Librarian Stripper

Despite the sadness and death in our air, I was on a role with the patrons (or patients as we sometimes call them). Then he  walked in. From my vantage behind the reference desk I could feel him sizing me up. Glancing up, I see his eyes looking me up and down– fidgeting his library card in hand.

I know this look, trouble, but they're all trouble, it's nothing I can't work with.

In my stern yet polite voice I ask,
"How may I help you."
Stammering forth a few steps his words start to spill…
"uh umm um.."
then with a found forceful,
"No"
He spurts the words–
"When did they start hiring strippers at the library ?"

Stunned and with that dumbfounded– what the fuck are you talking about look, one that I get all too often while manning the reference desk, I tell him–
"I don't know how to respond to that, but I will take it as a compliment. Thank you– now how may help you?"

Mind you, I certainly do not look like a stripper, maybe a Burlesque Librarian, but certainly not as hot as a stripper.

I can see his blood begin to rise at my comment,
"No,NO. I do not want to be helped by a stripper, look at you, you look like a disgusting stripper."

Patrons overhear,  a woman makes eye contact at me— shaking her head–don't listen to that freak, you don't look like a stripper– she tells with her eyes.

Another patron barks at him–

"then get the fuck out of here mother fucker."

Shutting down my rage and my urge to jump over the desk and wail on his ass, I say…
"I wouldn't know sir if I am dressed like a stripper, tell me about."

More rage fills his eyes. I try to stay calm, but can feel my adrenalin beginning it's own dance in my mind and stomach. He almost makes me feel self conscious, but I absolutely refrain from adjusting any part of my wardrobe. I have tits. I have tits that show cleavage, I have tits that many men want to get into, I like to wear shirts that show that I have tits.
I become empowered.  But this empowerment can be dangerous in a civil servants position. I bite my tongue and pick up the phone to call security. Alas he gets away, but the empowerment and now warped horniness rides with me.

I am wound up, incidents like these make me high, like I just snorted a giant line of coke and I hate coke. But, fuck I feel electric and pissed off and my cunt is wet. I have that fuck off energy that makes me want to fuck it out. I meditate the feeling down so I can continue my desk shift.

I begin to scope the room for a round of– who would I fuck in here.

Then he walked in,  leading with his cock. The bulge and sway striding my way, my eyes glued to the heaviness in his pants, so prevalent that it takes my breath away. I could definitly  ride my anger out on that joint, and with that thought I feel the calm rise in my body. I watch him moving through the room, his cock free and so apparent behind the fabric.

With my eyes I follow him down the Rock and Roll aisle, past the Blues, then further into the stacks where he disappears from view. I slip into a daytrip that I'm back there waiting on my knees, waiting for his cock to be close to my face, to my slut hungry mouth. Clinching the muscles of my pussy, I imagine his hand landing on the back of my head and with a forced gentleness he guides my mouth to his cock. Pulling my hair toward his crotch, holding me there, making me feel him grow underneath his pants– and that panting sigh of want escapes my lips. I want him to feed me his cock.

Slipping into a full on vision of his cock sliding past my lips and into my throat, my knees burning from the tiled floor and not caring. His balls, I greedily fill my mouth with–while my hands stroke his hard trunk gliding across his flesh from the saliva I left behind. Everything disappears as I lose myself into my imaginary cock worship.

As I drift into my workday fantasy, lost into the taste of the precome he is dropping on my tongue, he approaches my desk.  His thick cock at just the right level, resting right above the counter, now considerably larger than when he walked in. I can clearly see the delineation of shaft and head– and that tell tail wet spot. He knows my eyes are focused on the heaviness between his legs, I absolutely cannot help it. I ask his cock…

"How may I help you?"

Republished with permission from Library Vixen. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo courtesy of The Art of Blowjob.