Libby Doe

I Need More!

Chapter 1

Michael was late.

"Hurry!" I yelled at him. "Get your coat on!" He was holding his school bag in his teeth while he tried to pull his coat on. I reached over and helped him with the sleeves and then zipped the zipper. I pulled the hood around his face and tied it tightly.

"Now, hurry!" I repeated. "The school bus won't wait all morning!"

A short blare from the bus horn confirmed my threat.

"One minute!" I yelled out the kitchen window.

I bent down and kissed my son on the cheek and then ushered him to the door. The chill morning air curled into the warmth of the kitchen as I opened the door. I could feel its icy breath billowing up between the loose folds of my pajamas, touching my hidden nakedness. I clutched my robe more tightly against my breast.

"Don't forget your milk money!" I shouted to Michael as he stepped onto the school bus.

He nodded, and the bus was gone.

I closed the kitchen door, but the chill was already in the room. I shuddered and rubbed my hands together.

"Coffee," I said to myself.

I walked over to the stove and lifted the blue and white Corningware coffee pot. It was empty.

The idea of instant coffee sounded nauseating, and I felt too lazy to make another pot for just one cup. I'm not much of a coffee drinker. Just this one cup in the morning to get me started. But I've got to have that cup or the day is ruined.

Lynda, I thought. I'll call her now.

I decided to use the bedroom extension rather than the kitchen phone. At least this way I can do a little straightening out while I'm talking to her.

I sat on the edge of the bed and dialed the telephone.

"Hi, Lynn!" I said.

Lynda made some growling noises into the receiver. "Don't tell me you're still sleeping?" I said. "It's nearly eight o'clock!"

"Is that you, Wendy?" she managed to say. "Who else, dummy."

"Oohhh!" she said. It sounded as though she was stretching. "I'm so sleepy this morning."

"Bill gone off to work yet?" I asked. "He must have if it's almost eight."

"Good. Feel like having some company?"

"Yeah. Sure. Come on over."

"You don't mind?"

"No, no. Come on over."

"See you in a minute."

I hung up the phone and yawned. The softness of the bed seemed so inviting. I stretched back and lay on the top of the bed. The warmth of the night's sleep still clung to the sheets and blankets. I pulled Mark's pillow over and rolled it under my head. It felt so soft and relaxing and pleasant, I was almost lured by its seductive enticement. I could feel myself actually closing my eyes.

No, I told myself. I shook off the easiness of sleep and sat up.

Across from where I sat was a mirror, and I saw my reflection for the first time that morning. My hair was pushed up, away from my face with a head band. The soft, blonde waves hung down my back in a jumbled mass.

I removed the head band and brushed at my hair with my open hand, attempting to untangle the knotted, sleep-matted mass.

Better brush it, I thought.

I stood up in front of the mirror and removed my hair brush from the dresser top. I reached back behind myself and pulled the rest of my hair free from the back of my robe. The brush pulled through the hair in short, staccato strokes, loosening the tangle of knots, and allowing the hair to hang in long, flowing strands.

That looks a little better, I thought to myself.

I bent close to the mirror and looked at my face. There was a black fleck of makeup in the corner of my right eye. With the tip of my fingernail, I carefully removed, it.

Even without makeup my skin seemed fresh and alive. My cheeks seemed to glow softly, and my eyes were deep blue and full. I ran my tongue over my lips, then pressed them together to give them some color. The wet redness of the lips contrasted against the white of my teeth, giving my face a rich, sensual quality. I parted my lips and exposed more of my teeth. There was a small space between the top and bottom row, and I could see my moving tongue just behind.

There is something very erotic about a woman with her mouth slightly open, I thought. Ask any woman to look sexy, and she will probably smile something like this: with her lips wet and curled slightly, her teeth exposed, and just the barest hint of her tongue lurking behind. There is something animal-like about the smile. Something primitive and erotic.

It makes you feel sexy, I thought.

I stepped back away from the mirror and looked at my full reflection. I was wearing a blue print bathrobe that was buttoned to my neck, and under that, a pair of yellow flannel pajamas. The robe was three-quarter sleeves so that the yellow of the pajamas stood out from under the ends of the sleeves. Both the robe and the pajamas looked rumpled and slept in.

Nothing sexy about that, I told my reflection.

I flattened the front of the robe against my body and tried to judge the bulge of my breasts as they pushed upward through the folds of material. But the pajamas and the robe made my breasts seem flat and lumpy and even less sexy than they had seemed before.

I unbuttoned the robe to my stomach, then reached in and lifted my pajama tops. One breast plopped out freely, and rested against the pulled back robe.

There, I told myself, that's better.

It was better. The breast was round and full and perfectly shaped. The roll of material from the robe seemed to support it, running under its bulge, making it appear taut and firm against my chest. The nipple was soft, yet perfectly chiseled. It stood dormant within the round circle of pink-brown flesh that covered the tip of the breast. The skin just beyond the areola was clear and soft milk-white.

Not too bad, I thought, considering they were twice filled with milk at the birth of my two children. They're not as firm as they once were, and they sag somewhat. But considering my age and the kids, they're not bad at all.

I touched the breast with my hand, cupping it lightly with my fingers. There was a softness to the touch, a light, almost airy quality. No, they weren't as firm and hard and heavy as they had been when I was a young girl. Time seems to have mellowed them; they no longer seem to take themselves so seriously. The flesh seemed warm and alive under my fingers, and the nipple seemed to grow into a sleepy attention.

