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The Story of F
Speaking of librarians, F was another of those prim women in early middle age who are full of surprises. F was a tall black woman with a frizzy, glistening hairdo (it would have been called an Afro long ago). She had a beautiful face the color of dark wood. Not black, like licorice, but very dark brown, and soft. Her features had a streamlined, almost airbrushed proportion that made her face one you could stare at for long bouts of time. She had dusky, violet lips and gorgeous teeth when she laughed. Her eyes were exotic, almond-shaped as if she were Asian.
She liked to wear big, dangling earrings because she was a tall woman and not afraid to step on six inch heels to add to her glory. In heels, she was taller than any woman I ever dated. We met at a public library when I was doing some research and needed to go into an unfamiliar back section. It as an older, stately building with wood paneling and WPA murals high up painted on plaster. All these muscular men and women had been painted there by Communist-influenced New Deal artists imitating the raw concrete formalism of the Russians in Stalin's time.
Their features were rudimentary and brutal. Even the women's breasts looked tight and muscular. They held tools or sowed grain or did whatever it took to get this mighty economy rolling again. For all that energy, they could have been having a huge orgy up there. They certainly looked like they were full of fuck and energy. F caught me gaping and said: "Can I help you, darling?" She had a rich, full voice and a tone as if she were the queen of periodicals, addressing the duke of lost looks. I stated my need (the one involving the library) and she stepped out from behind her desk to accompany me. I walked behind that gorgeous swaying wool-clad ass and inhaled the perfume she wore, just a hint of musk in it, but otherwise a complex flute whisper of vanilla and crème citric or something... I don't remember much of what we talked about, but she had that musical voice that wrapped around me like a bassoon. She wore a wool dress, and under that a silk blouse that was fairly open at the top, so that when we stood opposite each other and she leaned over a file drawer to run long purple fingernails over the file folders, I was less intent on her explanation than I was on the full mocha breasts that strained at a black lace brassiere.
She was definitely a principled, not-on-the-first date sort of woman. She was a prodigious kissing partner, however, and her roving hands made it clear there was good stuff to come if I toughed it out on her schedule. When I say her hands roved, I mean that the middle part of my body was off limits.
Likewise, there were limits to where I could touch her. She took me to her apartment in a fine former hotel downtown, the first few dates when she had me come visit on her lunch hour. She was very sincere, and showed me her books and her collection of lithographs (honest; we even laughed that she'd had me come up to look at her sketches). She was an accomplished musician, and played some very touching violin pieces for me. I enjoyed watching her as she closed her eyes and laid her cheek against the pad. Her face became transfigured as she swayed with the music that rolled off her strings. She smiled at the thick, rich notes that poured out from the straining, tight little sound chamber flanked by two opposing clef cuts.
Then, one day, she was ready. Lunch time with F had already become a fevered habit for me. I couldn't wait to ride up in that brass elevator, get out in that dark corridor, and walk toward that oak door with a bouquet of dried flowers in a fine little checked ribbon above the spy hole. She had the afternoon off from work, so there was no hurry. First time, we'd go slow and get it right. We'd learn all the right notes and play the augmenteds and diminisheds in slow and stately rhythm like the Gymnopaedies of Erik Satie.
F's furniture was red leather and heavy. She was a tall woman, and wanted sturdy furniture. Her voice changed when we first confronted what we hungered to do. Her voice box tightened with nervous tension, and her mellifluous voice grew light as if she had transformed from soprano to alto. "What do you like?" she asked in a thin, sweet voice as she stood before me while I sat on the couch. I rose and took her in my arms. She stepped down from her heels, still two inches taller than I was. I felt her hands on my back, trembling on my shoulder blades. We kissed deeply, but differently.
"Be gentle," she whispered. In silent reassurance, I held her firmly to me. She laid her head on my shoulder as if we were slow dancing, and I let it be like that for a long time. It was silent in the dark room except for the ticking of a clock and the birds chirping outside. She moved easily and lightly to my touch, but she was big. Not chubby or soft, so much, but a big girl. She had been very athletic all her life. Her legs were robust and firm, almost muscular but soft. Her buttocks were more like armfuls than handfuls.
