Libby's Liberation Ch. 05

She wandered over to me, bathing in the admiration of all and grinning wide at her own cheek.

"The 'Libby Fan Club' grows ever-larger," I commented.

"Fuck I'm having such a good time," she enthused. "Who knew getting your tits out could be so much fun? It's the best thing for one's self-confidence - I reckon all girls should get their gear off in public, from time to time," she declared.

"And I agree!" said I, in a theatrically tipsy fashion. Libby ordered herself a drink, and we drank to that.

We spent another ten minutes at the bar, chatting and laughing at how the night had panned out - me surfing the giddy, cresting wave of the Jaegermeisters that Libby had virtually poured down my throat, and Libby revelling in her near-nakedness, standing close by my side and letting it all hang out, checking herself out in the mirrors behind the bar every chance she got. A few of the clientele would approach to offer their own praise of Libby's glorious body; Libby thanked them each in turn, graciously and classily. "Can you do us a favour?" she asked the last of them, and she turned to me. "Do you have a camera-phone on you?" she asked.

"I do," answered I, retrieving it from my pocket.

"Would you be so good," she asked her admirer, "to get a picture of me and my very good friend?" she said, stepping close in to me.

"A picture?" I asked, as her admirer told her "certainly!"

"I want a memento," she told me, as the half-drunken guy tried to figure out my phone. "I want something to remember this night... something to look at and dwell upon..."

She leaned in close, and a fulsome breast brushed against my bared arm, thrilling me to the very core at our first actual body-on-body contact.

"I want something to look at," she whispered in my ear, her breath hot and heavy, "as I think back on this night and fuck myself like crazy."

My cock swelled so suddenly it nearly creased itself within the confines of my pants, and I had to stop myself from wincing with pain. "Hot damn, Libby," I told her. "You're gonna do me an injury if you keep talking like that."

She regarded me with the steamiest grin anyone had ever seen anywhere, as the drunk announced he had figured my phone out. "Smile..." he invited.

Libby turned to the camera and draped herself over me, scooching hard up against my side - a leg raised and resting in my lap, sitting heavily upon my rock-hard cock, yet she managed to keep her breasts facing the camera like the true professional she was. I wrapped a friendly arm about her, resting my hand innocently enough upon her hip and upon the fluffy pink belt of Libby's g-string; I had no idea of the quality of my smile, I simply hoped my eyes weren't locked on her tits when the camera went off.

"Thanks!" Libby told the punter, and as she left to retrieve my phone she gave me a playful slap on the arse.

"Oi!" I cried. "Don't you go taking liberties of me, my dear."

"You love it," she told me. "And I've been dying to get my hands on that arse for ages. Anyways: that should do us for one night - shall we make our leave?"

"Let's shall," said I - yes, that's how I talk when I'm drunk - and pausing only to collect her earnings for the night, I took her arm in mine and we headed out the back way, aware that everyone was watching our departure and thinking me the luckiest bastard in the world. 'Fancy getting to go home with a piece like THAT,' I could hear them all thinking.

We paused shortly to gather up her clothes - few as they were - and then she headed for the door. "You don't want to get your gear back on?" asked I.

"Why should I?" she asked of me - to which I honestly couldn't think up an answer. "I'm having so much fun with my tits out, Tom. So why stop now? Besides, it's a beautiful night outside - it would be a crime to put clothes on after a night like this," she declared.

"Truer words never were spoke," reckoned I. So we ambled side-by-side into the carpark and headed for my waiting Porsche, when a call gained our attention.

"Hey, it's Libby!" cried a patron of the pub - he and his buddies were out with cigarettes in hand, enjoying the cool evening air. "Where ya going, love?"

"I'm off home," Libby told the boys, sadly. "But I've had so much fun - thank you all for being so nice on my first night," she told them, with that warm and alluring tone in her voice and set to her body as she spoke to them, still wearing nought but a half-transparent g-string.

The boys voiced their disappointment at her departure. "Can I give you a ride, sweetheart?" enquired the lead larrikin.

