The Sexy Librarian's Big Book of Erotica

by Rose Caraway

  “Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “I think we could both use some fresh fruit, and I know the perfect way to prepare it.” He leads me to the back storeroom. I hardly notice as he slips my bag from my shoulder and drops it on the floor. He doesn’t waste time with any more words. His mouth is better occupied entertaining mine, urgently pushing me back with darts of his tongue between my teeth, making me think of a predator pouncing. He laps at my tongue, teases and nibbles my lips, all the while maneuvering me back onto a stool nestled between boxes and crates of fruit.

  “You planned that,” I say with a little gasp as I half fall, half settle onto the stool.

  “It worked out pretty well, didn’t it?” He’s practically on top of me. In my peripheral vision I can see the heavy press of his cock against the front of his trousers. His calloused fingers move up under my skirt, up the inside of my thigh, as his mouth migrates from my lips to my earlobe and then to my nape. One hand shoves down my tank top and bra strap until he can nibble and lick his way onto the swell of my breast. I lift my bottom as he pushes the skirt up and slides aside the crotch of my thong just as his mouth converges on the nipple he’s nuzzled free from my bra, and we both gasp our appreciation.

  “I was hoping for more cherries,” I tease. “You were right, they do taste like the best sex ever,” I manage as he wriggles two fingers to spread my labia and trace the wet valley in between.

  “Saved back a few kilos for personal enjoyment,” he mumbles through his efforts to tongue my stippling areola to a tense crinkly scrunch around the peak of my nipple. With his mouth fully occupied and me grabbing his hair holding him to my breast while I bear down on the slip-slide of his fingers, his other hand fumbles in the stacked fruit crates until he produces the biggest, most succulent cherry I’ve ever seen. The fingers that have been in my pussy slide under my shirt to undo my bra, and in the same instant I feel the release of the hooks, I feel the cool firm fruit, not unlike the head of a cock, pressing teasingly at my slippery hole. I cry out at the urgency of the press, and my legs fall open even further. Then he completely surprises me by pushing the cherry up into me as far as his finger will reach. When I struggle and try to protest, he kisses me into submission.

  “Don’t worry. I promise you’ll enjoy fresh fruit prepared this way.” His dexterous tongue probes my mouth deeply as if to reassure me that the hunt for the cherry is a challenge he’s well up for, and I’m convinced.

  I prop my feet on two convenient crates that he pulls forward so that my feet can rest on them for support, almost like stirrups in a doctor’s office, then he upends an empty crate between my legs and settles onto it, not unlike a doctor about to give an exam. His face is close enough to my pussy that I can feel his hot breath. I clench tightly around the cherry, and I hear him grunt in empathy.

  He takes a Victorinox from his pocket. I’m just about to panic at the sight of the shiny blade when he grabs a hefty melon from one of the crates and carves out a crescent moon slice like a pro. He offers me a bite from one end. I make a show of running my tongue along the underside, of slurping and suckling before I bite. His dark eyes are enormous as he watches, pupils dilated, breath catching, juice dripping down his fingers and onto his wrist. He takes a bite from the same end and offers his own tongue action that has me squirming and slickening the chair. Then he circles the cool sticky fruit around my hardening clit. Just as I begin to rotate my hips, finding the sweet spot against the melon’s intriguing press, he shoves it into my pussy next to the cherry then bends and sucks the juice from my clit with a tight grip any hungry infant would envy.

  I’m on the edge, so close that my pulse skitters in anticipation. He covers my mouth with a wet kiss that tastes of melon and my own juices. “There are so many wonderful ways to eat fresh fruit,” he whispers into my mouth. I hear the zip of his fly and feel the heavy anxious warmth of him against my thigh.

  He does the same deft carving job on a peach, sharing the first slice with me, kissing the sweet tart pulp into my mouth with his tongue before the second slice joins the fruit salad in my rapidly filling pussy. I don’t know if it’s peach juice or my own juice I feel leaking down my perineum onto the stool, but Hal dutifully licks and suckles up the excess while I squirm and grind. The slide of the fruit inside me makes me feel full and heavy and oh so needy, like I need to come, like I need to come urgently and like once I start I may not be able to stop.

