Everyone keeps reminding me that I only need 40 per cent but I don’t care. I will succeed in my first ever uni essay. As the pile of books around me slowly grows in size though, I realise that it is overwhelming me.

It’s late and there’s no one around me in the library. My studious sanctuary of Blue 2 is serving me well. I feel that I have earned a break.

I log on to my Tumblr to relax for 10 minutes and I begin to peruse. Amongst the gifs of cute cats and arty Northern Quarter types, appears a deluge of beauty. The bulging heads and concrete shafts of a hundred pornstars flies past as I attempt to scroll quickly to the next cat gif.

It’s only when I arrive at a Vine of a cat jumping off a rooftop that I realise I am alone. It takes two fingers to scroll back up and two fingers to go down.

The release of tension is unquestionable. The pent up stress of penning my essay is released in waves; as my fingers dance over my Nancy Rothwell like a keyboard, I moan softly.

“Ahem,” I hear a sound. I look up and I’m no longer alone.

I pull my fingers out of my Lancashire Hotpot with a squirm. “Oh hi there,” I pant, “I was just doing this essay and I’ve got a terrible cold.”

“You have a cold?” He says. I begin to study his face. His grey eyes pierce my soul with a chill, like the ever-cloudy Manchester skies. His cheekbones, sharper than the rise in tuiton fees, begin to unravel the gate to my lady garden. His voice is gentle but gruff, and with every syllable I widen as if I am Oxford Road and my sinkhole is opening.

“Yeah… sort of… sorry I can’t catch my breath,” I reply, blushing. He tilts his head and the muscles in his neck ripple in waves that my body imitates.

“Oh,” he laughs, “it sounded like you were doing something completely different. Can I help you… formulate your structure?” I force out a laugh and lower my gaze, and then I see a bulge in his edgy, skintight, turned-up jeans. With every laugh his manhood wriggles and I grab it.

“What…?” He exclaims. I cover his mouth with my hand; “Shhhh, we’re in the library.”

I stand up and push him backwards. I lean into kiss him and he kisses me back. Our bodies press together and we start grinding like we’re at Deansgate Locks on a Saturday night.

All of a sudden we topple over into a shelf of books about the economic development of China with a crash, and my Marginal Propensity to Consume is rising.

“Who’s there?!” Shouts an eager student from a distance.

“Come back to mine.” he says, looking into my eyes—I hesitate, torn between my looming deadline and my sudden desire for a hostile takeover. “Please, I need you.” I can’t resist and we run outside. We run all the way to Oxford Road and straight across. The thrill of nearly dying under the wheels of a 42 to Piccadilly excites me further and we board the first bus we see.

I rush on with my bus pass and see that my mystery man is paying. I await him at the foot of the stairs until his hand arrives on my rump: “Upstairs. Back. Now.”

I’m sat at the back and he meanders over, but he doesn’t take a seat. Instead he kneels down between my legs, “look, I may not have a unirider but please, let me eat your Magic Bussy.” I cringe but it’s Why Not Wednesday in my pants, and I can’t say no.

He rips into my clothes to get to the womanly feast that awaits him. As the bus pulls away, he positions his face at my crotch and carefully drives his bus into my Piccadilly Garden.

Every bump in the road is a wave of ecstacy; every press of the brakes is a source of pleasure; and every car’s seemingly random U-turn on the Curry Mile that causes the bus to slam to a halt is an orgasmic shock of electricity.

The groans and bangs of the crumbling Magic Bus rattling over potholes mask my gasps for pleasure from the other passengers. He truly is a magic rider. Then, all of a sudden the smell of naan bread fills the top deck.

“It must be Lal Qila,” I think to myself, “I really fancy some peshwari naan.” I realise that he has stopped and I look down quizically.

Our lips separate, “what’s wrong? Your pussy is drying up faster than my career prospects.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about naan bread,” I reply.