Satisfaction - An Ofs Story Pt. 02

Satisfaction - An Ofs Story Pt. 02


By the time Danielle relinquished my tits and moved downward, I was sweating profusely. The climate in my crotch was positively tropical.

At least my nipples were cool. Slathered in evaporating saliva, they picked up a cold chill from the air. It contrasted with Danielles hot mouth covering my belly in wet, sucking kisses.

They paused above my pussy, letting me marinate in suspense. Looking up, locking eyes with me again.

They laid the dam across me.

"Watch," they said.


I looked down, over the mounds of my flesh, into Danielle's big, hazel eyes, and they looked into mine, as their nose vanished below the horizon of my pubic hair.

Danielle licked me up and down through the thin nitrile. Their tongue was oddly hard, muscular, a little too insistent and a little too eager as it passed closer and closer to my clit.

It wasn't great cunnilingus.

But it was nice.

I almost spoke up, feeling my natural urge to tell people what to do.

(I sometimes wonder if my experience as a teacher comes in handy as an unrepentantly promiscuous pervert, or if it's the other way around.)

I decided to keep silent, focusing on their head bobbing in and out of my bush, the rolling muscles in their back, their tight ass arched in the air. They were creating a visual and I didn't want to spoil it.

And it ended up being the visual that did it for me. Danielle serviced me persistently, generously, looking like a wet dream come to life. Like a fantasy to put me over the edge, except Danielle was


It started faint, almost hesitant.

But, like a dam breaking after a trickle, it flowed through me, a pleasant tingle in all my fingers and toes and nipples.

I bucked a little, my hips off the bed. Danielle held me, riding through it with me.

When I was done and had come to a rest on my back, they peeled the dam from my pussy. I sighed and stare at the ceiling while they located the waste bin.

Admittedly, it wasn't the best I'd ever had. As I came down, so soon after it started, it occurred to me that I wasn't sure what I'd hoped for. Just a little more, just a little better.

Danielle stayed over. Soon, we were under the covers. They spooned me, casually resting a palm on my tit.

"Sorry about earlier," they whispered. "Sometimes, I like receiving, but I'm kind of hot and cold on it, y'know? I don't quite get there."

"No worries," I said, yawning.

With me, "pretty good" doesn't usually get a repeat engagement. Or, if it does, it's because I've run through three or four other booty calls without success.

But, as I fell asleep, I resolved myself to fuck Danielle again as soon as they were willing.

A partner this lovely might just need a few tries. We'll break through.

I'd learn Danielle.

And they'd learn me. I'd train them, if I had to. I'd done it before.

Hell, I'm a professor. When it comes to education, I relish a challenge.

The next morning is one of those great smooth post-hookup mornings where they've already texted a rideshare by the time we roll out of bed. Danielle is a pro.

On their way out the door, we exchange numbers. (They're still in my contacts under "Danielle - Hot Bartender.") As the car rolls away, my phone alerts me that some library books have come in for me.

One shitty takeout breakfast sandwich and a coffee later, I'm in the bowels of the main campus library, lost among the labyrinthine stacks.

I love it down here. My books are ready at the front desk, but I figure I'll grab some other stuff as long as I'm here. It'll give me an excuse to wander.

I'm horny. My dissatisfaction lingers from the night before. I'm paying little attention to the books as I browse.

I'm revisiting my fantasy of Danielle and the all-cropped fashion show.

As far as I know, there'as nobody else on this entire floor. I'm contemplating slipping a hand down the front of my stretch pants and rubbing one out.

(Yes, I'm out in public in stretch pants. And glasses, and a sloppy bun. At least I have a pretty nice blouse on. College professors have casual days, too.)

I look around and listen carefully. No one.

In one of the narrow aisles, I put a hand down the front of my pants.

God, I'm wet.

I lean back against one of the sturdy steel shelves and start rubbing myself in little circles, just above my clitoris, relishing the contact I've been sorely needing.