  “Mmm. Fresh fruit and the taste of a horny woman. The perfect blend,” he says. I feel his filthy smile all the way down to my fruit-filled cunt. “And healthy too.” He breathes a chaste kiss onto my clit and pulls back shaking his head. “Don’t come yet. I’m not finished, and trust me it’ll be worth the wait.”

  I’m scrunched down on the stool with my bum nearly off the seat and my weight supported by my feet resting on the crates. My stomach is tightening and tensing with the effort, and I feel the pressure of contracting muscles on my full hole. I know it would take only the tiniest shifting and just a little more squeezing, and I could come, and it would be so good. But there’s something outrageously arousing about holding it, keeping it inside, feeling its weight, feeling its urgency, feeling its tetchy, distended, delicious discomfort. So I hold on.

  All the while Hal’s stuffing my pussy with more fruit, his cock is stretched solicitously, obscenely, through the open zipper of his fly, bouncing and straining with his every move. I watch as he inserts a fat strawberry and two blueberries up into me. He thinks about it for a second and then adds a couple of raspberries. Each time he fingers more fruit into my vagina, my inner muscles grip, and my opening sucks and clenches and pulls everything deeper.

  The tip of his cock is now sheened with a soft glaze of precum, which he strokes at absently as he fills my slit, and each time he does that, I clench and grip and feel the overwhelming need to bear down. When he inserts the tiniest tidbit of a Kentish plum, after drizzling its juices over my tits and licking it off, I’m sure he can’t possibly fit anything else up into me. My whole body aches with the need to come, and the sounds that escape my throat are kittenish and desperate.

  “Now just one more thing,” he says. He takes one last plump cherry, and I try not to writhe as he slides the cool skin of it around my clit and down between my heavy pout to my already stuffed snatch. Somehow, I don’t know how he does it but, with the pad of his thumb, he pushes it up in me securely and then tugs slightly at the end of the stem, which still protrudes, and I gasp.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  I breathe shallowly, in tight little gulps to keep from coming. I’m on the edge, the very edge, and I fear even the tiniest trickle of juice along my supersensitive slit will push me over. I’m intrigued, I’m fascinated. I want to wait for him. I want to come with him.

  My eyes follow the bounce of his straining cock as from a cupboard on the other side of the crates, he finds a clean white tarp and spreads it down on the concrete floor, then kicks off his shoes and strips until he stands before me completely naked. I gasp my approval at elongated muscles with very little fat, at the tight half-domed buttocks, at the light splash of bronze hair across his hard chest. He doesn’t notice my approving gaze as he concentrates on the plan he has in his head. He rolls his clothes up and places them on the tarp. “That should do,” he says with a satisfied smile. Then he offers me his hand. “I want you there.” He nods to the tarp on the floor.

  Clenching as tightly as I can, I carefully lower my feet onto the floor and stand in front of him, feeling the heavy juicy press of the fruit threatening to expel itself as I walk, slightly knock-kneed, to the tarp. Before he eases me down onto the floor, he removes my clothes, a task with which I’m unable to help, shifting from foot to foot, clenching and gripping, full and uncomfortable and concentrating hard to hold off my orgasm just a little longer, just a tiny bit more.

  He offers me a smile that’s more wicked than reassuring and does nothing to ease the arousal I can barely contain. Then he guides me down onto the
floor; all the while I’m whimpering and moaning and grunting with my load. “There now,” he soothes. “Almost ready. Just a little bit longer and you can come, and I can come too.” He settles his rolled-up clothes under my hips, and I gasp from the effort and the added pressure, fearing a fruitful, explosion-powered orgasm is imminent. My clit feels at least as big as the cherry he’s topped me off with and just as ripe and ready to be eaten.

  He sits on his haunches, one hand wandering to cup his balls where they rest on his thigh and then to stroke and tug at his distended cock. The flat of his other hand caresses my gape like he would a frightened puppy; his gaze is locked on my pussy so perfectly hoisted and displayed on the pillow of his clothing. And god, I want him to see. I want him to look, to touch, to taste how naughty, how needy I am. He offers a filthy little laugh and his eyes sparkle in the half-light of the storage room. “All this effort’s made me very hungry.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “So I’m now going to enjoy my five a day, and so are you.”

