Marian the Librarian

I certainly didn't expect to meet anyone like Myra at a Baptist church social, or anything like the sequel. It was an unexpected adventure, and it changed my life.

I wouldn't have gone at all, but my cousin Helene practically dragged me there.

"Jack," she said, "I want a favor. There's a social this Friday at my church, and you're invited. I'd really like you to come with me."

"I'm invited? To a Baptist social?"

"Invited by me. I'm a self-appointed committee of one to get my anti-social cousin out of his gloomy cave."

"I don't know. I'm not very social, and I have lots of work to finish."

"You don't get out enough, Jack. You stay locked in your dark, forbidden study, writing all that stuff you never let anybody read. You need some fresh air and human contact"

"Helly, I'm happy just like I am. And I'm not a Baptist, I ..."

"I know that. I've known that since we were little kids."

"I'm not even religious at all. I've made my peace with my gods outside the churches."

"Yeah." Helene was not in the least deterred. "I've known that too, for dozens of years. Oh, come on, Jack. Harold is out at sea on maneuvers, and I don't want to go alone. You can be my 'date.' It's not like you're taking a big chance here. We Baptists don't bite."

"But you're Southern Baptists."

"Oh, scary! We'll grab your soul and drag it, kicking and screaming, into Heaven."

I had to give in.

There were two or three dozen people at the gathering, none of whom I knew, even casually. Amongst all the milling and mingling, I made my way to the punch bowl. Punch, of course, was mixed fruit juice and soda water. This was a Baptist gathering after all. Alcohol is a sin.

I nibbled a couple of finger sandwiches—egg salad filling, and poured myself a cup of punch. Several people came to the punchbowl, but one woman caught my eye. Her complexion was olive, but not really dark. Her hair hung down past her shoulders in glistening black waves. Her eyes were soft brown, deep set, and intense. They seemed to see more than most people are aware of. Her deep burgundy dress accentuated her full-bodied, buxom figure.

I waved a cup of punch in her direction. "Buy you a drink, Ma'am?"

She took the cup with a nod. "Thank you, Sir. But this is expensive stuff." Her name tag said "MARIAN."

"I can afford it. May I call you Marian? What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"This den of Baptist iniquity? I work here. I'm the church librarian. Spare time. My day job is, I'm the librarian at Horton Elementary School."

I couldn't suppress my smile. "Marian the Librarian. Nice to meet you. I'm Harold Hill."

"And you're a music professor. 'Right here in River City.' All right, you got me." Her eyes sparkled as she laughed. "The name tag is a joke. My name is Myra. Myra Elwood." Her voice was sultry and vibrant.

"Jack McKay. Short for John."

"Hello, Jack. I just wanted to see who would catch the humor. People's reactions to things amuse me. You don't have a name tag."

"I'm not a member. I'm only here with my cousin."

As if on cue, Helene appeared at my elbow. "Say, Jack, I ... Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something? I see you've met our library lady." She finished with a knowing smile.

Myra smiled warmly. "I've seen you here a few times but we've never really met. I'm not really Marian, I'm Myra."

"Helene. Helene Jacobsen. Jack's my cousin. Look, Jack, Lydia Miller's asked me to help her with next month's schedule. I'll get a ride with her. You don't mind going home alone, do you?" That knowing smile again.

"I'm a big boy, Helly. I'll get home safely." I wasn't at all ready to leave, to quit the presence of this enticing lady whom I had just met. But the meeting was ending. The crowd was thinning and people were trailing out the door.

I turned to Myra. "Must we vacate the library? I've hardly met you. I ..."

"Mr. McKay," she said with a twinkle, "I'm on foot this evening. What's a girl got to do to get a ride home?"

"I would be honored, Ma'am" I said. "Right this way. Mine is the blue sedan parked under the sycamore tree."

On the way to her house we chatted about this, that, and the other. She learned that I was a four- year divorcee. I learned that she was a three -year divorcée. We had a shared interest in Pre-Raphaelite art, Baroque music, and barbershop quartets. She did not share my love for bagpipe music.

"Turn here on Sycamore Street," she said. It's the third house on the right. I killed the motor and walked round to open the car door for her.

"It's not too late," she said. "Would you like to come in for a quick cup of coffee?"

"If the cup's not too quick. I wouldn't want to chase a cup across the room." But I was mildly surprised at her invitation. "Well, maybe not coffee at this time of night. Some other libation?"

"I'm not as Baptist as all that," she chuckled. "I do keep decent beverages in the house. What's your poison of choice?"

