The Library
by Jacqueline Jillinghoff
Copyright© 2011 by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

My mother told me once that when I was little, I could never keep my clothes on. It started almost as soon as I learned to walk, she said. In hot weather, I ran naked through the sprinkler in the backyard. Or, when we came home from Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother’s, my blouse, my green velvet skirt, and my white stockings would end up on the living room floor seconds after I walked in the front door. One summer at the beach — I must have been about four or five — she wrapped me in a towel and took my suit off underneath, and while she was drying me off, I slipped away and scurried down to the water like a sandpiper. It wasn’t a nude beach, either. The eyes of hundreds of sunbathers were on my body, but no one cared because I was so small. It’s one of my earliest memories, and one of my happiest.

The casual stripping kept up after I started school. I would come home and go up to my room, and when I came down again, I was nude.

Mom and Dad didn’t tell me to cover up until I was about eight or nine. I remember because I’d already lost my baby belly, and I was growing into that wiry tomboy body I would have for the next few years. It was a hot afternoon during summer vacation, and I was cooling off in my plastic wading pool in the backyard, filling it with the garden hose. I’d been wearing a terry-cloth bathing suit, but it felt thick and uncomfortable between my legs, so I peeled it off and tossed it on the grass. I didn’t think anything of it. It was really no different from taking a bath, except for the sun on my back and the way the hose tickled me under the water: when I stuck my thumb in the nozzle, the weak stream turned into a silent, invisible jet that beat against my private place. I’d never felt anything like it. I drew the nozzle closer, focusing the current on the spot where it felt the best, and held it there as long as I could stand it — which was a long time. I could have sat like that until dinner, with the pool filling up and the water sloshing over the rim of the pool, but I stopped when Dad came home from teaching.

Not that I was embarrassed. I was just suddenly happy to see him. He pulled the car into the driveway, parking in front of the garage, and when he stepped out, I tossed the hose aside and ran to him across the grass.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Sweepea — oof!”

He crouched with his arms open, and when he straightened up I was hanging from his neck with my skinny legs wrapped around his middle. He held me up under my bottom, and I can still feel his hands there, cupping my cheeks, and his rough fingertips — he had callouses from playing the cello — scratching at my butthole.

Never let anybody tell you kids don’t have sexual feelings, because I was having a rush of them right then. For the first time, I understood about sex. Not what grownups did — I couldn’t imagine any of that yet. I mean the wanting. A minute earlier, playing with the garden hose, I wasn’t thinking that way. I only knew it felt good. But now, clinging to Dad like a monkey, leaning back to let him see my flat chest and the bare stretch of nothing between my legs, I felt a power in my body. Somehow, like magic, nudity and love were mixed up together.

That certainty passed, though, when Mom came out and put a stop to it.

“Danielle Marie, put your bathing suit on!” she said.

“You know you’re in trouble,” Daddy said, looking at her over my head. “She’s using your full name.”

I hugged him close, pressing my cheek against his and scowling at her like, He’s mine now. She didn’t get the message.

“Don’t encourage her,” she said.

“Nobody can see her back here,” Daddy said.

“It doesn’t matter. She’s getting too big to run around with nothing on.”

“All right, Little One, do as your mother says,” Daddy told me. He swung me down, but he kept his hand on my bottom, and before he let me go, he gave it a playful smack, kissed me on the ear, and whispered, “You’re never too big to run around with nothing on.”

I guess I took Dad’s advice to heart.

From that day on, nudity became my secret life. Like, after taking a bath, I would hang out in my room, pretending to get dressed, but really standing on my bed, looking over my shoulder at my pretty butt in the dresser mirror and remembering the way Daddy’s hands felt. Or I’d stay in the bathroom, looking into the mirror over the sink. Being a kid, all I could see was my face. For a quick glimpse at my puffy slit, I had to lean on the sink and jump.

A lot of times, after school, before my parents got home, I’d wander through the house with nothing on, just to be nude in different places. My favorite spots were the closet in the back room, where I could press my bare body against the heavy winter coats, and the kitchen, where I could lie on the floor and feel the cool tile all over.

