Lusty, Busty & Bored - that just about described the girl's state of mind & body that spring. The fever had already gripped her; the fever for something new, something borrowed, something 'blue'. 'Playing with Shakespeare' was the headline that caught her eye as she idly flipped thru the community newsletter. It beat playing with herself, she thought, as she read on...'We will be assigning roles and acting out scenes' - hmmmmm, sounded like harmless fun. She was an inveterate ham, and loved an audience, whether her performance was 'X' rated or merely 'PG'. Besides, she just might get lucky-she'd fucked actors before. They were egomaniacs all, but she knew how to stroke that ego-a little smutty cheerleading and any Laurence Olivier wannabe would be putty in her able hands.
She entered the conference room at the local library that first night with her usual flourish, the last to arrive, like a brightly colored tropical bird invading a sea of lackluster sparrows. She arranged herself carefully in the only available seat-at the professor's left hand. Cute, was her immediate assessment, smart her next, funny her third. He seemed flustered in her presence, impressed with her intellect. His demeanor was almost textbook perfect; tousled, too-long hair, wire-rimmed specs, corduroy suit jacket, mismatched socks. She hoped her attraction wasn't too obvious, but when he followed her after class and engaged her in some high-octane flirtation, a deliciously wicked plan began to form. Oh, she'd study her Shakespeare, alright, but she hoped to gain some insights into his sexual proclivities as well.
The second and third classes were uneventful, save for their thinly veiled innuendos and asides. The others seemed too immersed in the Bard to take any notice. It was an eclectic bunch that had chosen to soldier on, despite the dry material - a couple of older, retired couples that followed summer performances of the Stratford scribe's works, like hippies touring with the Grateful Dead; several women-of-a-certain-age, that filled their lonely nights with seminars like this one; a rather handsome, if quirky, out-of-work actor with a flair for the dramatic; and of course, our heroine, and the object of her germinating desire.
She arrives at the library early for the fourth session, hoping to get some reading done. She'd already decided that it was now or never-she would seduce the teacher tonight. Oh, he'd be a tough nut to crack, married and all that - but she'd come to consider that as only a minor flaw (albeit a somewhat tragic one), in an already flawed plan. What did she hope to accomplish? What if they were to be caught, in flagrante delicto, as it were? These questions niggled, but did not nag; she'd wanted him, almost from the first - and was certain he felt the same way about her.
Her clothing had become increasingly provocative, her toilette more extensive, with each succeeding week. Tonight she's chosen a long, gauzy dress, hand painted with fish (she'd learned, subtly she hoped, that he is a 'water' sign) - a little flimsy for the unseasonably cold weather, perhaps, but loose fitting and just-barely-opaque. Enough so that she won't arouse suspicion among the other patrons. She has no undergarments on, you see, not a stitch. Easy Access, that was the key...
She sweeps past the checkout desk, gliding by the staid librarian on duty, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the clerk's disapproving smirk. She heads for the reading room, set apart from the stacks, a quiet, light-filled space overlooking the bend in the river. As a rule, she dislikes prairie architecture, its lean, angular lines so unlike her own; but this evening, as she watches a fisherman plying the shallows, she is grateful for the setting sun its tall windows admit.
The waning rays glint off of her reddish blond hair as she rearranges a piece of furniture - a deep, leather armchair with slatted armrests. She situates it on the Oriental rug so that it faces the windows, in the corner furthest from the street. Then, she locks all but the door she knows HE will use. She returns to the chair to wait for him, seating herself at the edge of its overstuffed cushion.
Leaning back, she slings first one bare leg, then the other, over the chair's padded arms. She draws up the skirt of her dress, bunching it in her hands as she goes, drawing her fingers along the insides of her thighs. When she feels the warmth of the dusty shafts of sunlight on her mound, she stops. With her left hand, she slowly strokes her labia until they are glistening with her juice, until the scent of her musk fills the silent room. And there she waits, waits for his footsteps, waits to see if she's chosen the proper approach, if she can broach the armour of this enigmatic man.
She hears the snick of the door latch and jumps, almost imperceptibly - then comes his distinctive, halting gait. She purposely makes no move to acknowledge him. Before she can arrange her features into a suitably provocative countenance, he is behind her, on her – twining his long fingers into her mass of auburn curls, roughly pulling her head back, mashing his lips to hers, snaking his firm tongue into her wet, willing mouth. He moves around the chair, blocking the light from the windows, his mouth never leaving hers. She grabs his arms, pulling him down, down, forcing him to his knees.
