Thirty One Days - Chapter 24

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Author: Ronan Jackson Jefferson
Category: Erotic Stories
Published: Sep 25, 2014
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Short Quote From the Story: This is the 24th chapter of the sexy story Thirty One Days, a challenge that involves sex, thirty-one women, and will take 31 days.

We all knew the librarian. Cindy Waterford. The next door neighbor of my parents. Cindy the librarian. Married, about thirty-two years old. An older woman. Very classy, very busy. Volunteer boards, committees, all of the community shit to go along with her full time job. Two kids at home, about eleven and nine years of age. Husband is a teacher, short, fat, prematurely bald, the classic pussy beard around the mouth. A one-time athlete gone soft. Miserable, pompous, entitled jackass. Cindy married the stud early after graduating out of grade twelve, raised up her kids and then returned to college.

The rumors around the bar scene said she fucked.

Single guys.

In the library.

After hours.

Rumors in small towns are seldom true. They are the product of small town boys setting up fake fantasies to jack up their mundane lives.

About four years ago I noticed the life change in Mrs. Waterford. She was tall and reasonably attractive, but she was always covered in ugly clothes. Mom clothes, librarian clothes. Long clothes. American burqa clothes. The short, easy care, bob haircut. You know the style. The˜I never fuck because I am too busy working and careering and raising the kids' hair style.

Suddenly, she was jogging every night. Suddenly, she was bare legged, short skirted and high heeled. Suddenly, she was polished, coiffed and made up. Her hair grew thick and long and flowing. She looked pretty hot, except for the fat blob on her arm and the two brats underfoot.

Since I was spreading my wings here, I was prepared to tackle some of the older ladies. Of course I was apprehensive. Because they were older, possibly more experienced, and most worrisome of all, maybe they knew exactly what they wanted from a guy. And the guy better deliver. Or, they were simply old, and useless, and frigid, and washed out of the sex game.

I was curious and anxious and excited to try. Absolutely. Christ, I already did the attitude twins with their bodywork, the milk chocolate girl, the slanty chick, the raggedy girl and the college preppy chick with the security guard watcher. Of course, I would never forget the wet nurse and my cum fingering pal. I shuddered at the thought. Yuck. Let it go. Let it go far, far away.

I sensed this journey was going to take me into bedrooms and situations I would have never considered, twelve short days ago. What a valuable education I was receiving. I would definitely be the All American Fucking Pro when this was done.

At ten after eight in the evening, I was perusing the stacks at the downtown library. It was a quiet night in book land, a few nerds scattered about and another librarian manning the desk. Mrs. Waterford was in the very back aisle, putting books away off a rolling cart. Mrs. Waterford. Right on.

I was mulling over an excuse to be here in book land, but not needing one. I didn't care anymore. I needed to fuck.

Mrs. Waterford was indeed bare legged, high heeled, and short skirted. Her legs were long and longer. Shapely. Well-trained from the running. She had perfect feet in perfect shoes. The shoes were some sort of acrylic. Totally see through. The classy skirt was a glove on her small ass. The long, thick brown hair trailed nearly down to her rear end. When she twisted for more books I could see the profile of firm tits in her expensive, tight sweater. Hard to believe she spit out two kids. The breast feeding ended years ago, and she probably got no action from her old man. Her tits were nicely firmed up again. I guess. What did I know about such things?

She had a young Cindy Crawford look about her. Classy, and smoky, and super sexy. Cindy copying Cindy. Good enough for me. My cock was twitching already.

Mrs. Waterford was wearing black designer glasses which completed the librarian look. I wanted to fuck her with the glasses on. This might be the smartest woman I would ever do. Listen to big shot me, already banging away, without speaking a word to her. Eleven chicks in eleven nights will do this to your confidence level. Push it through the roof. Believe me, everyone around picks up on it.

I amble back to the far end of the stacks. No one else is around. Forty-five minutes to closing. I am watching Cindy twist and contort, working on her books. She sees me, smiles, calls hello, can she help me?

Hello back to you," I say.

She recognizes my voice, and then me. She is surprised to see me in the library. She should be. I haven't been in a library since grade ten. She flushes, she isn't an idiot. She knows I have been checking her out. These˜born again' women have a sixth sense about being checked out. The precious fuck years have been wasted, by acting and dressing as prudes, by conforming to societal rules. When the ladies re-enter the hot zone, they know they have limits. They fear a time constraint might be attached to their hotness. Ergo, the never ending jogging, and yoga and starvation diets and classy but slutty clothes and footwear. The seductive makeup. The loud perfume.˜Attract a man', they are screaming. Making up for the lost years. Pushing the end days of their sexuality back as far as they can. Good on me for helping them achieve their new goals.

What brings you here?" she asks.