For a long time, it was enough.

But then I started sixth grade, which in our district means graduation to the middle school. The building is a long, three-story block set into the side of a hill, with one little side corridor for offices. My classroom was downstairs in a kind of half-basement that had windows on only one side. The seventh-graders were on the ground floor, and the eighth-graders were upstairs. The gym and the auditorium were at one end of the seventh-grade floor, and the library was at the other.

The library was a bright, cheerful place with high windows behind the checkout desk. It had a reading area with rows of square tables in front of the desk as you came in, and more tables to the left where you could use the computers. The bookcases and tables were all made of the same light wood. The room smelled clean and warm, like paper and polish, and right away it became my favorite place in the school.

One morning, a couple weeks after classes started, Mrs. Lennox, my language arts teacher, took the class upstairs to the library so we could pick out a figure from American history to write about. Mrs. Cohen, the librarian, had laid out picture books on the reading tables, and the kids all milled around, riffling the pages, trying to get ideas. I saw a few names I recognized, like Amelia Earhart and Susan B. Anthony, but nobody I felt like spending weeks reading about. Mrs. Lennox told me not to worry. I had plenty of time to decide.

That afternoon, when classes were over, I went back to the library, carrying my backpack full of books. Daddy was downtown playing a recital at an old folks home. Mom was teaching and she wouldn’t be home until almost seven. I figured I could either walk home and pour myself a glass of milk and watch TV, or I could get a head start on my homework in that wonderful, book-filled room, and maybe get a real idea for my report.

The picture books had all been put away. Nobody was there except Mrs. Cohen, who was sitting at the checkout desk. I said “excuse me” kind of hoarsely and asked where the history books were. I thought maybe I could find somebody interesting I had missed earlier.

“In the back, in the right-hand corner,” she said. “What’s your name, miss? I don’t know the sixth-graders yet.”

“Danielle,” I said.

“You must really like books, Danielle. We don’t get many students coming in just to browse.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Polite, too. You can call me Mrs. Cohen. You’re a real blonde, aren’t you? I can hardly see your eyebrows.”

“They’re there, though,” I said, stupidly touching the bristles over my eyes.

“I wish my hair was as pretty as yours.”

“I think yours is pretty, Mrs. Cohen,” I said, trying out the name. “It’s just different.”

“Well, thank you, Danielle,” she said. “You can stay for about twenty minutes. Then I have to close up.”

I did like her hair. It was reddish-brown, and she wore it in a big, frizzy ponytail. What I really liked about her, though, was her boobs. They stretched out the ribs of her turtleneck sweater, the way lines of longitude on a globe spread out at the equator. She was almost as short as I was, but round like a woman in all the places where I was still straight like a boy.

Well, I was starting to get boobs. They weren’t much yet — no higher than a pair of shortbread cookies with pink cinnamon dots at the center — but they fascinated me. At home I would look at them in the mirror for a long time, trying to raise some cleavage by pushing them together. It never worked.

I had on my favorite pants, a pair of denim pedal pushers that fit tight across the seat. I thought they made my butt look round, even though, with a kind of justice, they showed off my skinny calves, too.

I was also wearing my yellow Crocs, which made my feet look like Big Bird’s, white ankle socks with a lavender trim; and my red Phillies T-shirt: my nipples were starting to stick out, making little points in the stars above the i’s.

There were two big, freestanding bookcases at the far end of the library, parallel to each other, forming three aisles between the walls on either side. From in between them, I could look out and see the writing tables and Mrs. Cohen’s desk, but it got private when I turned the corner and the bookcases blocked the view. I dropped my backpack in the corner, and I was glancing over the packed rows of books when I realized Mrs. Cohen couldn’t see me. My stomach kind of squeezed, and suddenly I felt like I had to go to the bathroom.

Just to make sure, I peeked around the bookcase. Mrs. Cohen was sitting at her computer with her back to me, tapping away.