I could get my arms around her at her widest, so that my hands touched over the dusky crack of her ass, but her hips were in my elbow joints. I had to turn my face up to kiss her—that equaled out in bed, where she soon had me. There, I lay on my back while she straddled me. Her eyes were closed, her mouth distorted with pleasure, as she said: "Lick them. Lick them good for me." Her breasts were not remarkably large, at least not out of proportion with the rest of her.
They hung a bit, pendulous, like grapefruits in a net bag if one wants a comparison. Her nipples were slick and plum colored. They swelled and grew whorls and huge plateau nipples as I sucked on them. "I like that," she said warmly. "Lick them for me. Suck them." She grabbed one from underneath, held it on her palm, and slid it to my mouth. "Suck it, baby. Oh yeah."
With her providing the nipple, my hands were free to roam up and down her long, smooth back. She was slender and shapely. She was beautifully proportioned—just larger than an equally shapely smaller woman. My fingers came to the curly hairs down there, and explored. "Mmmmm," she hummed contentedly. "Yes, baby, that's right." She crawled forward a few inches so that her nipples swung over my mouth while my fingers had easier access to her slit. It too was large, but I was surprised as my fingers discovered how tight she was. She laughed, reading my mind. "I don't often have a man up here. That little pussy of mine is about as close to virginal as you'd expect in a woman of my age."
I said: "I bet all that rowing and tennis and running keeps it tight too."
"You have a point there," she said. "Speaking of which—" She plopped down beside me so that her breasts lay folded in a pile on my left nipple. She reached down and sought my whang. "—you do have a point there. Mmm, that's a good thick dick. Oh yes, it's a good thick dick." She liked to talk a lot during sex, and it was this sensuous rambling, cooing, stream of consciousness, stream of cuntiousness, as she stroked my phallus while her lips descended on my nipples. That's my most sensitive spot. She licked around the outline of my breasts, and sucked on my nipples, while I writhed.
"Baby?" she said.
"Hmm?"
"Baby, what do you want to see?" I smiled at her and whispered in her ear: "What have you got for me to look at?"
She smiled that wondrous flashing smile, brown face, violet lips, pink gums, white teeth, mischievous slanty eyes. She swung around so that she straddled me, bum to my chin, yellow heels by my ears. Her mouth moved down over my cock, enveloping it, and she head-fucked me. She moved her head rapidly up and down while her mouth made itself into a vagina. A less talented woman would inevitably have allowed what the computer jockeys call a head crash. In sex, that's when a woman's teeth bang against the engorged, sensitive head of a man's cock causing untold anguish.
She kept her pearly teeth away, and let that thick dick of mine ride up and down in the shaft of her mouth and throat. Meanwhile, I had the entire wealth of her ass and cunt spread before me between the beautiful harmonious ovals of her buttocks. When I put my hands down, I was just able to reach as far as her knees, which were round and hard. I ran my palms up the long, firm surface of her thighs, swinging around the orbits of her buttocks, until my fingertips encountered the damp, pink meat between her dark labia.
She had long, smooth labia, not excessively long, but firm and thick like slices of fruit. They would bear much delicious sucking and lip-riding. But first I had to explore the rest of her treasure. Pulling her labia apart lightly, I saw in there the juices glistening on her engorged tissues. Pulling a bit further, I caused the hole of her cunt to part. I could not wait to get my tongue in there.
