Librarian Finds Long Overdue Love Ch. 10

November 13, 1987

Single, middle-aged and bespectacled Angelina Lione may look the part of the prim, proper and sexually repressed, buttoned-up librarian, but she's most definitely NOT your father's librarian -- at least not in private. Blessed with a ravenous and unquenchable sexual appetite, Angelina navigates the Dewey Decimal System as deftly as she negotiates about her lovers' hearts, minds and bodies. Her orgasms, in fact, are so intense that she oftentimes faints during the throes of passion.

High fashion and high maintenance, Angelina always models the latest designer threads -- accentuated by one of her dozen pairs of high-heeled dress boots. Her sophisticated look even extends to smoking accessories. The haughty diva wouldn't dream of smoking a cigarette if it wasn't filtered through her long, black holder. More of a cigarette holder sucker and stroker than a smoker, however, Angelina seductively works the black shaft with her mouth, tongue and fingers as if it was a penis proxy; the effect that playing with the long, stiff holder has on would-be lovers is like snake charming. Under the sexy siren's magic spell, they're entirely at her mercy; powerless to resist the temptation to pleasure her -- as if they really would.

Romantic suitor Tom Bailey has been in love with Angelina since he was a 13-year-old student of hers, drawn to the librarian's sexy boots and seductive smoking. Over the past nine years, his feelings -- like his fetishes -- for the femme fatale have only grown stronger. But in order to win Angelina's hand, he'll have to fight off the advances of Harry Seymour, his former principal, and the man who she once carried on a torrid affair with.

It's youth, vitality and inexperience vs. age, knowledge and history. At stake is the love and lust of the feral Angelina, a woman whose libido knows no bounds.

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"Well, here we are," Tom announced, as he swung the front door open to his apartment, then flicked on the lightswitch by the entrance. "After you."

Angelina stepped leather-booted foot into the electric-light--bathed living room, stopped to look about and did her best to suppress an audible gasp. For a woman who prided herself on good taste and the finer things in life, the slapdash decorating clashed with her refined sensibilities as sharply as the paint-by-numbers portrait of dogs playing poker that hung on a wall disagreed with the brown, metal fold-out card table. Strewn around the room were telltale signs of the apartments' inhabitants: an opened pizza box, littered with half-eaten slices, empty beer bottles and old, mismatched furniture. The most expensive piece of personal property: a brand-spanking new 24-inch television screen. One need not look at the lease to know that the apartment's renters were young bachelors, likely fresh out of college.

"How...charming," Angelina politely lied, as Tom removed her fur coat from her shoulders.

"Thanks," Tom answered proudly and cluelessly, turning away to drape his lover's fur on a wire hanger in the hall closet. "Sorry, the weekends are when we usually clean up."

"So, this is a week's worth of garbage," she confirmed, daintily and warily picking up and examining a piece of pizza crust by the brown leather-gloved tips of her left thumb and index finger, before quickly placing it back in the box and rubbing her hands together as if to wipe off the filth, lest it be contagious.

"Yeah, my roommates are pigs. Hey, make yourself at home. I'm gonna get a glass of water. Do you want something to drink or snack on?"

"I'd love a Perrier with a twist of lime, but oh, don't even mention food," Angelina said, carefully sinking her body into the dented sofa, before crossing her black, high-heeled, knee-high leather boots. "I couldn't eat another bite. Really. Between dining out with Harry and now you, I don't want to even think about how much weight I've probably gained in the last week."

A glum-faced Tom emerged from the kitchen with Angelina's "Perrier" -- an ad-libbed concoction of two parts Hoboken tap, mixed with one part tonic water -- in hand.

"Please don't mention him," he requested, referring to Angelina's old beau, who walked back into her life two weeks ago and proceeded to disrupt Tom and the sexy librarian's budding romance.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, darling. It was an unfortunate slip of the tongue. I promise not to repeat Harry's name the rest of the night. This is our time."