It would only take a second, I thought, and nobody would know. Bent over, with my eyes on Mrs. Cohen’s ponytail, I reached down and undid the button on my pants. Nothing happened: No alarm went off. Nobody yelled at me. So I undid the zipper — slowly, in case she had good ears.

Then I hooked my thumbs into the waistband and slid my pants and underwear off my butt. That was all: I was only mooning the books behind me, but two of my dirty parts were naked someplace where they shouldn’t be. Mrs. Cohen turned her head to look at a paper on her desk, then looked back at her computer screen. For an instant, I saw the edge of her face in profile, but she didn’t notice me. She was clueless, and it made me bolder. I sidled out from behind the bookcase and pushed my pants and panties to my knees.

After a breathless moment to make sure Mrs. Cohen didn’t turn again, I lifted my T-shirt to my neck, exposing my nipples. The tapping on the keyboard went on, and I started swaying my hips, bending and straightening one knee and then the other — an eleven-year-old girl’s idea of a sexy dance. I even stuck my tongue out at her, which was kind of mean, since she was so nice. I was almost daring her to turn around. It was fun to think of her seeing me, even though the idea really scared me.

I slunk back to my hiding place behind the bookcase and looked down at my nude body. The notch between my legs looked strange. It seemed different than it had been even just a couple of hours before at lunchtime, when I went to the girls’ room to pee. It looked deeper, the sides swollen together and puffing out, like rising dough. Clamping my shirt under my chin, I opened the cleft with both hands. The inside was as pink as a strawberry milkshake, with a kind of shiny goo on top. The folds and puckers near the front glistened with wet, and the tiny pip that had felt so good when I pointed the garden hose at it popped out at me.

I was all set to touch it when the door to the library clicked open and I heard man’s voice say something to Mrs. Cohen.

I flattened my ass against the end of the bookcase and yanked my shirt down. Mrs. Cohen said something, then the man did, then Mrs. Cohen called out, “Danielle, time to close up.”

My heart was clicking like an egg timer. My pants were still at my knees, and I was afraid if I moved, Mrs. Cohen or the man would catch me pulling them up. All I could think to do was put my hands over my crotch. When I heard her voice again, it was a lot closer, over my shoulder and almost in my ear.

“Danielle, are you back here?”

Don’t breathe, Danielle Marie.

“I guess she’s not back here.”

My backpack lay in the corner to my right. If she had peeked into the next aisle, she would have seen it, and when she came to pick it up —

“She must have left,” the man’s voice said.

“I think I would have seen her,” Mrs. Cohen said, her voice getting farther away.

“She’s obviously not here.”

“I get so busy,” Mrs. Cohen said.

The voices broke up into a muffled buzz. A second later, the lights went out, and the door snapped shut.

I blew out a long breath.

It was a while before the heat drained from my face and my heart slowed down to where I couldn’t feel it anymore. But I had to laugh, silently, through the panting. This was fun, and now I was alone. I didn’t have to hide behind the books anymore.

Quickly I pulled my shirt off over my head, kicking off my yellow shoes at the same time. Then I slid my butt to the floor and pulled off my pants. My panties came with them, hanging from the toes of one foot. I flipped them off with a giggle, and they landed on top of an oversize book on the bottom shelf.

Out of caution, but more a sense of play, I didn’t stand up right away. Instead, I crawled out between the bookshelves on my hands and knees like a little dog, aware more than anything of the air on my naked, upturned ass. I peeked over one of the square tables, making sure Mrs. Cohen was really gone — though she surely would have seen me by this time — and when I was sure I was alone, I climbed up on the table.

It was like being on a stage. I posed with my hands clasped behind my head, twirled on one foot, jumped from one table to the next, my stocking feet nearly sliding from under me as I landed on the polished planes. I danced to the music in my head, and I imagined the kids in my class, boys and girls, sitting around looking up at me, eating lunch and drinking root beer at the tables. I pictured other girls in my class dancing naked, too, two to a table. The boys would probably pay to see that. I wondered if anybody had ever thought of doing anything like it. They could make a lot of money.