I am close to her now. Three feet away. I can feel her heat. I can feel her butterflies. Eleven chicks in eleven nights is making me sensitive to the ladies. My insatiable appetite is bridging the three feet between us. The testosterone has to be blasting off me in every direction. My cock twitches again, beginning to grow in my pants. I hope it grows to full size and I hope she sees it. It would be homage to how hot she has become. Homage to her hard work and fantastic clothing purchases.

My nose twitches.

What is in the air?

It is something primitive, handed down to us through evolution. Way before we civilized and labeled it˜love'. The two life forces are clashing. From me, testosterone. From the librarian, estrogen. The faintest hint, caused by her body temperature beginning to rise. Rising to meet the call of my testosterone.

I can imagine this proper librarian, a droplet of wet leaking from her pussy, running down the inside of her thigh, down her calf to her ankle, landing in one of those classy but sexy, clear, high heel shoes. Me, sliding to the floor, bending and licking the drop out of her clear shoe.

Not much," I answer.

My cock is definitely stirring in my underwear. I can feel the head begin to flush, feel the material stretch as the bell engorges. Next, the rod will stiffen, pushing the whole thing to the front of my pants. Bulging the zipper out. She will notice it then, especially with her glasses on.

Killing time before I meet the boys."

She looked at me, a deer caught in her own headlights. I was ever the planner, the man of detail. I picked up an important detail on my way in. Her car was not in the parking lot when I first arrived. A quick drive-by of my parent's place showed two vehicles lined up at the Waterford home.

I didn't see your car out there in the lot. I am heading over to my parents before I go out. Do you need a ride home?" I offer.

Always the helpful guy.

She dropped a book off her tray. Flustered? I was quick, bending and snatching it up and handing it back to her. This changed the position of everything in my pants. It all let go from the underwear binding. The bulge was clearly visible now.

Well, okay, if it's not too much trouble," she stammered, eyes now fixed on my crotch.

I felt warm inside. Hot. Flushed. As if I was caught with those stolen baseball cards.

No trouble at all. Do you want me to wait outside for you, or?"

She was more flustered now. She glanced at my face. Back at my crotch. Then back at my face.

No. Wait in here. I will lock up and we can leave together."

Bingo. It was true. Or it was about to be true.

Small town rumors, indeed.

This one was going to be strange. Cindy and her hubby lived next door to my parents for what, twelve or thirteen years? I remember tossing the football back and forth with hubby on the street in front of our homes. Playing baseball catch with him as well. The guy was definitely an athlete. Cindy, she was at least five years older than me. The older woman syndrome. The next door neighbor syndrome. The married woman syndrome.

I couldn't wait for nine o' clock. I needed a good˜man/woman' fuck to erase last night. Last night was eating away at me. Donny, touching my sperm. Scooping it up with his fingers. Albeit to feed a chick. Kind of hot, I guess.

Shit, was it?

You would never, ever catch me touching another guy's sperm.

Not for any reason.

A great, big˜hell no'.

Was the guy that horny?

Or did he not think it was a big deal?

How many other guys' sperm did he touch?

What about grabbing of my shoulders from behind, while he was humping the nurse?

My back was to him, he was thrusting and pounding, I could feel his heat and the energy he was expending. Then he scooped up my cum.



It was two guys fucking one chick.

How is there not going to be some interplay?

I was learning tons of new shit on this sexual conquest journey.

Could one learn too much?

Experiment too much?

Travel too far off the path?

Somehow, not be able to come back?

With these thoughts in play, I was mindlessly leafing through Hot Rod magazine when the overhead fluorescent lights began to click off. The night lights came up, soft and glowing.

A sensual mood being set?

It wasn't going to happen here, was it?

Was I about to confirm the rumors nobody truly believed?

This would definitely be a gigantic˜one up' on the tubby, sloth of a husband. Nothing he could ever do to catch me on this one. Mr. Superior Waterford was either the biggest fool in town or his dick had fallen off. Or, he was plugged into some other wavelength and not understanding the massive change engulfing his wife.

How could he live with her and not see it?

In the guy's current condition, I couldn't think of a chick on the planet who would fuck him. Not a decent looking chick, anyway. Certainly not his wife. His time was definitely past. It was Lazy Boy chairs and TV watching from here on in.

After fucking her, I would drive her home to her hubby and kids. The proper thing to do. For nesting time. For family time. Bonding and truth and honesty and faithfulness and all such crap. Mommy would be flushed out and would want a hot bath and a stiff drink. She would be full of wonder and inner peace when she tucked the kids into bed.

What a satisfying job mommy must have.

Books were amazing things to be around.

See the novel reviews at WWW.EROTICAREVEALED.COM, June edition, and at BARNES&NOBLE.COM.

Visit Ronan Jackson Jefferson on Facebook.

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Watch the video on YouTube, ‘TRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS'.

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