"I've already got a ride home," she informed them, indicating me as the lucky bastard. "But thank you anyway."

"Aww, you could get a better ride than that, darl," the lad cooed, suggestively.

"Not likely!" she cried. "This one's got a Porsche."

"I wasn't talking about the car, love..." the guy leered, and his mates laughed along with him in a sleazy fashion.

"Oh boys, come now," Libby admonished. "You've all behaved so well this evening - it would be a shame to ruin things now."

"I say it would be a shame to let you get away without copping a bit of a feel," reckoned the hillbilly hick, and he and his posse began to advance dangerously. "Y'see, me and my friends have a bet going - those tits of yours look so nice, almost too nice to be real. And proof is in the pudding," he said, reaching out as he approached our Libby.

A surge of booze-fuelled gallantry caused me to step forward. "Show's over, lads," I informed them, in my best no-nonsense tone. "Just step back and let the lady be."

"Who's this - your Porsche-driving pimp?" the leader asked of Libby. "I reckon I can take him - whaddaya reckon, lads?" he asked of his posse, and they made various noises of dangerous encouragement.

I tossed the keys to my Porsche back to Libby as I took another step forward. "You think so?" I asked of them, hoping that Libby had the brains to move to the car and fire it up. "Well mate - you get one shot for free. So make it a good one."

The guy seemed taken aback - it was a line I had used in a novel once, where a real tough-guy invites a baddie to take the first swing, the underlying implication being that unless the baddie had the wherewithal to finish the hero off with one punch he would find himself in a whole new world of indescribable agony. In the story, the ruse worked, and the baddie wilted and didn't take the swing.

In the real world: the hick pulled a spiteful little face and he took his swing, and it hurt like fucking hell. I reeled for a moment, before the red mist descended and I did my best to show him why he probably should have picked up on my dangerous undercurrent: my palm shot upwards and connected with the underside of his nose, which picked him up bodily and fired him backwards, falling to the ground with a crash.

As his gang looked from their fallen leader to me, with murder in their squinty little eyes, I looked back to Libby - hoping she had the Porsche fired up and ready to go. But of all the things in the world she could possibly have been doing, she had a breast cupped in one hand and two fingers of the other pressed firmly upon her spot, with a look of heady wonderment on her face.

"Libby!" I cried, as the punches fell like rain from a particularly nasty thundercloud. "Fuck's sake - start the bloody car!"

That started her out of her semi-masturbational pose, and she ran around to the driver's side, fumbling with the keys. I grabbed myself an armful of hillbilly and started pounding at his softer bits with both fists; then I heard the roar of the Porsche's engine, and instinct told me to leap clear. Just as well I did - moments later the Porsche howled backwards at speed, skittling my attackers, and Libby threw the passenger door open.

"Get in!" she advised, leaning across the seats with her tits out and swinging free. It was a decent invitation, so I leapt aboard and she dumped the car into gear, driving away at full noise - and I hoped the car spat chips of gravel all over those foul-smelling hokey bastards as we fled.

We drove in silence for half a minute, roaring along the country roads on our way home - me with a dozen aches and pains about my body from the attack, Libby with almost nothing on, tits akimbo, chest heaving as she panted with reaction at our close escape.

We finally looked at each other, and we smiled, which turned into laughter - and we hooted into the night, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all: Libby flouncing around with her tits out in some redneck bar, me trying to stand up to brawling inbreeds, and as I had made ready to make a break I had looked back to find, of all things, Libby touching herself.

"I have to stop," Libby gasped between bursts of laughter. "I can hardly breathe - I can't drive! I have to stop!"

"Pull over behind those trees," I advised - and we hid in the car behind a roadside thicket, lights and engine off lest the hillbillies come in pursuit. We laughed it out for another minute, and finally we were spent, giggling and heaving and sighing as we got over it.

"So what the hell happened there?" I finally asked of her. "I tossed you the keys for a quick getaway... I'm set upon by half-a-dozen banjo-strummers, I look back to you... and you're feeling yourself up?"