I've just about gotten to a point where I'm about to drop trousers and bust out the bullet vibe when I hear a sound a few aisles over.

I straighten up as best I can. Then I sneak around, peek around the corner.

And there he is, leafing through one of the books.



My pervert brain lights up with the excitement of degredation, of my skin becoming communal property, painted and painted again with the product of men's sexual delight. Drunk on afterglow and sex smell, drenched in cum, straddling a hard body with a miraculous cock inside me, asshole trembling with the recency of stimulation.

Darryl lies down on the bed, his long arms holding me upright just long enough for me to steady myself. I sit there astride him, wavering a little, until my maddened pussy tells me what to do.

I fuck Darryl in long, grinding strokes, steadying myself with my hands behind me on his rock-hard thighs. The fat of my hips and legs ripples with the effort. My clit drags on him, to my selfish benefit. His pubis and balls become saturated with my musky secretion.

It's not just his penis. His whole body is large and hard, almost off-puttingly solid. It's like fucking a refrigerator.

- Teamwork, Part 3)

I say it before I have a chance to think about it.

"Hi, Darryl."

He looks up, surprised. He has on a t-shirt, basketball shorts, and glasses. My heart leaps.

He's cuter than I remember.

I can see the contours of his big cock and balls, like X-ray vision, through the folds of his shorts.

"Uh, hi," he says, putting the book back on the shelf.

I approach him.

"You know, you're supposed to leave that in one of the bins so that a librarian can shelve it," I say.

"Oh," he says. "Sorry."

He seems awkward. I guess it is kind of an awkward situation. The last time we saw each other, he and a half dozen of his football friends had covered me in their cum and left me outside, naked and alone.

It was one of the best nights of my life.

"It's cool," I say, trying to be casual and flirty. I saunter over to him and lean against the shelf. Very cool, very casual. I'm in his personal space, just a little.

A plan is forming.

"If you're looking for something," I say, looking over the top of my glasses, "I can probably help you find it."

"Okay," he says. "Practices of Stateless Peoples. Schmidt and Luden."

Not quite the answer I expected. But I play along.

I say, "I think that one's up here."

I turn my back on him. I make a big show of reaching for the book-I actually do know where it is-and I let him have a long look at my body as I get it down.

I get up on the balls of my feet, raising my butt. The stretch pants sculpt my wide, crinkled ass into round marble. As I reach, my blouse rides up, exposing stretch marks and love handles.

I face him, hand him the book, and notice with some satisfaction that he has a visible half-erection in his shorts.

"Thanks," he says. "I'd better get going."

"Hold on," I say, getting in close to him. "Don't you want to thank me?"

I reach up and guide his head in for a kiss.

He's hesitant at first, but he quickly gets into it. He smells freshly showered. His mouth is wet and surprisingly soft.

He lets his book bag slide to the floor and embraces me in his ludicrously strong arms. We're crushed together. I can feel his now-fully erect cock against my belly fat.

My bag dangles at my side. I fumble for a condom, and, when I find one, I let the bag drop. Its contents spill-pens, a notebook, my bullet vibe, more condoms.

(My motto: Be prepared anywhere you go. You never know when you'll meet someone interesting.)

After some fumbling with his waistband, I have his cock out over the top of it. It's big, hard, and exquisite. I sheath him in the condom in record time.

"How?" he breathes.

"Let me figure that out," I say, still not quite sure.

I look at the floor. Hard tile. After a quick look around from one end of the aisle to the other, I pull my pretty nice blouse off over my head and roll it tightly.

Standing there in stretch pants and a sports bra, I look like I could be getting ready for a jog. Except for my glasses.

I crouch, lay the rolled blouse at his feet, and kneel on it.

Plenty of times, I've fucked up my knees from giving blowjobs on hard floors. Now, at 40-whatever, it's harder to walk off those bruises and scrapes than it used to be.

I take his cock in my hand and put my lips on the head. The condom crinkles quietly.

