Librarian’s Glasses
By Vixen • Aug 26th, 2009 • Category: Erotica, FeaturesMy favorite online crush likes pictures and I like showing him my ass… it’s a good fit. Sometimes there are requests, sometimes just whims. He likes stockings. So with him in mind, Sunday night before going out I set the camera up to take shots of me getting ready–my ass, tits, legs, big thighs. Shots of me putting my stockings on, clipping them to their belt, crawling across the floor, my fingers exploring my pantie patch.
I left, but always take my camera with me. Not long ago the requested for some peep shots from inside my car. So I took advantage of this night out to shoot those too. My dress lifted, ass up in the front seat–I took a series of snaps. Close ups, odd angles, spilling cleavage, the pantie patch with its triangle of forming wetness. I took shots while I drove, feeling myself, stroking my full lips over the fabric. I started my night out kittenish, playful, frisky—in the mood.
It was one of those classic strange San Francisco nights–full of carnies, gypsies, misfit cabaret barflies, big thighed broads’ in short short skirts with eyes of glazed glass. The music was off—a weird mix of eccentric gypsy, Eastern Euro, bizarre. I felt like I was stuck in some David Lynch fucks Fellini as seen through the librarian’s glasses.
It was pure oddity. I found myself becoming light-headed on heavy beer, the infamous SF Tamale Lady looked more like a bearded lady, there was a strange dancer that looked like sherpa with a hospital band around his wrist–who claimed not to want to marry, but just dance with us. Dance. The saxophone player from the second band had me wanting my pussy licked and worshiped ferociously like the musical instrument it is. Lapping at my clit like a reed. I felt myself get wet and stay that way, sticky even. He was all oral, a definite pussy worshiper, I imagined his beard covered in my liquid love. The cast was a strange mix of misfits that had wandered in from the streets, but all somehow belonged together.
We, the librarians, fit right in. Misfits of the book, guardians of the strange.
When I got home, I was sort of high on the night; turning the yellow hued light I followed with the blue glow of the computer screen.
I watched your cum spurt out and land on your belly, streaming and streaking in white, landing like electric spittle, dripping from your tip. It made me jealous of something and nothing tangible at the same. I want to fuck you with your glasses on–I want fuck you with my glasses on, two overly educated people fucking like animals with none of that education at work, critical thinking skills have no place here. I lifted my dress, unhooked my stockings from the buckles, pulled them down, spread my thighs wide, and pulled my panties to the side. The smell wafted up into the air, creamy excitement from thinking earlier about my cunt being worshiped. Vanilla yeast. My pussy was full ready to be stroked drained, sapped of it sexual build up of the night. I put the Friday playlist on even though it was Sunday and slid my fingers between my folds, wet pages opened up. Dripped.
Hovering over the record button I hit. One split screen is you stroking your thick cock, coaxing your love and the other, me caressing my pussy. I watched both of us. Watching as your cock grew in girth–creating that ache of longing from the core of my insatiable cunt. Simultaneously we virtually fucked each other. When you sat up, directing your beam at me, inviting my lips to taste, to feel you grow further inside my mouth, for a split second you are really passing my lips and I could smell you, and I can taste you. For a split second you were mine.
Envisioning the way I would slide onto you–your round substantial head teasing my slit, seeping into me. Gradually my cunt devours every inch of you. Spreading myself open–slow grinding onto my fingers, the silver bullet rumbles on my clit, two fingers lost inside, my flesh fully concealing their movement. I am fucking you, arched teetering on that pain consumption of the mind and pussy. Coming, I close my thighs around my hands, fingers and toy.
Sitting up from my orgasm slouch, my hand still slipping in between my pages, I lean forward, my pussy off the chair, but my ass still on it. Fucking myself harder, thinking about you coming inside me, squeezing your cock, draining you. Faster my hands plunge and flick, the bullet circling my button. I thrust and drove onto my already buried fingers and I begin to drip, the camera catches it all, the trickles dropping between my legs to the floor below, the elation of me coming and the gush from inside surrounding my fingers as I come hard for the second time. Stars flash that magnetic white light then fade.
I hit stop, save, and strip my way to bed.
I love the act of photography and all the glimpses she gives us, it builds the desire with the shaded impressions of SF…
Is there such a genre as psychedelic noir? If there is, I think Vixen has captured the essence of it. She’s transformed San Francisco into her own playground – a intensely sexual carnival where even the pavement looking up her skirt, and the air caressing her skin become her toys. She is the watcher and the watched, the very separation of the voyeurism and the exhibitionism increasing the reader’s desire. Only at the end do the two meet. Delicious. ^_^
“Lapping at my clit like a reed.” “I imagined his beard covered in my liquid love…” Holy. Shit. I will never look at a saxophone the same way again. The imagery in this story is incredible. Thanks for a wonderful read, Vixen!
Wonderful story, great images
I know this orgasm slouch very well. In my post-come primate stage slumped on my couch, my mind blank, feeling those soft clutches and beginning to have a strong yearning for ice cream.