"Really?" she said. "Okay, so after you've had your celebratory soft time, your triumph—if what you say is true—I suppose you're musing on who your next cum slut should be. If you're propagating the species and all that. Evolution. Fuck far and wide to assure that life, and in particular a life that resembles you, has your brown eyes and these lovely shoulders, goes on? Oo, yeah... that's it, right there."
"Well, maybe at one point in human history," he continued stroking the spot she reacted to, "but there's a different social, cultural construct. When you find a bona fide cum slut, my dear, you stick with her."
"Oohhh," she sighed, closed her eyes, presses her mouth to his chest. She held her breath briefly, then exhaled. "Christ."
He came at her clit from the backdoor, his hand curled underneath her ass and toggling her knob; she liked this grip. Something about the line of pressure curving over her anus and labia. His thumb stimulating her ass.
"And what are you thinking," he said—a soft, whiskey baritone, his lips just above the whorl of her ear.
******
But she couldn't speak at that moment. She usually found that there were more images than there were words for, a whole collage of their affair, instances overlapping and separate encounters sometimes blending into semi-fictional scenes—things that happened adumbrated by one or two grace notes that she'd, upon reflection, wished had happened... in the local library of their little town, where he'd lured her one afternoon more than a year ago now. Why wasn't he at work, she wondered, when he called her on her cell phone? She was just returning from the grocery store after dropping the kids at school: "Meet me, ten minutes," he said and hung up, not giving her an opportunity to object, though she could have called him back. But she didn't. Immediately her heart started pounding, though she was hardly prepared for letting him see her at that moment, no makeup, dressed in shapeless sweats, her hair in a ponytail and sticking out the back of her ballcap. She made a U-turn in a church parking lot and made her way back to the library. Being a regular school day and work day, the place was mostly empty, a couple women at the computer kiosks checking their Hotmail—tracking their affairs, she thought uncharitably. The middle-aged woman behind the desk acknowledged her with a small smile.
Where in the Dewey decimal system might he lurk, she wondered, her nerves jangling, her sneakers lightly squeaking on the linoleum, heading back into the stacks, rows and rows of metal shelving. When she turned a corner at the end of a row in the most remote part, she saw him at the same moment he grabbed her by the sweatshirt and pulled her to him, backed her against a row of shelves and kissed her hotly. She hadn't even a chance to speak, didn't need to, put her hands underneath this sport coat and ran them up his back. He pushed her sweatshirt up and bunched it under her chin to expose her breasts, tried to unfasten the front clip of her bra.
"Hmm-mmm," she moaned, trying to struggle away, not letting him unhook her. "Here," she whispered, and pulled up the cups to release her round, slightly sloping breasts with their long, bark-colored nipples. He took one in his mouth and sucked it so vigorously, so hungrily, that she flinched. Holding up her sweatshirt and bra with one hand, exposing herself for him there in the library stacks, trying to listen for anyone approaching, she ran her other hand through his hair as he licked around and around the areola of one breast, then the other, and flicked her nipples with the tip of his tongue. He slid a hand down over the slight, firm mound of her belly, into her sweats and panties, curled his index and ring fingers over her slippery pudenda then back up, parting her pussy lips and applying a jiggling pressure to her clit.
God, she wanted so desperately to fuck him—the unexpectedness of it all, the quickening in her throbbing cunt from the moment she realized she was going to see him—but we're in the fucking library, for chrissakes, she thought. Am I going to take it from behind in the public fucking library? She looked down the long row, still listening, but also straining to focus on his fingers plunging in and out of her pussy, finger-fucking her, then rapidly stroking her clit—straining too much, she realized, she was trying to make it happen too fast, was too nervous about getting caught. Quickly, she pulled his hand from her pants; the small heated space between them was redolent with the rich tang of her stimulated pussy. She squatted, her knees making those familiar soft pops that from thereafter would always remind her of sucking him off, blowing him, giving him head: frank phrases that ran through her mind excitedly—and often somewhat guiltily, as when she would crouch to button up her daughter's coat or retrieve a dropped earring back that had bounced beneath the dresser. Her face would grow hot, and she would not only think of this, but actually articulate the thoughts to herself in her mind: I'm thinking of his hard cock in my mouth, I'm thinking of licking that little valentine cut on the underside of his cockhead...
He removed her ballcap and dropped it next to her on the floor. She yanked down his zipper, reached into the fly of his boxers, wrapped her left hand around his hardon and gently guided it to the opening, to release, to anyone who happened to turn the corner of their aisle, to the long stroke of her fist, and finally to the warm, avid muscles and flesh of her mouth. She took as much of his cock into her mouth as she could, giving it two or three long sucks to grease it with her spit, and then began bobbing it steadily, twisting her fist back and forth along the shaft in tandem. Despite the anxiety over being caught that forced to abandon her own orgasm, now she felt entirely focused on his hard prick, of getting him to give up his load, to fill her mouth with a gush of cum right here in the library, among the... where were they? The 200s?
He clutched her pony tail and began rocking his hips, fucking her wet fist and hot mouth. God, she remembers, how hot that was, him thrusting his hips at her, pumping his cock between her lips. She'd sucked him she couldn't remember how many times by now, but he'd always let her do it her own way. But she loved this motion that was so familiar to her, though always him atop her, or fucking her from behind; she loved this persistence and intent being directed at her open, willing mouth. She heard the cars passing on the street outside, and from another part of the library, the squonk of someone sliding their chair across the floor. She slipped her hand inside her sweat pants and began to stroke herself, she was so excited, and he must have seen her, he must have noticed because she heard him grunt "oh fuck" under his breath—the first words she'd heard from him since he spoke to her on her cell phone—and then unload his first shot of cum into her mouth, a large oystery gush. The spasming along the underside of his erection made her think that she could actually feel the ample cum coursing through his cock and blasting into her cheek. There was so much—poor baby, she thought, no wonder he was tracking her down so suddenly this day—four hard spurts followed by a more modest fifth and, after a few beats, a droplet of a sixth. Before he'd reached that number, however, some of it was already oozing back out of her mouth, she wasn't prepared for the force and volume, and some of his cream slipped back out between his cock and her lower lip, dripped out on the floor between them.
*******
