Stack Whackers

by shukyou (主教)

“The what?” I asked.

“Stack whackers,” Irina repeated, enunciating each word through her Russian accent — though it seemed I’d heard her clearly the first time. “Luna didn’t tell you about them?”

“Uh, nope.” I shook my head. My first week as a work-study student assistant in the main campus library, and already I was having visions of my death at the hands of mafiosos hiding behind the huge sliding racks of periodicals down on B-level. It seemed to me an inefficient place to stage a hit, but what did I know? My incredibly Italian surname to the contrary, I’d never been in the mob.

Luna, the head reference librarian, laughed without looking away from the computer screen. “It’s not the technical term,” she pointed out.

“You find them in the stacks,” Irina said, “and sometimes they … you know.” She made her fist into a hollow tube shape, brought it to her pelvic level, and began jerking it back and forth while making some of the most ridiculous pseudo-porn grunts I’d ever heard, bringing both Luna and me to giggles.

“They’re not common.” Luna swiveled in her chair and handed me another book, which I obediently put with the others on my truck. “But they do happen, especially on nights when the library’s open late and Joseph doesn’t have an eye on the door.” Joseph, who worked the day shift behind the circulation desk, had put himself through library school working as a bouncer and apparently had endless tales of the times in the library he’d been called upon to put those skills to use. “If you see someone suspicious lurking about, just call campus security.”

I was less than comforted by this plan of action. “Are you messing with me?”

Both ladies laughed, but Luna shook her head. “No, they exist. We’re just lucky we’re out here in suburbia. Libraries in cities get them all the time.” She handed me another three books for my cart, then stood, putting us at eye level with one another; she might have reminded me of my mother, had my mother taken to dying the front of her short hair fire-engine red. “They’re usually homeless guys and other folk who shouldn’t be in here anyway. They’re probably not dangerous, but we don’t pay you to take chances, so don’t try to get them out yourself.”

“Even if you are the big strong man,” teased Irina, who towered half a foot over me even when she wasn’t wearing her crazy platform shoes. She was the one who’d talked me into asking for a transfer from filing for financial aid, which I’d hated like poison. I’d been starting to see the appeal, before learning that random stranger masturbation was a genuine occupational hazard.

“Stack whackers,” I muttered to myself as I took my book-laden truck and rolled it out from behind the desk. What was the world coming to?

~*~

I’d all but forgotten about that conversation until a month later, on a very quiet Tuesday night. Most of the professional library staff kept nine-to-five hours, and there was usually someone at the reference desk well into the evening, but late late nights belonged to us student drones, who kept the lights on and the self-checkout stations running and did not do very much else of great use or significance. Irina was on with me that shift, but she had her head stuffed into a Calculus text and wasn’t much for company.

Being an industrious young thing, I decided to take matters into my own hands. No one had requested I do the reshelving, but the truck behind the desk was starting to fill up, and it was either that or actually do my German homework. I stuck my phone in my back pocket and told Irina to call me if she needed me. She grunted, which I figured was as good as an answer. Headphones on and music player set to shuffle all the Janelle Monáe I owned, I grabbed the handle of the truck and set off into the stacks.

Our library was built in two different stages, so one half of it was nice and modern, with high ceilings and spacious aisles and plenty of lighting. I squeaked my truck up and down those aisles, tucking books back into their proper places as I wiggled my butt to The ArchAndroid. A handful of students were tucked away in various cubbies, but I don’t think any one of them so much as looked up as I boogied on by. And if they had, so what? I’ve got a backside worth looking at.

In the other half of the library, though, the only places to find ‘modern’ or ‘spacious’ were in the dictionaries on the reference level. Once upon a time, Luna had explained while doing my orientation, the library hadn’t been a place for browsing; back then, you’d had to ask behind the desk for the book you wanted and then one of the resident book boys (like me!) would have gone into the floor-to-low-ceiling stacks to retrieve it for you. For once in my life, I was glad I’d taken after my mom in terms of height, since Irina had to duck every time she through doorways back there. The power-saving illumination system was keyed in to motion detectors, meaning that the few times I’d gotten just plain stumped on finding a book’s location on a particular shelf, I’d had the lights start to go out on me.

There was barely room down each aisle to maneuver even the smallest of book trucks, so I tended just to tuck the relevant books under my arm and escort them personally to their homes. It could get a little creepy back there, sure, but the motion-sensitive lighting actually made me feel better, since I knew every time that I stepped onto a floor and saw the fluorescents slowly grind to life, I was alone.

I saved the oversized books for last, since the only elevator that ran down to A-level might have given even someone without a lifelong fear of getting stuck in elevators second thoughts. When I needed to haul a bunch of stuff, I shoved the truck on there, pressed a button, hopped out before the doors could close, and walked leisurely up or down the stairs as necessary to meet it at its destination. There were only a few returnees this time, though, so I left the truck the floor above and carried the volumes down the narrow flight of stairs that wound its way to the library’s lowest floor.