"Scotch on the rocks, if you don't have to go to Scotland for it."

"Well, Sir, you're in luck. It just happens that a Highland Single Malt has strayed into my locker."

She poured two Scotches and handed one to me. "Mud in your eye," she said.

"Slainte Mhath. That's Scottish for ..."

"Your good health. 'Slanchevah.' You speak Scottish? A Scotch name and you drink Scotch whisky. Are you Scotch? Other than your drink."

"I'm about ninety percent Scotch—and ten percent water."

I had expected a chuckle, but she played it with a straight face. "So what's in the water?"

"I have to admit there's a drop or two of English in me. Mea culpa. I'd rather talk about my hostess. I would guess Italian."

"Good guess. Italian, Czech, and half Gypsy." She bent down and removed her shoes. Sensible librarian's shoes.

Our glasses were empty. As we returned the empties to the bar, our hands touched. Her skin was smooth and warm. I could feel a vibrant spark of chemistry between us. She turned to face me. "Well?" she said.

I stepped toward her and placed my hands on her waist, just above her full hips. She rose to her tiptoes and turned her face up to me. As our lips met her arms went up and she took my head between her hands. The kiss was deep and warm. She pressed her body tightly against me. Under that burgundy dress she was firm, yet soft and yielding. A current of sexual energy ran between us, binding our bodies in an embrace that seemed eternal. It was as if an electric energy field cackled in the air around us. Through the fabric of her dress, through the cloth of my shirt, I could feel the firm softness of her breasts pressing against me. The fragrance of her body was intoxicating. I could smell her pheromones, feel them working on me.

I hadn't touched a woman since Betsy had betrayed me and walked out of my life four years before. But Myra was awakening desires and needs in me that I wasn't sure I could control. My rising manhood strained at my trousers. Myra felt it pressing against her. She was well aware of the effect she had on me, of her female power. "Wait here," she said.

She collected our two glasses from the bar and deposited them in the kitchen sink. Returning, she took my hand. Again I felt that electric thrill at her touch. She led me to the end of the bar. She pulled her skirt up and bunched it around her waist. She hiked herself up to sit on the end of the bar. Her bare feet dangled. She slid her panties down and off in an easy motion, hesitating as they caught and then slipped away from the heel of her left foot.

"Now bring that stool and sit down right here in front of me." Her voice was low, husky, and vibrant. I brought the stool and sat. She pulled my head to her, between her spread legs, and lay back at full length on the desk. Her vulva was copiously covered with shining black curls.

She locked her heels behind my back and pulled my face down to her crotch. "Now kiss me, Jack McKay," she said. She mashed my face hard into the fur that covered her delta. That glistening hair rubbing against my lips was a totally new sensation for me. She smelled musky, an intoxicating odor of female fragrance.

I kissed the hair of her delta lightly, and licked the tip of my tongue across it. I pushed my tongue into her fur, seeking her lips. She relaxed the pressure of her thighs slightly, and I could get my tongue into the slit of her vulva. I began to lick the lips of her vulva, pushing my tongue deeper into her with each stroke. Her mound was thick, fleshy, engorged, swollen, and turning red. Her pussy was already moist, and her vaginal fluids began to flow. Her love-juice tasted like strong apple cider. I was enjoying this immensely.

I slipped my hands under the cheeks of her bottom and lifted her hips up from the table. The altered angle gave me better access to the opening of her love tunnel. I plunged my tongue deep into her vagina with a rapid fucking motion. I found the underside of her clitoris and flicked it, thrumming my tongue on the tip as it grew and extended out from under its hood. The shaft of her clitoris was tiny but I managed to capture it between my lips and draw it out from the hood so that I could suck it. I mashed her clit hard between my lips.

"Oh," said Myra. "Oh. Oh... OH!" Her voice was low and breathy.

As I sucked that little nub, I tongued it rapidly. This brought more juice seeping into her vagina, and I lapped it up eagerly. She responded by thrusting her crotch hard against my mouth.

"Ohh. That's good," said Myra. "Keep going."

Now I used the fingers of both hands to part her lips and slid one finger inside her. I slid the palm of one hand into the crack between her buttocks, jamming it against the bud of her anus as I inserted the thumb into her vagina. With my finger at the top and my thumb at the bottom, her slit was stretched tight. I continued thrusting my finger deeper into her, searching for her G-spot, continuing to lick the outside of her stretched labia.