Angelina slipped off her leather gloves then patted the faded-brown open couch cushion to her left with her bare hand, signaling Tom to join her. The young man obliged and handed his lover her drink.

"Delmonico's certainly lived up to its world-class reputation," Angelina said, deftly changing the subject. "It was such a treat. That meal was absolutely exquisite. But you really didn't have to take me to such an expensive restaurant on our date, my dear. I would have been perfectly content with merely a four-star french restaurant in Manhattan."

"Ah, price is no object," Tom said with a dismissive wave of his hand, while calculating in his head how many minimum credit card payments it would take him to pay off their $250 meal. "I wondered if the atmosphere might be too stuffy."

"No, I loved it. It had an old-world charm to it -- right down to its clientele. All those rich, powerful men, smoking their big fat cigars. So masculine. It reminded me of my years with Harry. He had this way of smoking a cigar that was just so hypnotizing. You've probably never smoked a cigar before, have you? You're pretty young for that."

"No, never."

"Pity. You should think about it. There's nothing quite like a mature man, who's obviously confident in his own skin, smoking a cigar. It just turns me to butter every time. Harry doesn't smoke any more, but he just looked so masculine and in control, when he would light my cigarette in a holder and then light his own cigar. The universe was in perfect order. The roles of man and woman weren't blurred like they so often are today. All these women today who smoke cigars...what nonsense. The woman should smoke from a long, feminine cigarette holder and the man should smoke his big, fat cigar. That picture made so much sense. I felt so submissive and secure when I was with him. He didn't even have to touch me to arouse me. The sight of him smoking his cigar would just absolutely turn me to jelly. Sometimes, I'd faint in his arms just at the sight. Oh, how he could seduce me with just his cigar."

"Angelina, please. You promised not to mention his name any more."

"Oh, I'm sorry, darling. No more Harry talk. So, where are your roomates tonight?"

"At the bars, probably. We've got the place to ourselves til at least closing time."

Angelina placed her drink on the cheap coffee table in front of her. Turning back to face Tom, she seductively slipped her arms around his neck, until her hands stacked behind his head, then rested her forearms on his shoulders.

"I like the sound of that," she purred. "How long's it been since we made love? A week?"

Angelina stopped talking, tilted her head to the right and began to softly kiss the left side of Tom's neck.

"Actually, eight days, 22 hours and nearly 30 minutes," closed-eyed Tom answered correctly with the speed of a calculator, as his penis quickly swelled into an erection in response to Angelina's foreplay.

"That long, huh?" she said between sensual nibbles on his neck. "Then how about we re-set the clock?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"I need to get ready. Where's your bathroom?"

"First door on the left, off the hallway."

Angelina gave Tom one more wet kiss on the neck, then picked up her overnight bag by her feet and rose from the couch.

"I'll be right back."

"You'd better be," Tom insisted, before gently pulling Angelina back down to his eye level by her left arm so he could plant a passionate, open-mouthed kiss on her juicy, tasty lips. "I'll wait for you in the bedroom. It's directly across the hallway from the bathroom. Can't miss it."

Angelina turned and walked down the hall, then disappeared into the bathroom. When the door closed behind her, Tom jumped off the stained couch and bolted for his bedroom, practically shedding his clothes as he ran.

His pulse racing a mile a minute, the young man, clad only in boxer shorts, jumped into his bed and pulled the covers up to his armpits. FINALLY, he and Angelina were set for sex. Even though it meant his balls oftentimes ached over the past week, Tom refrained from masterbating, believing that waiting to release the intense, built-up pressure in his loins until he was physically intimate with Angelina, would no doubt impress her and put him a leg up in his competition with Harry Seymour for the sexy librarian's affections. He was going to fuck her like she'd never been fucked before, and show her what she'd be missing if she chose the older, most-assuredly less virile, Seymour over him. Now, lying in bed, just the thought of what was to come, began to make him hard.