When I got there, though, the lights were on already. Feeling that little paranoia creep up the back of my neck, I turned off my music and draped my earbuds around my neck, so in case there were any hit men or serial killers or gay book-loving vampires hanging around, I might have some chance of hearing them first. No one had ever accused me of having an underactive imagination.

I heard nothing, though, and therefore demanded the rational part of my mind deduce that some student had been there a few minutes earlier and exited up the main staircase. Thus more or less convinced, when I started toward the aisle where we kept the art books, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone at all.

What I especially expected not to see, in fact, was just what I found. Students kept all sorts of hours and used the library every minute it was open, I knew that much from personal experience, and there were plenty of books down here of interest to all sorts of disciplines and related to all kinds of projects. Of course, none of this explained why, at three minutes to twelve on a weeknight, Kel Dallas was down here with a book on Monet in one hand and his dick in the other.

His fantastic dick, I should note — maybe the lights down here weren’t the best, but you could have seen that monster by starlight. It wasn’t so long, or so it seemed, but it was thick enough that as he held it loosely, his fingers didn’t quite touch around it. He saw me a half-second after I saw him, and we both froze, jaws half-open, gripped by paralytic shock. I had the presence of mind not to drop the books in my arms, but couldn’t make myself not stare. His dick was not only out, it was gorgeous. I became painfully, urgently aware of how I hadn’t gotten laid since before the start of the semester.

Ever the genius wordsmith, I said the only complete sentence I could get to come to my mind: “I can put that back when you’re done with it.”

His big brown eyes widened. He was the complete tall-dark-and-handsome package, full of all-American attractiveness that maybe wasn’t my type usually, but was definitely doing it for me now. I cursed my earlier decision to put on my skinniest skinny jeans today. “I was, um.” He looked at the book, then at his dick in his hand, then at me, making no move to conceal or reposition anything. “Aw, fuck.”

“Why–” I cleared my throat and swallowed, though I found it didn’t help. Denim has no give, especially in the crotch area. “Uh. You know you’re not supposed to–”

“I know.” A blush was rising in his cheeks, and he moved his right hand, the one around his dick, in a way where I figured the next move would be for him to put it away and for me to stop standing between him and the only exit from the aisle and for the both us to just spend the next three years of our college lives avoiding one another. However, Dallas — I remembered, he liked to go by his last name, maybe it was a jock thing — only shifted his hand a fraction of an inch, just enough for me to see that he was accommodating how he’d gone from half-stiff when I’d found him to raging hard now. “I was … it’s a thing where … it’s a dare.”

“A dare?” I tore my eyes away from the sight of his magnificent cock long enough to see that on the shelf next to him was his phone, tilted upright against a book and set to the camera function. Things were starting to make a little more sense.

Dallas nodded, and as he did, his cock twitched in his hand. “Hazing. Sort of. You know?” He had such a pretty voice, I’d thought so ever since we’d been together in freshman comp, but it was another thing to hear it all ragged and breathy like this. “For varsity.”

In that moment I took back everything bad I’d ever said about our school’s sports teams. “To jerk off in the stacks?”

“To, uh.” He sighed and looked down at his hip-level tableau. I wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t put his cock away yet, but believe me, I wasn’t complaining. “Dick pic with a library book. Sort of a photo scavenger hunt. Shit, I’m sorry–”

“You really,” I said, and cleared my throat, “really don’t need to be. Sorry. That is.” I licked my lips before I could stop myself on the grounds of how creepy licking my lips probably was. Time to be casual. “I mean, you’ve got a nice dick!” Yeah, so that initiative had failed. “So you can….”

Somewhere in the middle of the sentence, the shock at seeing Dallas like this wore off, and I understood what was really going on here — not just about the circumstances that had gotten Dallas down here in the first place, but why he was now still holding his rock-hard dick in his hand. I gave it a pointed look and licked my lips a second time, and it jumped hard in Dallas’ hand and smacked his palm as it came back down again. Dallas bit his lower lip and let out a little whimper.

To this day, I can’t quite articulate what came over me then, or how it managed to override the good sense that told me how letting this continue would probably wind up with my getting fired, if not expelled. But all the blood had relocated from my brain, robbing me of the ability to make good decisions and leaving me only with the ability to make awesome ones. “You have a really nice dick,” I said, dropping my reedy tenor as far into my chest as it would go and trying to pretend that wasn’t even more ridiculous than my normal speaking voice. “Anyone ever told you that?”

Dallas laughed as he blushed, making the spray of freckles across his nose stand out even stronger against the rest of his skin. “I guess,” he said through a nervous laugh.