  He arches over me and for a frightening second I think he’s going to try and push his cock in right along with the fruit. Instead, he nibbles and kisses and licks, starting with my lips, moving down slowly to my neck and shoulders and breasts. All the while a splayed palm exerts just enough pressure low on my abdomen to keep me from squirming and yet make me more desperate to do just that as he forces more pressure against my stuffed vagina.

  As his lips and teeth reach the bulging undersides of my breasts, his long middle finger curves over my damp pubic curls and rhythmically strokes and circles and presses my clit. He allows me just enough movement of my hips to push up into the heel of his palm, push up and grip, push up and clench. I swear I can almost feel the shape of each individual piece of fruit rotating and pressing and massaging, and oh god, it’s exquisite agony to be so full and so in need of being emptied.

  As he works his way down and plants a kiss on my mons, I know what’s coming next, and I tense in anticipation. But before he begins, he looks up from between my legs. “I’m hungry, so hungry,” he says.

  He nips my clit and I yelp, which puts the pressure on my full vag, and I feel my lips part grudgingly, teased by Hal’s tongue and the gentle tug of his teeth first on my labia and then on the stem of the cherry. I feel the tremor all through me, but hold it tight as he extricates the plump round tidbit and I clench down again. He arches over me and offers me the cherry, and as I rise up to take it, he clamps his mouth on mine, biting half of the fruit away as well as the pit and stem with amazing dexterity.

  Before I can do more than gasp my appreciation, he goes down for more fruit, scooping out berries with the curved hollow of his tongue and placing them in and around my navel. “Hold still,” he commands.

  “I can’t,” I reply. “I can’t hold still. Oh god, I need to come so bad.”

  He shoves a raspberry and a blueberry into my mouth with fingers that taste like pussy, and in spite of my agitated state, I moan my appreciation.

  “There, that’s better,” he says, licking the trail of mixed fruit and pussy juice down from my navel, pausing to pucker my clit still further with a tight suckle. “You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten,” he says. His eyes darken and his breath catches in a little grunt that makes his cock bounce. “We both will.”

  And then he gets serious. I don’t know how he manages, but it feels like he’s crawling up inside me, eating his way to every last tidbit of fruit and sucking out every last bit of juice—an act that isn’t even possible in the hyperaroused state of my pussy. He extricates and he eats and he shares. He sometimes offers me whole berries; he sometimes offers me what he’s chewed. He offers it in kisses that make my mouth water and makes me lift my ass from his rolled clothes, lift it as though I’m making an offering of not just the fruit, but of the vessel holding it, the vessel that really doesn’t want to be empty, the vessel that’s aching to be filled again.

  Sometimes he smears my breasts and belly with fruit softened and pulped and fragrant from my pussy. Sometimes he smears it on his cock and offers it to me, and I taste his precum with the same delight I might taste rich thick cream or custard. He watches me lick and suck; he watches with those eyes that make me want to eat, to devour, to slurp and taste and feast. Then he pulls away and goes down again. I’m beyond myself, insane with desire, wild with a hunger for fresh fruit served to me from his lips, from his cock, from my snatch. As he empties me one bite, one lick, one nip at a time, I’m desperate to be filled again, and I hear myself chanting over and over again, “Please Hal, fuck me, please fuck me, Hal. Please.”

  His breath is faster with each bite, and he becomes sloppy. Sticky juice and pulp dribble down his chest and mine. He slips and slides in it over my belly, on top of my body, teasing me with the cock he knows I desperately want. His fingers have found my anus, his tongue has licked cherry juice from my armpits, his lips have suckled sweat from behind my knees and his teeth have sent shivers up my spine tracing a path over my heel and up my tightened calf muscles. He knows my body, Hal does, and there’s now nothing that I don’t want him to see as he buries his face deeply, hungrily one final time to extract that last fat cock-tip of a cherry.

