tiny barely audible squeak brought
on by my dramatic display of noisiness.  Not wanting to draw any more
attention to myself, my still erect cock, or the fact that I knew what had
been going on under the table, I grabbed the first book off the top of my
not-quite-as-useless stack, opened it to a random page, and then asked in
as hushed a tone as I could manage, "Do you want me to call the campus
police?"

   Her only response to my query seemed to be a microscopic shake of her
head.

   Concern still not fully satiated or possibly satiated at all if the
minuscule shake had not been a response, I went on to whisper, "Are you
alright?"

   I interpreted the micro-tremor of her head that this question elicited
as indicating a "yes" or perhaps a "as alright as can be expected under the
circumstances since I was recently finger banged by a complete and utterly
depraved stranger in public as I was trying to diligently study for an
important test this Friday that will make or break my grade in this stupid
general education class which I cannot believe they are forcing me to take.
Thank you for asking."

   Watching her out of the corner of my eye as I pretend to be something
other than a functional illiterate, I finally asked her, "Do you want me to
stay in case he comes back?"

   I am not sure if she even answered my question.  I could have simply
imagined the subtlest of movements in her eye; I was still horny as Hell
after all.  I did not bother to try and hazard a guess at what it might
have meant regardless.  But what I did realize was that I was now stuck.  I
had made such a huge spectacle of myself when I sat down, leaving now would
draw what I imagined to be unwanted attention and embarrassment on the
girl. She had suffered enough.  Plus many years had passed since I had been
forced to hide a puberty induced erection at school, so I was too rusty to
manage to pull it off successfully now.  I had no other choice than to sit
at the table and pretend to study, my worst fucking nightmare.  Fortunately
or unfortunately I did not have anywhere else to be or anything else to do
with my time.

   An extended period of silence elapsed as we both sat there staring at
the opened books in front of us.  I, for one, was certainly only just
staring at the book, I had no idea how the girl could have really been
reading after what had been done to her mere moments ago.  I was
contemplating whether or not I should say something else to her about what
happened.  It was apparent that she did not want to or could not, and for
my part I did not have a desire to converse on the topic by any means.

   My inner conflict was suddenly silenced when I felt her little mousy
hand take hold of my own little, hairy rather than mousy, left hand.  A new
conflict began to rise inside of me over how to react to this new
development.  I concluded that in all likelihood he was holding my hand in
order to express feelings of gratitude and appreciation which she could not
verbalize, but what I was supposed to do in return was clearly unclear.

   My expected responding action was revealed to me as my captured hand was
forced marched across the battlefield of her bare thigh and imprisoned in
the molten heart of the fortress between her legs and under the
camouflaging canopy of her skirt.  Even someone as sexually un-suave as I
happen to be, could read the Braille writing on the wall of her vagina.

   The abrupt feel of her soaking cottony panties against my fingers shed
new light on the goings on I had voyeuristically observed and so rudely
interrupted.  I had assumed her to be an unwilling participant.  This new
turn of events made me reconsider whether she was really the victim in the
previous altercation, because the tables sure had turned quite suddenly.

   I tried to brush off these slanderous thoughts against the character of
the poor thing and instead accept the only logical way to view what was
happening: in the weakened state brought on by the strain of a
psychological and physical assault she simply could not possibly withstand
the full strength of my powerful animal magnetism.  (Yeah right.)
Sticking to my original assumption, it still could have been the case
that she had not wanted it when the old man had been hard at work on her,
but I now had the evidence literally at hand that she wanted me to take up
where he had left off.  It was a clear case of Stockholm syndrome if I had
ever seen one (which I had not).  Not one to deny a lady, especially one
that is all horned up, I obliged her wishes and so did my fingers as they

began to work their way inside her panties.

   I figured it was still probably best not to draw any unwanted attention,
like the old man had done.  It would not do to have someone make the same
mistake I had.  Furthermore, if I was going to publically molest someone, I
sure as shit was not going to get caught doing it!  Your moral view of the
world sure does change when you are the one doing the molesting.  So with
all that in mind, I tried to be a little more nonchalant about my fingering
than her last not-quite-a-gentleman caller.

   It quickly occurred to me that the best way to give off the aura that I
was purely sitting there innocently studying, and not maneuvering my hand
around inside the ever moistening undergarments of a fellow student, would
be to actually study.  It seemed to be the strategy of my co-conspirator.
So I ripped a page out of her book and placed it in my own book.  Reading
the book in front of me would also be an opportunity to occupy my mind so
that I would not dwell on moral implications of what I was actually doing
in this very public of university libraries.

   Locking my gaze down on the book in front of me, I set my hand on
autopilot and gave it free reign to do as it pleased as I focused all of my
conscious attention and concentration on those word covered pages, instead
of focusing on the slide of my fingers over the slick pink flesh of her
boiling hot pussy or the tickle of her sparse pubic hair upon the palm of
my hand...

   Instantly I discovered that the book in front of me was on Diogenes of
Sinope, one of the founders, if not THE founder, of Cynic Philosophy.  I
lost track of time as I read on and on about the extremely interesting and
eccentric exploits of this "Socrates gone mad." While my fingers trekked
ever deeper in the sensuous cavern that every straight man or lesbian woman
(I suppose bisexuals of both sexes as well) dreams of madly spelunking down
into the depths of.