“Oh, I bet they have.” I didn’t know where this was coming from. Before that very moment, in fact, I hadn’t talked dirty a day in my life. I’d always thought of myself as a too nerdy for sexy talk, too goofy, too gawky, too unable for any living person to take seriously. Worse, I have about the unsexiest voice ever to stagger forth from a human throat, which I’d always figured would be the final nail in any romantic mood’s coffin. But here was a handsome man who wasn’t laughing at me at all, and the power went straight to my head to take up all the space my relocated blood had recently vacated. “We should take a picture of it right now.”

“No.” With a groan, Dallas leaned forward and rested his forehead on the metal shelf. “Not right now.”

“Why not?” The lights by the staircase started to dim, and I took a step forward, scaring them all back to life. “Now looks pretty good.”

Dallas closed his eyes. “The guys on the team’ll think I … get off on art books, or something weird like that.”

I put the volumes I’d been holding on the shelf and folded my arms all nonchalant-like across my chest, trying to ignore for the moment how I could literally feel my pulse throb in my own cock. “When really, you just get off on being watched.”

That won another sheepish laugh from Dallas. “Would you believe me if I said this is kind of a surprise to me too?” He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. “Second of the evening.”

My stepdad says he first knew I was gay the time he saw me on the playground when I was five years old, joining forces with the girls in their attempts to kiss all the boys. Maybe that wasn’t a full portrait of my sexuality, but it wasn’t too far off either. However, I’d always considered myself, by virtue of my size and general enjoyment of taking it up the butt, to be a bottom through and through. The only two boys I’d dated had been total alpha males, take-charge gentlemen who’d enjoyed bossing me around sexually, and as I’d loved every bit of it at the time, I’d never considered that the bigger picture might be different.

But now it seemed that somewhere inside me, all this time, inside my tiny body there had been a tiny dom just waiting to come out. Who knew? “Stroke it,” I said, and it wasn’t a request.

Those pretty eyes of him opened wide and looked at me, but I didn’t budge. “Stroke it,” I repeated. “It’s gorgeous. I want to see what it looks like when you come.”

With a heavy, beautiful whimper, Dallas obeyed. He caught his soft lower lip between his teeth and adjusted his fist around his cock, clenching tight enough that his fingertips met the side of his thumb from around the other side. I was hard enough right then to break a diamond with my dick, but that wasn’t the point right now — he was the point, and his point was leaking drops of precome onto his sneakers.

I shifted my weight noticeably enough that the lights wouldn’t go out on us, because I didn’t want to miss a moment of this. “God, I bet you’re gorgeous naked,” I said, resigning myself to how the filter between my mouth and my brain seemed to have disintegrated in the heat of the show going on before me. “Your cock is massive. I’ve never been fucked by a cock that big before.”

Dallas groaned so loud that I could only say a prayer that we were, in fact, the only people to be found in earshot. It sounded so good, though, I would have punched myself in the nuts before asking him to turn the volume down. “Is that what you–” As his hand squeezed the head of his cock, his words dissolved into a whimper. “That what you’re thinking about?”

“How could I not?” On the off chance that he might actually just be a straight exhibitionist, though, I decided to steer him away from that train of thought, lest I somehow discourage his progress toward his goal. “You know what I’d really like to do right now? I want to march you back up the stairs just like this and out onto the main level, with your dick still hanging out. You’d have one hell of an audience there.”

“Oh, fuck,” he swore under his breath, jerking harder now. “And … and then what?”

“And then? Get you up on one of the main tables. Make sure everybody saw.” As I taked, his hand moved faster, so I kept going. “Get everybody to come by and look at how hard you are. Make you spank it in front of them like you’re doing right now, gasping and groaning as they all stared–”

That was as far as I got in the particular fantasy, though I assure you, by that point I’d created the whole scenario in my head in excruciating detail, down to where I’d stand to watch and the look on Irina’s face as she finally picked her head up out of her textbook. Any further telling would have to wait, though, because Dallas was coming, gasping wordlessly as his beautiful cock spilled all over the linoleum floor. Well, at least it looked like he’d missed the books. The preservation librarians would have killed me.

For a long, awkward moment, no one moved.

About the time Dallas straightened up again was the time my brain clicked back into gear, and unfortunately it moved faster than he did. What the hell had I been thinking, in what universe was this even remotely okay, could we ever look one another in the eye again, would it be possible to spend the next three years avoiding the hell out of him, should I ask the registrar’s office if they could make sure our schedules never had classes even in the same building, was I going to have to transfer to another school entirely–?

Once upright, Dallas hastily began stuffing his softening dick back into his jeans. “Um,” I said, which was the best approximation of all my concerns wrapped up into a single stupid syllable, and he stopped mid-zip. “Don’t you, uh, need a picture?”

The sound that he made could only be classified as a whimper, and when he began to fish his cock back out again, I was gratified to see that some of the progress it’d made on its return to flaccidity had been undone by my question. “Oh, yeah,” he said, reaching for his phone.