  I’m keening and writhing and needing.

  From a long way off I hear the rattle of a condom wrapper, and my vision is overshadowed by the man above me resting his weight on his arms and knees. He doesn’t need his hand to guide his cock. It knows the way. He thrusts into me deep and hard, and I’m stunned to find that he can fill me even fuller than the fruit had.

  I’m coming from nearly the first plunge, roaring and clawing and convulsing. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting and thrusting and slipping and sliding across my belly, in the juice and the sweat and the blending of flavors that are us. He keeps humping and surging, and the room smells of fruit and sex and him, and me. I keep coming and raging and he’s grunting and shoving until I think he’ll break me, until I think he’ll break both of us, until at last he explodes. The sound is raw and aching at the back of his throat coming up from deep in his belly, where I feel muscles grip like iron and release in tremors that shake me as they drive back up into me. When it’s finished, when we’ve wrung all there is out of our bodies, I lie there beneath him stunned and amazed and giddy.

  Later when we’re bathed and have eaten a mountain of Chinese takeaway sitting on the floor of Maggie’s flat, later when my body aches from sex I’m not used to, and my pussy is already twitchy for more, I ask, “So how long are you here for?”

  “Aunt Mags is away for two weeks,” he replies.

  Two weeks, I think. Not very long. But then maybe it’s long enough. Maybe it’s just a fling. Probably just a fling.

  He eyes me for a long moment, chopsticks trailing Singapore noodles over his bowl.

  “The cherries,” he says, “they were my deal.”

  When I offer a blank look, he continues.

  “It was my way of proving I’ll make a good partner. I negotiated the cherries. Oh she’s tough, Aunt Mags is, but she isn’t getting any younger, and she needs help around here. Plus the place has potential to grow that she can’t realize on her own.” He speaks around a mouthful of noodles. “She needs a partner who knows fruit and veg. Someone who knows how to get cherries in season.”

  “And that would be you.”

  His smile is broad, boyish, and it makes me smile back. “That would be me. When she gets home I’ll go back to Kent and get my things. She bought a nice little bungalow for herself not far from here. I’ll live in this flat, that way I can take care of the heavier work and the longer hours.” This time the smile he offers me feels almost physical. “If I didn’t love the place already, I certainly do now. I’m definitely looking forward to getting to know the locals. Plus”—he scoots close to me, nabs a plump cherry from the bowl on the coffee table and pops it into my mouth—“I really am good with fruit.”

  I move to sit on his lap, feeling his cock rousing against my bottom as I share the ch
erry in a kiss. “As a real fan of fruit, and especially cherries in season,” I say as I fumble with his fly making ready for round two, “I can’t tell you how much that pleases me.”

  The Perfect Massage

  Olivia Archer

  Armand is exactly what I need: a sexy man whose sole purpose is to give me pleasure. I find him just when my dating life has reached a standstill.

  The first Monday of each month, I place myself in his able hands. Initially, I left my panties on, but he slid his warm fingers beneath the orange strings, liberating my hips to his touch, complimenting me on my womanly shape. I laughed and said that my friend who had recommended him didn’t have these kinds of hips. His strong hands lingered beneath the straps of my panties, while he playfully told me that this was what a woman should look like. No masseur has teased me before. I liked it! Had the reception desk still been open when I left, I would have scheduled another appointment on the spot. But mine was the last of the night. I wandered out alone to relish the feel of my relaxed body beneath the beautiful, star-studded sky.

  Massage was the one indulgence that I allowed myself. In my job, I dealt with a lot of stress and needed someone to rub the knots out of my neck. And with my unfulfilling social life, it seemed necessary to have the touch of another human being—hands on my skin—before I became too accustomed to my solitude.

  Over the years I had tried many massage therapists, many styles, with just as many disappointments. I did not want that tiny glass of bad champagne served on a tray adorned with a plastic orchid blossom. I wanted relief. Someone who could find the source of my ache and make it go away. Really, it seemed simple. There were too many services that merely pampered superficially. Then I tried Armand, and from our first session, he had a way with my body. His hands found the areas in need, and he worked them until my muscles yielded.