Finally, after about 10 interminable minutes, the bathroom door squeaked open. In the dim light of the hallway -- in full view of the open bedroom before her -- Angelina paused for dramatic effect. Tom gaped in wide-eyed amazement. Before him, perched on the same black, high-healed, knee-high boots she'd worn to dinner, stood the sexiest sight he'd ever seen. If the boots alone weren't enough to spark arousal, the rest of the ensemble certainly was. Emerging from the boots and extending halfway up either thigh was a pair of fishnet stockings, held up by black suspenders that fell from the matching-colored, mesh, push-up corset that hugged her waist and hips. And at the top of the stunning girdle, Angelina's breasts were encased in black cups that sparkled from embedded rhinestones. A pair of spaghetti straps draped over her creamy-white shoulders held up the corset. The middle-aged woman needn't be worried about the effects that her romantic pursuers's rich restaurant dinners were having on her figure. Even in this unforgiving corset, not an ounce of fat on her body stood out to Tom.

Once Tom finished ogling the erotic outfit, he made his way north to Angelina's face. Eyes dancing flirtatiously behind her Diana Prince-style glasses, a long, black cigarette holder, joined by an unlit Virginia Slims cigarette, dangled lazily from the left corner of her mouth, supported by a pair of volumptuous cherry-red lips. Angelina brought her left hand up and slowly slipped the holder out of her mouth.

"You like the front, I take it?" she asked Tom, who was practically drooling at the spectacle. "I think you'll like the rear view even better."

Angelina turned slowly on the heels of her boots, stopping 180 degrees later. She was right. The black-lace g-string that rode up her crack and was all but swallowed by her butt cheeks, brought Tom's already-erect penis to magnetic north. A few seconds later, when she was sure that Tom had sufficiently drunk in the scene, Angelina turned back around, popped the black end of the holder back into her mouth and sauntered sexily into Tom's bedroom, her boots crossing over the other as she strode.

"You haven't said a word, I can't tell if you approve or not," the sexpot said teasingly, when she reached the head of his bed.

Tom "responded" by pulling back the covers, revealing a now-naked body, highlighted by a massively-swollen penis that meant business.

"Oooohhh, Ms. Lione like," she purred, before proceeding to nibble flirtatiously on the mouthpiece end of her holder. "She like very much."

Playfully, the horny woman pushed her lover onto his back, then climbed in the bed, straddling him below the waist. Inserting the holder in her mouth, she wrapped it around her lips then twisted it slowly back and forth across her tongue. The mouthpiece now good and moist from her saliva, Angelina removed the holder, licked it for extra wetness and traced it softly around Tom's shaft.

"Oh, jeez, oh, jeez," Tom moaned with pleasure, whenever the warm, wet end of the holder met a particularly sensitive spot on his erection.

Popping the holder back into the right corner of her mouth to free up her hands, Angelina placed them on either side of his groin, then brought them tenderly toward the middle, ever-so-sensitively brushing his dick with the end of her glistening, red-nail polished fingers. Then she spread her fingers and brought them together, meeting at his cock, bringing them up as if she was molding clay on a potter's wheel -- except that Tom's throbbing member was anything but soft. Just when he thought it couldn't get any harder, he watched in awe as Angelina straightened up at the waist, raised her arms above her head, crossed them at the wrists and slowly and seductively wiggled her hips. With her breasts tilting up and down, Angelina stared at her lover with red-hot intensity. The woman was in heat.

Then, removing the holder from her mouth, Angelina suddenly pulled a move out of her bag of erotic tricks that Tom had not yet seen. Peeling back the front of her skimpy thong, she tucked the black shaft underneath and adroitly inserted it between the lips centered about her neatly-trimmed bush. As Tom watched in surrealistic amazement, Angelina slid the long holder five, maybe six, inches up her pussy, then brought it back out. Clearly enjoying the masterbatory act, she repeated it for nearly a minute, playing her cunt with the holder like it was a bow across a violin.