But first, I lightly fingered her pee hole which sat atop a little cartilaginous mound of its own. Since the whole thing was upside down, I explored downward a little further until I encountered the good strong line of her clitoris. I reached my arms around her thighs and pulled. "What do you want, honey?" she asked in a faint, dazed voice. "Move back a tiny bit," I said. She shunted back a few inches, so that the heat of her meat shone on my face. I inhaled the fragrance of soap and cunt milk. Now I could get my tongue anywhere I wanted. I started at the top. I ran my tongue around and around the rim inside her open cunt, which made her squeal and I felt the first faintest contractions rippling through her. They were just shivers at that point. While I tongued her, I used the tip of one index finger to play with her butt hole. "You can't fuck me there," she said primly. "I'm just rubbing it to make you horny," I said.
Actually, I would have gladly experimented with putting my wang in there, but one does not force a woman. One does not go beyond the boundaries of what the woman lets you know is her comfort zone. I had never butt fucked a woman, so I forgot about it, except to keep playing with her sphincter, outside, and she said: "That is nice, honey. Not inside, though." I did discover that, if I rubbed around it with my fingertip (wet with my spit and her juice), and if I pressed lightly while I did so, little tremors ran through her entire body. Maybe she was extra sensitive there. No telling—it would forever remain a mystery zone.
No mystery zone her pussy region, however. She pressed it close to my face, with her thighs spread, inviting me to take her. "Do what you like," she said. "Do what you like, baby. I like whatever you do. Just take it. Play with it. It's all yours." So I buried my face in it, licking her cunt hole and then her pee hole (which is rich in nerve endings and drives many a woman up a wall).
I mouthed her Venus mound and moved my tongue up around the shaft of her clitoris. As I played with her clitoral hood, her clit swelled and began to bulge out. She hissed with agonized pleasure as I touched it with the tip of my tongue. She hissed loudly, and stiffened, as I carefully worked my tongue around and around the mushroom bud of her clit. It waggled stiffly on its stem, so erect was it. She began moaning loudly, as if in pain. It sounded as if a large cat were wailing in the room, over and over again, the same tones.
When her clitoris was fully erect, almost like a little bone, I could work my tongue in behind the head and into her clitoral hood. Only for a second, though—because now she came. And how she came. She reared up, tilting her face back, and groaned loudly. Then a bellow. And a soft, declining wail. Her entire body stiffened. Ripples like ocean waves streaked back and forth through her stomach muscles. I had my mouth fully on her clit, suctioning it as she moved her rear back and forth in sharp motions. I lost my grip on her clit. At the same time she threw herself forward, off me, so that she could reach down and get her fingers on her clit and furiously massage herself to the end point of her climax.
Then she covered herself protectively down here with the same fingers while she lay breathing hard. "Oh, baby," she gasped finally. "That was good. You need something, baby. You need a reward and I have just what you need." She turned on her back and invited me to the good old missionary position. Knees parted, and fingers holding her vagina open, and purred: "Come here, baby, come inside. Get in here, baby, enjoy this good cunt. Come on, honey, get that thick dick in here so I can feel you inside me. You deserve some good candy and I have it here for you."
I got in there and rode on her like she was the ocean. It was tight in there, and my fish swam with it like a minnow in a drinking straw. She lightly slapped my buttocks and played with me. Her palms slapped loudly but painlessly on my butt cheeks—left, right, left, right—as if she were playing tambourine. "You have dimples there," she crowed, and drew circles in the sides of my buttocks with her long fingernails.
She lay under me, an Amazon, mighty and glowing, proud to have me on her breasts and under her smile. It is the only time I have ever come several times in rapid succession. I was limp by the time she was ready for the really big one. "Honey," she said, "I've worn you out." She rolled me on my back and started kissing me from my forehead on down, and from my toes on up. I couldn't move. "You are like a rag doll, baby. Was the ride that hard on you?" Then she came to my dick. "Oh, but look, your other half is still hard as a rock. Does it hurt, baby? Is it sore?" She flopped it gently between her palms and studied my facial reaction. I shook my head. "Go for it," I gasped.
She swung around and come down on me cunt first. I pulled a pillow down under my head so I could watch with ease. I rested my hands on her strong thighs and smooth knees as she rocked up and down. "I'm not too heavy for you?" She wasn't. Even sitting on me with those glorious cocoa cheeks, she was really light. Hard, athletic, but light.