I jumped off the last table and walked slowly from one end of the library to the other with my hands behind my back, a nonchalant patron, checking the book titles, the latest magazines, and the papers on Mrs. Cohen’s desk, inspecting the computers, and glancing down at my skinny bare legs and the shadowy crease between them.

Then the library’s double doors caught my attention. I went over and looked out the windows —thick, two-pane things with the wire mesh inside.

The overhead fluorescents in the corridor were turned off, but the floor tiles gleamed with light from the window at the end of the hall. I could only see a few feet down the wall opposite, because of the tight angle, so I pushed one of the doors open and peered down the rows of seventh-grade lockers. The school band was playing in the auditorium at the other end of the school. Nothing came through distinctly, just a high blare of the brass and the deep muffled thumps of the drums.

What would the band think if they knew a stark-naked girl was watching them from backstage?

Did I dare?

Yes. Yes I did.

I tiptoed into the corridor and let go of the door, but the instant before it shut, I remembered it locked from the inside. If I let it close all the way, I would be separated from my clothes forever. My hand shot out into the narrowing gap and the sharp edge pinched my fingers. I would have yelped, but I was too relieved, and too scared somebody would hear me.

I reached around the door and popped the button on the handle inside. The outside handle loosened up. I jiggled it a couple of times to make sure it really wasn’t locked and finally let the door close. To be really sure, I opened and closed it one last time before moving toward the music.

It was getting hard to walk, and just as hard to breathe. My knees felt like they were going to snap, and red lights were flashing in front of my eyes, so many of them I could barely see. My face and arms were tingling, and a something heavy was swelling between my legs, like a lead balloon. I felt like I had to poop and pee at the same time. I reached out and leaned against a locker, struggling to catch my breath.

Finally I regained my strength and moved on. I took short steps and peeked into each classroom I passed to make sure I was really alone. The music got louder. The safety of the library got farther away. I felt alive all over, and I walked a little faster, on tiptoe, absent-mindedly pressing my hand into my crotch. As I went on, my middle finger sank into the crack. It was slippery inside. The tip of my finger slid into my hole, and that warm, tight feeling spread out in waves from the little pip. I never felt like this traipsing around naked at home.

I passed the short corridor that turned off toward the principal’s office. That was to my right. To my left were the steel fire doors that opened onto the main stairwell. Now I was really cut loose from my clothes. Anybody could come from any direction and catch me. I took short, mincing steps, digging my finger around pussy, and loving the sexy little charge I got each time my foot touched the floor. The sound of the band became clearer, but it also seemed more distant, like music on the radio when I’m drifting off to sleep. I opened my mouth wide, my lips making a big “O” as I took deeper, longer breaths. The feeling in my girl-hole was freaking amazing.

A sudden crash nearly jolted me out of my skin.

Somewhere a steel door slammed open. I heard the banging all around me, then loud voices echoing through the stairway. Eighth-graders, boys, and they were on their way down. I had to run back, but I couldn’t, because they’d see me when I passed the open doors. I could already hear them jumping onto the landing between floors. They were running, trying to outrace each other, their sneakers pattering on the stairs. I tried ducking into a classroom, but it was locked. In desperation, I wedged myself in the doorway, pressing my body against the side of a locker, just as the first kid burst into the corridor.

“Five!” he yelled. I don’t know why. Maybe that was how many jumps it took him to go from one floor to the next. It must have been a contest, or a dare.

Other voices immediately followed his, and in a second I was drowning in them. Boys are awfully loud — but how did they not hear my heart beating? It was hammering, pounding in my ears. I was panting like a frightened cart. All they had to do was take three steps over in my direction and — Hey, look!

But miraculously, they didn’t. The voices headed away, down past the offices, toward the main exit of the school. I waited for them to die down, then I started back toward the library. The heck with the music. This adventure was over.

I could hear my mother’s voice: Danielle Marie, put your clothes back on.

I approached the open stairwell slowly, listening for more voices and footsteps. I didn’t hear any. I poked my head around the entryway and checked inside. Still nobody. So I started across, and wouldn’t you know it, over on the other side, down the side hall, one of the kids had stopped to read the bulletin board in front of the principal’s office. I didn’t realize he was there until I was out in the open, and he turned and saw me, full on, head to toe, naked.