“I could take it.” I held out my hand.

He hesitated for half a second, then reached out and gave the phone to me. After giving his dick a few considerate shakes to dry it off, he laid it along the spine of a collection of French Impressionist paintings, letting the tip dangle off the edge somewhere near the call number. “So,” I said as I got closer with the camera, “I can put that back when you’re done with it too.”

What tension had been lingering in the air, that broke handily. “Librarian’s prerogative?” Dallas asked, laughing with what sounded not unlike relief.

“Just part of the job,” I quipped. “By the way, I’m Charlie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dallas said. “We’re in Intro to Psych together this semester.”

Were we? Shit, that’s what I got for taking a 9AM large lecture class. “Well, I’m … a little forgettable sometimes.” I lined up the shot in the viewfinder guides and tapped the camera icon on the screen. Ansel Adams himself could not have taken a better dick pic.

Dallas laughed again as he took the phone back. “Not now you’re not.” He looked down at the floor, then back up at me. “So, you wouldn’t have any paper towels or anything around, would you?”

As a matter of fact, I did, though I had to duck into the custodial closet in the next room to get them. By the time I got back, Dallas was tucked in and zipped up again, despite my earlier offers of assistance with that, and his cheeks had almost shed their rosy glow. I was mostly just glad I couldn’t see myself, as I needed no further reasons to feel self-conscious about the last ten minutes. He mopped and I shelved and we didn’t talk about what had just happened, but every time one of us caught the other’s eye, we grinned.

Even though there couldn’t have been more than a dozen people in the whole building, none of whom cared who emerged from the lower levels together or separately, I sent him out via the main staircase and wound my way up through the back a few minutes later, after I’d finished putting the last few books away. By the time I got up to the main level, there was no sign of Dallas anywhere. I don’t even think Irina even noticed I was gone. All that was left to do, then, was to wait until my shift ended and I could go home to jerk myself off until I was sore.

~*~

I didn’t look up when I heard Irina do her standard can-I-help-you greeting, but I perked the second I heard a very familiar voice reply, “I’m doing a paper on Thomas Aquinas and I’ve got all these call numbers, but I don’t know where to go.”

Irina, bless her, kept her expression perfectly professional, as though this weren’t the third time this week she’d indulged this particular student’s newfound late-night studiousness. She glanced at the paper. “200s are in E-level stacks.”

“E-level,” Dallas replied, looking lost as he peered around. “So that’s … one floor down?”

“To the left when you go upstairs.” Irina glanced over her shoulder at where I’d been trying to find busywork to occupy myself this particular evening. “I have to stay, but maybe another student worker would be happy to show you.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I said, trying not to sound suspiciously eager, even though the look on Irina’s face the first time she’d laid eyes on the two of us together had told us everything she’d needed to know about what was going on here. …Well, it’d told her everything I might have wanted her to know, anyway, and that was good enough, for now, for me.

Irina waved me off in Dallas’ direction. “Go play tour guide,” she said with a smirk, “but remember, closing time in thirty minutes, so….”

“I’ll be back in plenty of time, I promise.” I turned so no one else could see me, mouthed thank you, and turned to Dallas. “If you’ll follow me this way,” I said to him, leading off to one of the lesser-used stairwells. Unlike the subterranean floors, E-level was exposed on one side by a row of windows that looked out over the library’s central atrium, and the religion section in particular was in one of the building’s high-traffic areas. But I smiled as I wound my way up the narrow stairs, knowing their steepness put my ass right at his eye level. Some occupational hazards I could learn to love.

(mirrors http://s2b2.livejournal.com/257468.html)

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5 thoughts on “Stack Whackers

    • They are! Every librarian I know, including my wife, will swear to that. However, this is a total fantasy version; they’re not usually this charming. Like Luna was saying, 99.99% of the time, they’re the same demographic as the creepy unwashed dudes who pull their dicks out on public transportation, and the standard procedure is to call campus safety on them in academic libraries, and cops on them in public ones. If only more of them were handsome, well-behaved, non-pushy exhibitionists….

    • Yup, they’re real, and it is basically an occupational hazard. There is a certain brand of exhibitionist who is drawn to libraries and to the shock value of revealing oneself in a quiet library to polite users. Or possibly they feel safer because they assume library users won’t immediately deliver a beatdown. (They should be warned, though, that I have seen a library user run her own sting operation to get a serial offender not just busted but publicly humiliated by her while they waited for the police to get there and arrest him. He was a local worker on his lunch break, he lost his job. I hope he got help?) For some reason there are more of them in the springtime, perhaps because even your common pervert has more energy then, perhaps because springtime equals less clothing equals making their targets feel more vulnerable. But yes, fantasy, usually gross and not actually sexy.

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