Her stomach was flat with a slight scar running diagonally from some long-ago injury. Her belly button was a large innie stretched laterally in this position. Her breasts swung slowly while she supported herself with her hands on the sheets on either side of me. As her tight cunt rode up and down, I slowly found myself stiffening again. I had been hard, but now I was getting stiff.
I reached out with interest for her long, swinging tits. She breathed harder as she saw my renewed interest. She liked having her titties sucked, and leaned forward. She closed her eyes with pleasure as I pulled her heavy tits to my mouth and licked the nipples alternately. I did this languidly because I was too worn and lazy to do much more. She was an aggressive woman when she wanted something, and now she was reaching for that final gigantic orgasm so she could once again become the sweet little violinist and the quiet librarian standing with her books amid the stained glass light. She reached down and spread her hand over her clit, with my dick between her middle fingers. Everything she did to her clit, I felt on my shaft. "I'm getting so wet," she said. "I hope you can still feel me." I nodded. "Not to worry," I said, "it feels like heaven." And she said: "Oh good. That's nice." She rubbed steadily, faster, harder, turning her hand slightly so the ball of her index finger caught the tip of her clitoris from different angles. She liked to talk, and muttered softly: "Feels like I'm raining on you, baby. I can feel the juice sliding down your peepee from inside my vagina. Does it feel nice?" "Oh yes," I whispered as I started to become passionate again. I put my hands on her shoulders, then down her arms, and pulled her face down so our mouths entwined. She was breathing too hard, babbling too much, couldn’t get her breath if we tongue-locked, though she tried, dear girl, she tried to get her tongue down in my mouth, but she ended up raising her face up for air. "Oh sweetie," she said, "oh sweetie, what you are doing to me, baby."
I began to thrust with my groin, slowly at first. Each time, she moaned. She kept sliding her hand in these little figure eights that made her palm glide over her wet clitoris. Then she'd curve her hand so fingers entered her cunt. This pinched my dick a bit because her hole was so tight, and she eased up. I helped her though, by leaning down and sliding one finger up her cunt beside my dick.
That seemed to please her because she made these jerky little nodding motions. Her lips spoke soundlessly. Her breath came in gasps. Her supporting arm strained under her weight, while her cunt arm moved faster, and her fingers slid back and forth around the root of my dick. "Let me help you, baby," I said, and gently tilted her so she fell on her side, off that supporting arm. I reached down and hooked my hand under her knee. I pulled her leg up to me, opening up her underside for her. She reached down—one hand in front, the other in back—and worked her vagina from both ends. She slid two fingers on each hand in and out with my dick in between. I started fucking her from the side, and now she said: "I'm almost there. Peter. Don't stop. Keep it up. Fuck me, baby. Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me."
She kept up this mantra, trembling from the fast and wild exertions of her hands, until the great orgasm hit like a storm. I fucked her as hard as I could, hearing the slam of my hips against the solid weight of her basin. She slammed back with that great athletic body, and our flesh made slapping, slamming, wet noises that echoed under the white ceiling. "Give it to me," she cried. Then she reared up, higher and higher, in huge spasms, like a drowning person, pressing her dark tits into my face. Suddenly it was over. She collapsed and lay limp beside me. I stroked her back slowly and gently. It took a few minutes for her to regain her normal breathing composure. With a great sigh of relief and satisfaction, she grasped my dick and balls in her palm as if her hand were a jock strap. With her other hand she pushed my hair back out of my face and raised herself just enough to kiss me sweetly. Brushing my hair with her fingers, she whispered: "That was nice." We had many a lunch date like this until, as happens in life, she or I met someone new and moved on. I think her next man was a wealthy black banker with fine, subdued suits and gold rings and a sunny smile, who worked hard to win her love and then took her somewhere out west, where I imagine she stands before a white wall overlooking the Pacific Ocean and playing her violin.
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