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Page 12.
Chapter 6. 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 @ 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 oysteriousness, 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-@ed 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 oyster 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 oyster 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 oyster 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 oyster, 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 @ 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 whang 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 @ed 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 oyster hole and then her pee hole (which is rich in nerve endings and drives many a woman up a wall).
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