As his mouth travels from her mouth to her neck, she groans. "How did you know, baby, how could you tell I wanted you?" she murmurs as his hands find her breasts. Roughly pushing the twin orbs together until he's able to bury his face between them, he replies, "How did YOU know, my love, know I'd risk everything for this chance?”
She intends to wrap her legs around him, clamping his arms to his sides, helpless, but he is too quick - his hands move down her torso and slip under her legs, pulling her up, closer, lowering his head. She runs one hand over his silky hair, the other fondling her breasts, pinching her swollen nipples. He's begun a long, slow inspection of her private parts with his tongue, now hard and insistent, now a deliciously slow, maddening friction, rubbing his nose on her clit, chewing and sucking as if she were a ripe mango, till his face is awash in her dew. His hands, which had been kneading her ample thighs, now move inward, his fingers seeking to fill openings so eager to be stuffed that she lifts her head to command him, "Oh, God, Baby, that feels so good, use your hands too, put them anywhere, make me come, please..."
As she raises her hips from the deep chair, he sits back on his haunches to admire her mouth, gaping in an 'O' of hunger. "Do you want my hands, my cock, my mouth again?" he asks, but she can only pant in reply. Swirling around her clit with his thumb, he shoves a single finger into her spasming cunt, and she comes almost immediately. She ejaculates like a man, to his surprise & delight, soaking the front of his shirt, turning the sienna tan of the leather cushion into a deep, damp walnut.
”Oh, again, again, please," she gasps, and he obliges with his agile fingers, some in her twat, some in her ass. She grinds her hips in a slow circle, to some invisible tune, working up to another climax. And when she comes again, the flood dammed by his large hand, he lifts his palm to his mouth as if it were a chalice and drinks, her juice dribbling down his chin.
She slides off the chair, now, on a sluice of her jism, and kneels before him. They are face-to-face, pelvis-to-pelvis, as she slowly begins to unbutton his rumpled shirt, then slips her hands between them to open the fly of his khakis in one deft, practiced motion. His prick is perfect, as smooth and hard as pink quartz, and she pushes him onto his back. The bristly wool rug chafes his ass pleasantly as she works his pants down to his knees. She takes a moment to caress his balls before she climbs on top of him, and positions herself for the ride she's fantasized about since he first took her fancy.
She pushes him back onto the dusty carpet and positions herself over his straining prick. As her labia embrace his throbbing member, caressing and milking it, she savours the look on his face - longing, pain & hunger all mingled there. She supports herself, first with her hands on his broad chest, and when she has him in her as deep as he can go and is overcome with a need to connect, to take him & make him hers, she shifts her weight and slides her hands down his strong arms, sweeping them in an arc, until they are over his head, pinning his wrists. She dangles her full breasts in his face, and he grabs at them eagerly with his voracious mouth.
"Oh, God, that's it, suck harder, HARDER, Damn You!" she pants, all the while grinding her hips, feeling him hitting bottom, wanting to come again, wanting to wait. The brillo pad roughness of his pubes scrubs against her clit, his mouth on her tits, the idea of dominating and controlling him all conspiring to force another eruption, her cunt betraying her, his cock sliding out as she covers his mouth with hers, sucking and biting his tongue. He has the most sensuous mouth, the most agile tongue, the deepest kisses she has ever experienced. Greedily, she slides her sopping cunt the length of his body, until her knees are on either side of his face. As she grabs on to the low-slung coffee table they had steadily been humping their way towards, he extricates his arms and wraps them around her ass, digging in his fingers, plunging his tongue into her wet, gaping womb, his teeth gnashing as he fiercely chews her nether lips.
"Drown me, baby, come for me," he pleads, but his words are muffled, the sounds of his oral lovemaking drowned out by her moans. When he thinks she will crush his head between her thighs like an oversized egg, he scoots out from under her. Before she can register her disappointment at being so abandoned, he has gotten to his knees and taken her from behind, his hands closing over hers on the well-worn wood. He can't stop fucking her, fucking her, fucking her, pushing her away and then pulling her back to him, biting and licking her neck. She wants to kiss him again, wants him to stifle her cries with his generous mouth.
"Please, lover, lay me down...," she begs, and he does, grabbing the cushion from another nearby chair to place lovingly under her head. Now he returns the favor, straddling her first to slide his slippery cock between her breasts - he takes one in each hand and lifts them, molds them, to cradle his prick.
