There was nowhere dim, nowhere to hide. Maggie sat at a study table near the center of the main floor with a closed book in front of her and her legs crossed at the knee, wearing a silver bikini that covered almost nothing and reflected the sunlight right back.
She had been there for twenty minutes. She hadn’t opened the book. She hadn’t even looked at the title. The book was something she’d pulled from a shelf near the entrance on her way in, a thick hardcover with a cracked spine, and it served exactly one purpose: giving her hands something to rest near while she sat in the middle of a brightly lit library in a swimsuit. Her tits strained against the fabric of the bikini top, the silver triangles doing their best and failing. She was thin everywhere else, which made them more conspicuous, two heavy shapes pulling the thin strings taut. She could feel the weight of them shifting every time she adjusted her posture, which was often.
The library was empty. Welcome week parties were happening across campus, and the building felt hollow, just Maggie and the hum of the air conditioning and the sun. She could hear her own breathing. She could hear the faint creak of the vinyl seat beneath her thighs. The bikini bottom was cut high and tight, and when she uncrossed her legs to shift her weight, she felt the fabric pull into the cleft of her pussy, the thin silver material pressing snug against her. She didn’t fix it. She looked down at herself, at the clear outline of her pussy visible through the stretched fabric, the cameltoe deep and obvious under the harsh midday light, and she felt a pulse of something warm settle low in her stomach.
She stood up. Not because she was done sitting, but because she wanted to move through the space. The open floor plan meant every step she took was visible from multiple angles, through multiple glass walls, from the hallway outside, from the second floor catwalk above. There was no one to see her, but the architecture insisted that she could be seen, and that was enough. She walked slowly between the study tables, her bare feet on the polished concrete floor, feeling the cool surface against her soles. The bikini bottom rode up with each step, the fabric settling deeper between her legs. Her tits moved with her, the thin straps doing nothing to stop the bounce. She could feel the air on her stomach, her back, the exposed curve of her ass where the bikini cut high. She felt like she was glowing.
That’s when she caught the reflection. A floor-to-ceiling glass partition separated the study area from a reading lounge, and as she passed it, she saw herself full-length in the bright glass. She stopped. The silver bikini caught the sunlight and threw it back in sharp flashes. Her body looked lean and long in the reflection, her legs bare, her stomach flat, and her tits pushing out against the metallic fabric like they were trying to escape. She could see the cameltoe from the front, the fabric pulled tight, the shape of her pussy clearly defined. She stood there looking at herself for a long moment, and the warmth in her stomach spread.
The couch in the reading lounge was low and modern, upholstered in dark gray fabric, positioned near the windows where the sun hit strongest. Maggie walked to it and sat down, then shifted, then stretched out. The couch was long enough for her to lie back with her knees bent, her feet flat on the cushion. The sun fell across her body in a wide warm band, heating the silver fabric, heating her skin underneath. She could feel every point where the bikini touched her, the elastic around her hips, the strings over her shoulders, the fabric between her legs. The sunlight made the material shimmer and cling. She let her knees fall open slightly, just enough that the bikini bottom stretched tighter, and the cameltoe deepened. She could feel the fabric pressing against her pussy, warm from the sun, and she shifted her hips without thinking about it.
She lay there for a while. The sun moved across her slowly, and she tracked it with her body, turning her head, letting it warm her neck, her collarbone, the tops of her tits. The library was still silent. Still empty. The glass walls let in the world, or at least the idea of it. She thought about someone walking past the building, looking in through the windows, seeing a girl in a silver bikini stretched out on a couch in the middle of a college library at midday. The thought made her breathe deeper. She felt her nipples harden against the fabric, the thin silver material doing nothing to hide the shape of them now, two firm points pressing outward. She felt the warmth between her legs intensify, a slow heavy ache that matched the rhythm of her breathing.
Her hand was on her stomach. She didn’t remember putting it there. Her fingers were resting just above the waistband of the bikini bottom, tracing idle circles on her skin, and the touch felt electric in the sunlight. She watched her own hand move in the reflection of the glass partition nearby, the fingers slow and aimless, drifting lower. She reached up and adjusted the strap of her bikini top, pulling it tighter across her tits, feeling the fabric compress and shift. The adjustment was unnecessary. She knew it was unnecessary. Her fingers lingered on the strap, then moved along the edge of the fabric, tracing the line where silver met skin. Her other hand was still on her stomach, and it had drifted lower, the tips of her fingers now brushing the top edge of the bikini bottom, toying with the elastic.
She realized what she was doing and stopped. Not because she wanted to stop, but because the realization itself was a jolt, a sudden awareness of how far the afternoon had pulled her. She was lying on a couch in a glass library in a silver bikini with her hands wandering and her body warm and aching, and she hadn’t planned any of it. The thrill had crept in under her skin, slow and patient, and now it was everywhere. She let her hands rest where they were, one on the curve of her tit, one on her hip, and she stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly, feeling the sun and the silence and the weight of her own body against the couch. She didn’t get up. She didn’t fix the bikini. The cameltoe was still there, deep and visible, and her nipples were still hard against the silver fabric, and her skin was still warm everywhere the sun touched it. She stayed.
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