   I was captivated by Diogenes' confrontational and exhibitionistic
lifestyle, his rejection of society and cultural norms, and what was very
relevant to my current predicament, how he was shamelessly willing to do
everything in public.  As a notorious quote about him indicates "even the
works of Demeter and those of Aphrodite." Here I was, all but one step away
from openly devoting myself to some Aphroditic works in broad daylight for
all to see, although I was not also eating in a public place (which is no
longer considered as shameful anymore as it was in Ancient Greece) so not
works of Demeter for me.

   So engrossed in this book was I that I lost all track of where I was,
who I was, and what was going on around me.  Although subconsciously my
hand did register the vaginal contractions that signaled the fact that I
had brought my sexually adventurous tablemate to orgasm more than a few
times.  The growing pool of vaginal lubrication collecting in my palm
further attested the fact.

   It was not until I felt the shift of the girl's body as she slid under
the table that I was brought back to reality.  Blinking a couple of times I
suddenly felt my overworked hand begin to cramp up.  Years of playing the
violin had crafted my left hand into a finely tuned dexterous and powerful
machine, so it really took a lot for it to cramp up like this anymore. 
Cringing I looked over at the watch on my right wrist to see what time it
was.  Nearly an hour and a half had passed since I had sat down at the
table.  No wonder my fucking hand was killing me!  My wits not fully
recovered, but close enough, I leaned down to look under the table.  I
theorized that perhaps the girl had passed out from our overly long
extended sexual exploits and my elite sexing skills.

   But I found the girl fully conscious and active, if not a little more
relaxed and sluggish, as she knelt there under the table between my legs. I
did not have long to wonder what exactly she was up to before she placed
both of her hands on my thighs and crawled their way up to the fly of my
shorts.  Sitting up straight in what probably should not have been
surprise, I glanced around me to check if anyone had noticed us as I both
heard and felt this girl I had only met a short time ago draw my zipper
down.  The feel of her tiny little hands invading my outer defenses and
then breaching the inner sanctum of my boxers was intoxicating.  Knowing
that we could be caught at any second made it all the more exciting.  But
all of that paled in comparison to the pleasure she orchestrated when she
pulled my hardened member up through the fly of both my boxers and shorts
and without warning engulfing me with her adorably small, hot, and wet
mouth.

   Knowing full well that my forces could not withstand such an assault for
long and already being at DEFCON 2, I signaled a mental retreat and once
more dove into the sheltering intellectual waters of engrossed study.  I
allowed the raw data about Cynic Philosophy distract me and drown out the
unadulterated pleasure of a sexily mousy little tongue exploring every nook
and cranny on my throbbing cock.

   I narrowed all of my concentration and focus on what I was reading,
while at the same time savoring the carnal delight of what was going on
down below my non-existent belt.  The no longer phantom scent of her
arousal drifted into my nostrils and the far too noisy sounds of slurping,
licking, and gulping filled my ears.

   As my subconscious was amazed by the tiny thing's ability to deep throat
my not all that impressive but probably average sized cock, I read on about
the life and philosophy of Diogenes the Cynic.  I learned of the Oracle at
Delphi's predictive advice that he must "deface the currency" at the same
time my under-the-tablemate began to use my sausage to fuck her face in
slow deep strokes.  Those strokes becoming desperately faster and I
deciphered the message alongside Diogenes to mean devaluing the "cultural
currency" of his time.

   Then I mentally followed him as he journeyed to Athens, the heart of
culture and society at his time.  The sound of my saliva drenched balls
slapping against my blow job giver's chin coincided with Diogenes becoming
the disciple of Antisthenes, who in turn had been a student of Socrates. 
It was through the teachings of Antisthenes that Diogenes formulated the
philosophy that would eventually become known as Cynicism, which is why
many historians attribute Antisthenes as the founder of Cynicism.  Ignoring
the slobbery goodness that was occurring to my lower appendage, I brushed
the idea of Antisthenes as the founder aside.  If you are going to take
that route, you might as well just claim that Socrates was the original
founder then.

   Another hour passed by before I was hit with an epiphany.  It occurred
to me that I had finally discovered the key to studying.  I had achieved
what for me had been the unachievable.  This eureka moment of course
coincided with my reaching of another equally blissful moment, the peak of
sexual enjoyment.  With my orgasm came a flood of cum into the mouth of the
random girl who I still did not know the name of, further conditioning a
link between pleasure and academic study in my subconscious mind.  I
savored both my mental achievement and the massaging qualities of my mousy
sexual partner's swallowing mouth and throat.  She made sure to milk out
every drop of my man cream from my now softening penis and polish it off
with a few last licks, before tucking it back into its nest of garments.

   Afterward the girl scurried out from under the table, legs probably
having fallen asleep from spending so long in an awkward and uncomfortable
position.  I somewhat expected the library to burst into applause as we
silently made ourselves one more relatively presentable.  But since our
adoring fans were neither our fans nor adoring, we parted ways.

   The next week having finished writing the ridiculous bibliography, but
having actually learned a great deal about Cynic Philosophy despite all
lack of effort on the part of my professor, I made the trek back to the
library to return my towering stack of books.  Once they were dropped off I
made an unnecessary trip up to the 7th floor of the library.  Stepping out
of the elevator I could not keep the smile off my face as my eyes fell upon
my mousy little study buddy.  Walking towards the otherwise empty table at
which she sat, I grabbed a random book of the self.  I felt the urge inside
of me for a few hours of nonstop studying action.