“Hey!” he said.

I took off. My legs flew in long strides, but I still had my finger in my hole, and it was slowing me down. But I couldn’t make myself let go. Something was happening, something big. I kept my finger rigid. My pip rubbed against it as I ran, and a tremendous wave of excitement crashed over me.

The kid was in the corridor behind me. He just stood there, back near the office, watching my bare butt hustle away. I pulled open the library door just as his buddies jammed up behind him.

I don’t know what they all thought they saw, with the overhead lights off, but for a split-second there was nothing between them and my naked body. I stood side on to them, so maybe they couldn’t tell I was nude. Or maybe my white socks distracted them, or maybe they just couldn’t believe their eyes, but for an instant, they were struck dumb. Time came to a stop as we looked at each other through the hallway.

Then I lunged through the door and locked it behind me.

Five breathless bounds and I was back through the tables and among the books. There, finally, my legs gave out. I couldn’t take another step. Weak and tingling, but safe again, I dropped to my knees. My bare ass went down on my heels, my thighs wide open in a “V,” and I pumped furiously at the soggy glob between my legs — or at least my hand and arm did. They didn’t belong to me anymore. They belonged to the feeling — the greatest feeling I ever had. It wrung out my body from the inside. It bounced me on the floor like a ball. I remember thinking, somewhere inside that crazy storm, that if anyone caught me, I’d just let them watch. They could blab as much as they wanted, but I wasn’t going to let go for anything.

And they did catch me — almost. The library door began to rattle. The handle snapped and clicked. There was a pounding on the glass.

“Hey girl, come out!” somebody yelled.

“Let’s see you!”

“Is she in there?” a third voice said.

“I didn’t see,” said another. “What was it?”

“She was nude! Hey, girl!”

“You’re fuckin’ nuts. There’s nobody.”

Bam bam bam bam bam bam bam!

But I didn’t care. I just knelt there, playing with my yummy slimy toy.

The bounces grew softer, farther apart. I went with the feeling, rubbing myself more slowly, until I gave a short cry, a little Ah!, and the last wave passed. I rubbed some more, gently, but I couldn’t work up another peak. I was worn out. My body relaxed — collapsed, really. Shoulders, spine and hips all rolled over at once, like a runaway stack of logs. Slowly, I toppled onto my side.

Mmmmm. I lay there a long time with my eyes closed, breathing dreamily, half asleep, with my hand resting between my legs. It was a warm, comforting feeling. And when I opened my eyes again, the school was still. The voices at the door had gone away. The knocking had stopped. There was no more music.

I pushed myself off the floor, and I noticed a dark spot on the carpet where I’d been kneeling. I thought I must have peed. Maybe the stain would still be there in the morning, and Mrs. Cohen would see it and wonder what it was. But for now, I was tired and happy. I had taken a humongous chance and gotten away with it, and I was already thinking about how I could do it again. (The rumor that flew around school the next day — some girl was running through the halls naked — only made me want to do it more. Everyone talked about it at lunch. I kept my eyes down, hoping the red-hot blush in my ears didn’t give me away.)

I put my clothes back on without much enthusiasm, and it was only when I zipped up my jeans and felt the rough inside seam in my crotch that I realized my panties were still hanging off the corner of that book. What if Mrs. Cohen found them? I smiled at the thought, but I couldn’t go that far. I stuffed them into my backpack. It didn’t feel any freer without them, since I was wearing pants, but I promised myself I’d go without them again tomorrow, and this time I’d wear a skirt to class.

I headed back out through the dark corridor. The boys were nowhere to be seen. The only kids outside were a couple members of the band, who stood with their trumpet and clarinet cases between their feet, waiting for their parents to come and pick them up.

Passing the flagpole, I glanced back to see if they were looking, but they were busy talking and didn’t pay any attention to me.

I slipped my hand down the front of the jeans, and I kept it there the whole way home.