Finally, when sexually satisfied, Angelina brought the black end of the holder -- coated with her vaginal secretions -- back up to her open mouth and wrapped her lips around it.

"Mmmmm," she said with a relaxed contentment, after sliding it back out of her mouth, "I love the taste of a cigarette holder once it's been vaginally lubricated. Sucking on it makes me come alive with pleasure. And now that I've loosened that area up for you, my darling, I want you to light me and then fuck me so hard that I taste your semen in my throat.

"Uh...Uh...Aaaaaaaaahhh," Tom exclaimed in a primal moan.

The combination of her dirty talk and sexy outfit finally proved too much for the over-stimulated young man. Unable to control himself any longer, Tom jerked forward and shot his wad, unleashing a jet stream of cum directly into Angelina's corset.

"Ahhhhhh...ahhhhh...ahhhhh," cried the the kinky librarian, practically paralyzed from shock, as Tom's cum dripped from her breast cups.

"Angelina, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tom apologized, seconds later, after he'd finished ejaculating. "Here, let me wipe it off with the sheet."

"No, don't! That'll spread it and make it worse. I just ordered this from Frederick's of Hollywood. Now, it's ruined!"

"I'm so sorry. What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. You've already done enough. I'll take care of it."

Climbing off the bed, Angelina walked stiffly into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. As she turned on the cold spiggot full blast and peeled off her semen-soaked corset to rinse off in the sink, Tom sank back against his pillow and covered his hands over his face in shame.

What's wrong with me? How could I do something so stupid? he asked himself in self-pity. You're blowing it, Bailey, you're blowing it.

Ten minutes later, a fully clothed and semi-composed Angelina emerged from the bathroom.

"Have you got a plastic bag I can put this in?" she asked Tom, holding up the wet and wrinkled corset.

"Yeah, sure, there's some in the kitchen," Tom answered, as he rushed into the room to retrieve a bag. "Here you go."

Without a thank you, Angelina stuffed the sexy garment in the bag.

"Will it be OK?" Tom asked sheepishly.

"I've no idea. I've never tried to remove 10 ounces of ejaculation from something this expensive before, so I guess we'll see."

"What do you feel like doing now? Wanna watch some TV, or something?"

Angelina replied with an incredulous look.

"No, I'm tired, I'd like to go to bed," she finally said.

"OK, yeah, we can cuddle in my bed, that'd be cool," he nodded.

"I meant, my own bed. I'm going home. Will you walk me to my car, please?

"Uhhh...yeah, sure."

Tom hurriedly threw on a pair of jeans and a button-downed shirt -- without buttoning it -- and scrambed into the hall closet to retrieve Angelina's fur coat. Tom held it up and she inserted her arms in it, then donned her pair of brown leather gloves. Pausing before the door, the prima donna waited for her young lover to turn the knob. When he opened it, she walked briskly into the apartment house hallway, without so much as a pause for Tom to slip on a pair of shoes or a coat against the chill of the fall night.

"Well, thanks for an interesting evening," Angelina said, in a voice that sounded as cold as the air, when they'd reached her car parked outside of Tom's building.

"I'm really sorry, Angelina," Tom apologized yet again. "You just looked so hot, and it'd been so long since we'd made love, that I guess I just couldn't..."

"Apparently."

"Yeah, well, goodnight."

Tom's goodnight kiss, intended for Angelina's lips, was misdirected instead to her rouge-covered cheek, with a quick turn of her head. Seconds later, the incensed woman was inside her car and motoring into the New Jersey night.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Tom shouted to her.

Alone in the cold street, with equally cold stocking feet, Tom gazed at the sky and wondered if he'd ever get a chance to sexually redeem himself to Angelina. One thing he was certain about was in their tug of war for Angelina's love, Harry Seymour now definitely had the upper hand.