Firm fingers pulled my pussy apart although it needed very little encouragement. I was wet even before his tongue lapped the pink, could feel the panties he’d dragged down sopping against my stockinged foot, and the tight fawn skirt bunched against my back and that, too, felt moist. Ridiculously, I hoped it had not stained, then feeling ridiculous, I stifled a cry out as his tongue pushed inside my folds.
He twirled it around, then looked up at me. “You like that.” It was a statement, not a question, and my hand fell to the back of his head, gentle pressure the only answer he needed. But he resisted and his eyes flashed in the harsh fluorescents that buzzed above us.
I was standing on one foot, the other braced against a bookshelf, my foot inching a far volume backwards. 891.7 – Russian literature. Not a section of the library that received many visitors, especially this close to Christmas, but the occasional voice from the far end of the room reminded me that we were not yet closed for business, and here I was with a stranger on his knees and his mouth… his mouth… he licked again and I bit my lip to keep from moaning, which was not the response he expected. Because now his tongue was flat against me as his fingers pulled me wider, long sweeps that stopped short just a wriggle from my clitoris, so that’s what I did. I wriggled a little but he was faster, rocking back on his heels and blowing instead, a sharp rush of warm air that collided with my liquid lust, and I turned my head to bite the arm that clung for support to the top of the shelf. 817 – American literature, satire and humor.
One finger inside me, then two and his mouth again, circling my clit, teasing it, teasing me. He broke again. “I like your hair like that.” It hung loose below my shoulders. “It makes you look abandoned.”
Abandoned. I could only imagine what else I looked like, my glasses pushed up to my forehead so they wouldn’t bump his face when we kissed, my blouse half unbuttoned and one bra cup twisted down and around, when his fingers grazed my nipples and his teeth bit sharp around them. My skirt round my waist, my panties on the ground and a guy two-thirds my age, with two-thirds of his hand sunk deep inside me, licking out the fantasy that he’d texted me this morning.
all i wnt 4 xmas is 2 lick a lbrns cunt
I’d gasped and looked around at my fellow workers, to see if anyone else had received the same message – don’t laugh, you’d be surprised how many guys think that’s a cool thing to do, send the same come-on to everyone, and see who bites first. Guess they don’t realize that we talk to each other.
But no-one was batting an eyelid, so I looked up from my cell and around the room. A pair of young mothers chatting idly in the kid’s section, while their husbands hung silent, eyeing one another desperately. The usual gaggle of kids in the computer aisle, still trying to crack the coding that kept their little eyes safe from the net’s darker secrets. Shift-control-U, the programmer’s little joke, but not one of these budding Bill Gates or Steve Jobs had cottoned on yet, and somehow I doubted that they ever would.
Then I saw him at the far end and I knew right away what my answer would be, without even asking myself why. “I’m going to do some reshelving while we’re quiet,” I said and I stepped out to the cart piled high with returns and pushed it up the empty center aisle; parked it at the entrance to the section where he waited.
“What’s a ‘lbrn’?”
He smiled. “Do you even realize how hot you are?”
I bet you say that to all the librarians. Again, a lot of guys do. “Just doing my job.”
“Hand or blow?”
I laughed. He was confident and cocky. I liked that. “You’re the one who sent the text. You tell me.”
He grabbed my arms, pulled me by the elbows into an embrace, and already I could feel his cock hard against his loose cotton pants. He kissed me, bumping foreheads – that’s when the glasses went up. His hand was on my head, wrestling with the bun. That’s when my hair came down. And then his mouth was everywhere, biting and sucking and licking and kissing, and when he fell to his knees and sucked at my pussy, tasting me hot through my sodden panties, that’s when I knew that his Christmas was going to come early.
So was I. Three fingers pistoned as his long firm tongue danced, and I chanced my balance to reach down to my clit, flicking and tugging as his mouth slid to join them. That’s right. That’s good. He was sucking it into his mouth now, pulling and slurping, finding the rhythm that his hand had been dancing, and I had to bite down on my lip once again as I started to cum and I growled “don’t dare stop.”
Then I lowered my leg and I straightened my clothes, replaced my glasses and repaired my hair, as he still sat on the carpet, his face soaked by my cunt, and I walked to the end of the row, and my cart, and pushed it back down to the desk.
“That was quick,” said Marcie without looking up.
“I changed my mind,” I replied as my cell gave a buzz, and I think I knew what the message was before I’d even read it.
all i wnt 4 xmas is a librn sckng my cock.
“But you know what?” I laughed as I glanced back up the room. “I think I’ve changed it again.”
Located somewhere in the wilds of the Delmarva peninsula, Chrissie Bentley is author of seven erotic novels and collections, and myriad short stories, published on line and in print. An avid collector of vintage erotic film and photographs, she has three cats and a sense of humor. Find more from Chrissie Bentley here: www.chrissiebentley.wordpress.com