Libby - leaning back in the sports seats, still naked as day bar that silly little g-string - suddenly went a little coy. "I'm sorry," she said, quietly. "It's just... you were standing up for me. You were standing up to all those great big guys and fighting for my honour, fighting to protect me, and, well, it turned me on."

"Really?" I frowned. "I... it turned you on?"

"Tom," she told me, breathily, fixing me with her trademark Libby's Steamy Look, "I've been hot to trot all night, since the moment I stepped into the bar with my tits out. I am so fucking horny it's almost beyond description. I'm sorry, but if you hadn't snapped me out of it, I would have watched you fight those guys for me and... and I would have fucked myself silly."

Despite my various aches and pains, my cock strained yet again at my pants. "Libby," I sighed. "You are just too much, Libs."

"I can't stand it any longer," she whispered, as her hands fell to her pelvis. "I've just got to come. Tom... I have to come now." And she started doing it: her fingers tucked inside her g-string, her g-string so sheer I could see everything she did as she delved into herself, touched herself, fucked herself.

My cock raged, twitching against my pants, burning as though it had been set alight. Maybe it was the booze she had been plying me with all night; maybe it was our proximity, sitting almost on top of each other, cupped and cosseted by the snug-fitting leather seats inside that tiny little Porsche; maybe it was our hot and heavy history, all the flirting, the picture-sharing and simultaneous masturbation via Literotica; likely it was a combination of all these things. I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't say no. I simply had to get my cock out of my pants and beat it, beat it hard, wank myself as I watched Libby tear off her g-string to sit naked in the driver's seat, to sit and fuck herself as she watched me fuck myself.

We sat side by side, so very close in that car, close enough to reach out and touch each other. We could have easily, so easily reached across and helped the other; we could have reached out, I could have finally cupped one of Libby's awe-inspiring breasts, she might have reached over and ran a steaming hot finger up and down the length of my cock, I might have taken a finger and dipped it deep inside her, finally touching the heat and headiness of her juicy, sopping cunt.

But we didn't. We didn't have to. It was an unspoken accord: we wanted to, and we knew we could have done it, and that was enough. I loved my Kelly, and Libby loved her Glen - she didn't like him all that much, but still she loved him in her own way - and Libby loved my wife too. We both loved our Kelly too much to commit the final, ultimate betrayal - and so we didn't do it. We might have willed each other to do it; we might have wished it, mentally urged the other to commit the crime, to reach over and grasp a cock or rub a clit, to take that 'first touch' which would have unleashed a dam-burst of repressed, denied sexual energy and urges, which would have started us off fucking and never would have stopped.

But we didn't.

We fucked ourselves, we watched each other as we fucked ourselves, and we didn't go any further. Not that it wasn't one of the best things I've ever experienced; without saying a word, I unscrewed the gear lever and handed it to Libby, and she grabbed it greedily with both hands and she fucked herself with it, rubbing the cold, hewn-aluminium ball of the shift leaver all up and down her glistening slit and then finally, ultimately impaling herself with the slim leather-bound end, fucking herself in and out, gapsing and groaning in time with myself as we watched the lever plunge in and out of her grasping, tight, shaven little pussy.

We built up together, riding a swelling, pulsating tide of hot horny pleasure together, building and brinking over and over yet not coming, not coming; my cock grew so large I couldn't smother it even with both my hands, I grabbed it and squeezed it and kneaded it and wanked it and that orgasm pooled there, right at the tip, with the odd droplet of pre-come showing the closeness and urgency of my orgasm. Libby's cunt foretold the same: I watched as her juices ran and ran, smothering her luscious, creamy inner thighs and turning them slick and shiny; the delicious, hot, heady scent of her sex filled the close quarters of the car, and the windows obscured the outside night with a thick coating of steam.