"Mmmwwooo," said Myra. "Mmmwwooo, Ooooo. MMMMM!" She was vibrating; not only her chanting voice, but her entire body seemed to hum. Her vaginal juice was flowing freely now. It tasted fresher, lighter than before. I drank in copious amounts of her sexual fluid. It was heady. The room was filled with the fragrance of her arousal.

I opened her labia and licked deeply into her. She was fully engorged, swollen, and glowing red. The pink flesh of her vagina was wet with her juices. I thrust my stiff tongue directly into her as deeply as I could. I massaged her G-spot. Her thighs began to quiver. I took her clitoris between my lips and sucked at it. A shudder went through her body. "Ooooo. MMMMM, yes. Yes!" Her body became tense and taut as she approached a peak of tension. She clutched my head as her first orgasm rolled over her, pressing my face into her fragrant delta.

"Aaaahhhhh," she crooned. "Ooooohhhhh!" Her voice was low and smooth.

I continued to thrust my fingers into her and lick and suck her clitoris. She tensed again and another climax claimed her. And another soon followed.

"Ohh, Jack, Ohhhh," she murmured.

As her last orgasm subsided, she opened her thighs and pushed my head back. "Okay," she said. "Now you may fuck me."

It was unexpected and almost startling. Of course, I had expected our lovemaking to take a normal course, ending with coitus. But this seemed as if she had catalogued each step of our contact like a multi-staged process. But I was aroused. I was ready.

As I stood up from the low stool, Myra lifted her dress off over her head, freeing her generous breasts from their confinement. I was startled to see that she was not wearing a brassiere. Her breasts were large and full, well-proportioned and deliciously rounded. Her nipples and areolas were brown and crinkled. They matched the olive tones of her skin. Her nipples were hard and erect.

The bar she lay on was exactly the right height so that I could enter her on a flat horizontal plane. My risen member was stiff and swollen, turning dark with engorged blood, and throbbing almost painfully. I rubbed the head and then the entire length of my cock up and down the slit of her vagina. Her pubic hair was wet from her multiple orgasms, and her vagina was filled and leaking fluid. I tapped my rod lightly on her pubic hair just above her clitoris. She shuddered. I slapped it down twice again, and a tremor shook her body—another orgasm.

I slipped into her in one long, slow, easy slide. Immediately another orgasm possessed her. Her vagina clamped tightly on my tool, milking at me. I began moving in and out of her. At my fourth thrust another orgasm shook her again. Three more thrusts into her, I paused and remained motionless, holding her teetering on the edge of yet another orgasm. With minuscule movements of my member within her, I kept her on the quivering edge for long, long minutes before thrusting deep inside her and bringing her to another crashing climax.

I scooped my hands under her bum, lifting her from the desk. Still buried deep in her vagina, I laid her down on the thick Persian rug that covered her floor. There was hardly any change in the constant motion of my plunging into her. She shifted her hips upward, allowing me to penetrate deeper into her in this position.

Her pussy kept on and on spasming, clenching, and gripping my tool as I bored into her in dead earnest. She would rise to a climax, burst over the edge into a full orgasm, and rise to another higher peak, without a pause between. She had been moaning softly ever since I first entered her. Now she gasped, and her moaning took on a different tone: Gasp, pause. "I'm going to ... aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! It's sooooo ..."

Gasp, pause. "Oh, here comes another ..."

Gasp, pause. "OOOOooooohhhh!"

My member was afire, beginning to swell deep inside her. I was enflamed, an engine of sexual power. I increased the speed of pumping into her. As I felt my climax building, I tensed my muscles, ready to pull out of her before my sperm erupted. "Myra, Myra," I panted, "I'm going to... I don't ..."

"No, Jack, it's all right. I want your juice, your seed, in me. IN ME!" Her voice was fierce and intense, the only intensity to which she had given voice in the entire evening.

I exploded inside her, shooting spurt after spurt after spurt against her twitching cervix. Even as my spasms began to subside, she went on with several more climaxes, with my shrinking tool still clutched inside her and milked dry by her amazingly powerful love canal. Finally she began to relax, coming down slowly from her height of sexual exaltation. I kissed her mouth softly, and her answering kiss was equally tender. I let my spent cock slide out of her. We lay side by side on the Persian rug, my arm under her beck and her head pillowed on my chest. I kissed her and stroked her belly and her breasts.

Myra was fairly glowing. She turned her shining face up to me and looked deep in my eyes. "Jack McKay," she whispered, "you're going to be an excellent lover. Now take me to the bed and do me again."