With the blouse cushioning my knees, inhaling the strong scent of latex under my nose, I reflect with pride on my maturity for taking commonsense precautions while I suck Darryl's cock in the library.

Pinkie wrapped around his scrotum, my remaining fingers gripping his shaft, I focus on the end of him, his most sensitive place. I go deep periodically, allowing his dickhead into the back of my throat.

At one point, I cough. It's loud, but the stacks of books soak up the echo. Slobber runs down my chin and my tits; his hardon and his tightly curled pubic hair are a mess of stringy mucus.

I glance up at him. His forehead shines with sweat. His face is blitzed with sexual pleasure. I don't think he minds.

When I'm sure I've fellated him to maximum hardness and that he won't be able to stop himself if I keep going, I stop. And I stand up. He opens his eyes, looking a little confused.

I turn around and pull my pants and thong down. I bend over, legs apart, pants stretched between my big thighs. I put my hands on one of the shelves to steady myself.

After a moment of what must me him just staring at my wide ass and the hairy buffet I've spread before him, I feel the head of his cock poking in between my labia.

I've been ready for love all morning. He slides in effortlessly.

We fuck, hard, him grunting away behind me and me hanging onto the shelf for dear life.

My hips ripple every time his pelvis claps against mine. The head of his cock repeatedly comes within a hair's breadth of my cervix. It feels rough, dangerous, incredible. Exactly what I need.

I've fucked a lot of people, but my experience with Darryl was extraordinary. That night was a slut magnum opus.

Darryl isn't just in my spank bank, but in my dreams. My mindspace contains monuments erected in his honor.

Fucking him now, even a good old-fashioned library quickie, is bringing back warm intimations of that night, unlocking memory, recalling sensations.

And his cock, the perfect thickness of it, is scratching an itch within me in a way that cocks rarely do.

I'm actually pretty far along, so it's almost disappointing when he comes.

He grunts, squeezes the fat of my hips in his hands with almost painful strength, and pushes into me as deep as he'll go. And he holds me there, a glorious pressure between my body and the cock inside.

Then I feel him withdraw. He moves slowly, the condom making a wet squishing sound.

Still bent over in front of him, my pants still down, I reach down and grab my vibrator from my pile of stuff on the floor.

Legs apart, I vibrate myself to a quick orgasm. As I come, I feel his eyes on my clenching, quivering holes.

When I'm done, I turn to face him. He looks stunned. It's been a whirlwind; I'm not surprised by his shock.

He also looks like someone who just had sex. You know how you can just tell? If anyone were to walk up right now, it would be immediately obvious.

I pull my pants up, pull on my rumpled blouse, and try to get my hair back in order. He leaves the spent condom on one of the shelves and pulls his shorts back up.

I feel like repeating

myself about leaving stuff in the bin so the librarians can shelve it, but my better judgment prevails.

The aisle smells strongly of sweat and pussy, mixing with the dry air and stale scent of library books. We look around us, belatedly checking for onlookers. There doesn't seem to be any.

That's when he says, "Ohhhhhh, now I remember who you are"

I feel myself turn red, all the way from my toes up to my hairline.

He laughs and says, "That's right! You're the chick who fucked the football team."

I feel myself somehow turning even redder. I try to play it off.

"Yup," I say, "That's me. The chick who fucked the football team."

I'm still not sure who he thought I was before that.

Maybe one of his other, doubtlessly numerous conquests.

"Oh, shit," he says, laughing some more in his sudden recognition.

He invites me to have an early lunch with him in the library cafeteria. Maybe he feels bad about not recognizing me.

As we walk to the elevator, I spot movement, just barely in my line of sight. A pair of female students are rushing away, giggling, in the next aisle from where Darryl and I had been standing.

I think one of them might be the student from the bathroom at [Dive Bar redacted]. But I can't be certain. There's no telling how long they'd been there or how much they saw.

Darryl and I have a nice lunch together. We swap numbers.

He's in my phone as "Darryl - Hot Football Player."

I'm in his phone as... well, you know.