We teetered on the brink forever and a day, for what seemed like hours into the night, drinking in the nakedness of each other and the hot horniness as we fucked ourselves and fucked ourselves and fucked ourselves; our cries grew louder and more frantic as the pressure grew beyond tolerable, beyond bearable, as it became so bad yet so good I half-expected my brain to frizzle and fry and leave me a drooling vegetable with an incurable twitching hard-on.

Finally, Libby started calling my name: "Tom..." she moaned, the unbearable agony of a long-fought orgasm colouring her voice with urgency and desperation, "Tom... Tom...!"

"Libby..." I gasped in reply, guttural and desperate, unthinking and animalistic, "Libby... Libby..."

"Tom...!"

"Libby...!"

"TOM!!" As one, with unspoken unity we grasped our hands tight together, we held hands and we gazed into the other's eyes and we came - we came with a planet-shattering force, setting the car aquiver on its springs as we came and we came and we came, my hand pounding up and down my shaft as it finally let its load burst forth, the Porsche-branded gearlever thrust deep and hard, right to the hilt inside Libby's cunt as she left it there and worked furiously at her clit, and I yelled as my cock and balls quivered and convulsed as I came, as I finally came from the root of my being, and she hollered and screamed as her cunt gripped and grappled at the makeshift dildo and her clitoris tingled unbearably under her own ministrations and she came, she finally came from the depths of her soul.

And it was done: it was finally, finally done. We had finally done what we had so yearned to do - we had come together, united and as one as we held each other's hand. We had not fucked - my cock had not tasted of her depths, and she had not felt herself parted by my girth - but that was okay. That was good. To have done that would have been to ruin it, and ruin ourselves, forever; yes, what we had done did not represent the greatest in fidelity, but it was enough to finally satiate our long-building desires.

And as we gathered ourselves together, as we put our clothes back on and Libby finally put those wondrous cans away, we said nothing more on it: it had been done, it was passed and in the past. Libby retrieved the gear lever from her depths (and I vowed never, ever to sell that car), we swapped seats and I drove Libby home, and we both sat in contended, blissed-out silence.

I hadn't been sure how we would make our leave, but as we got back to her place the matter resolved itself easily and naturally. She stepped out of the car, and I got out and walked around too; our eyes met for the first time since we had come together, and we shared a warm, knowing look - and we hugged. I took her deep into my arms, she rested her pretty little chin upon my shoulder, and we hugged long, deeply and warmly, pressed gently into each other in the most platonic fashion that I had never imagined possible - yes her breasts were right there, and yes my cock was right there too, but they didn't matter. We simply hugged, and then we broke off, and with one last warm, smiling look she turned and headed for the house. I watched until she was safely through the door and inside - lest any hillbillies leap out from behind a bush to threaten her sanctity - and then I got back in the car and made my own way home.

From that day onward, Libby and I remained the greatest of friends. She kept doing her picture-posting thing on Literotica, and I kept doing my story-posting thing there too, but we didn't cross paths on the site ever again. I had finally had my fill of Libby's body, and by the absence of her praising comments on my stories I assumed she'd had her fill of my erotica. There were no more trips to the pub for Tits-Out Thursday (or at least, no more that I knew about). We saw each other often, as she called by to visit Kelly or we went to meet her and Glen out for a coffee - and it was surprisingly easy, as Libby and I put our dalliances behind us and interacted only as the best of friends.

To this day, I struggle to define my feelings for Libby. Yes, I love her - and she has a love for me too - but it's not the love of lovers, or soulmates. That love I have only for my wife, and that love Libby... well, maybe she doesn't have that for Glen, but when she finally drop-kicks that loser I'm sure she's got that love reserved for someone else. It's not that I love Libby as I would love a sister, either - definitely not, not with the wanton thoughts and feelings she had provoked in me. And nor is our love that of friends anymore - that sells it short, somehow.

However it may be defined, all I can say for sure is that my feelings for Libby are of the warmest and - now that we've got all the hot and heavy stuff out of the way - the most gentle and affectionate nature imaginable. I'll forever think fondly of our Elizabeth Stanton, and I feel like the luckiest man alive to have been a part of her "liberation".