It was the breast of a woman, I realized. Not the hard, cold tit of a young girl, but the matured, sensitive breast of a thirty-five-year-old woman. A woman who has finally learned to accept her own sexual nature without any of the emotional crutches of her youth. A woman who has learned to respect and love her own body, and enjoy the full, erotic sensuality that her body could provide, without any of youth's guilt or justifications. It was like a fruit, ripened and filled with its own sweet juices, awaiting to be appreciated.

I flicked the nipple with my fingernail, and could feel the pleasant tingle stir within my body. I watched the nipple grow hard and firm.

I lifted the breast with my cupped hand and pressed it up toward my face. My tongue lashed out and licked the nipple, sucking it upward momentarily into the wetness of my mouth. A wave of sensation washed across the tip of my breast.

No, I cautioned myself. Not now. Not just yet.

Reluctantly, I allowed my hand to drop. The soft flesh of my breast jiggled slightly, reminding me of slow moving, rippling waves.

Besides, I thought, Lynn is waiting for me.

I pulled at the roll of material on which my breast had been resting, and the flesh flopped back inside my pajamas. I pulled the yellow flannel top firmly down and re-buttoned the robe.

I turned from the mirror and threw the coverlet up over the unmade bed. Somehow that made the room seem more presentable. Even though the bed wasn't made, now at least I didn't have to look at it.

I'll straighten up the house after coffee, I thought.

I shut the bedroom light and then closed the door behind me. To the right of the bedroom were the kids' rooms. I didn't even bother to look in to appraise this disorder; I just closed the doors and sealed-off, for now at least, this afternoon's work.

I'd better go to the bathroom, I reminded myself.

The bathroom was the next room down the hallway. The light was still on, and one of the bath towels was thrown over the hamper. By habit, I picked up the towel, folded it in half, and replaced it on the towel rack.

I pulled the bottoms of my pajamas down to my knees and lifted the robe. The toilet seat was cold, and I shivered at the contact. I could feel the flesh on the backs on my legs puckering into tiny bumps. After a moment, I began to urinate.

It felt good, and I could feel the deep pressures within my bowels begin to relax as I emptied my bladder. After I had finished, I just sat there a moment, relaxing.

My god! I thought, mildly reproaching myself. I'm lazy this morning. No energy. I've got to get to bed earlier.

I smiled to myself, and remembered why I had gotten so little sleep last night. Mark had really been good last night.

A twinge of erotic warmth flashed through my cunt. My thighs and crotch seemed suddenly warm with the memory. As I sat there, I parted my legs slightly, and slid forward on the seat until the tip of my cunt was pressed against the round, inner edge of the seat. The slight, firm pressure against my clitoris increased the pleasurable sensation, and I began to wriggle from side-to-side in shallow, squirming circles.

We had done it my way last night. Mark had used his mouth on me. I just lay there in bed, passively allowing him to lick and suck at my cunt with his wonderful tongue. God! I love it that way!

And Mark does it so well, I thought. After nearly fifteen years married, he's still good. Better, even. We've had a lot of time to practice together.

He started slowly, I remembered, first licking me around the edges and near the crease where my cunt and inner thighs meet. Then, as the feeling grew, he began to lick the clit directly. He stuck his tongue into the cunt hole, and then slid it up through the folds of the inner lips until he was lashing at the clit with each wet stroke.

Without realizing, I had slid even further down on the seat, and I was bumping my cunt against the rim of the seat. With each bump of contact, a thrill of pleasure would stab upward through my body.

I began to remember more.

Mark slid his arms up around the backs of my thighs cupping my ass with his fingers. His face was pressed into my wide-open cunt, and I squirmed down and ground myself against his pushing tongue. I could feel his fingers sliding through the crack of my ass, and then moving down further until he finally had one or two fingers buried deeply into my cunt hole. I humped up and down on his probing fingers, and he licked furiously at my clitoris, bringing it closer and closer to climax.

Then the best part came, I thought, now remembering how it had been.

Mark slid his fingers out of my cunt and pushed them back towards my anus. His fingers were wet with the oily combination of his saliva and my hot, flowing cuntal juices. Then he started playing with my ass hole; slowly rotating his lubricated finger around its rubbery, puckered lips. He allowed just the tip of his finger to slide into the hole, stretching it slightly, and bringing on an additional rush of pain-pleasure.

It was just about that time that I began to moan. The sound just rolled from my lips, uncontrollably. I moaned and squirmed my cunt against Mark's tongue. And with each squirm and downward thrust of my pelvis, his hard, wet finger pushed further into my rectum.

I've never been assfucked, and really have no desire to experience it. I imagine it must be very painful and difficult to get used to. But a finger in your ass is something else; especially when it happens while someone is eating out your cunt. The finger felt hard and painful as it pushed up into me; but it was also deliriously erotic. I could actually feel it moving up into my body, stretching my anal canal and stimulating me simply by its very unaccustomed unnaturalness.

By the time Mark's finger was about halfway into my ass-I could feel him pumping it and twisting it around and bending it at the joints so that it left no area of the passageway untouched or unstimulated-I began to come.

The combination of the finger and Mark's licking on my clitoris provided me with such deep, trembling convulsions of sexuality that I just exploded against him.

His tongue was curled around my clitoris, rubbing it until it was raw with sensitivity, and I could feel his nose buried in the slobbered wet tangle of my cunt hair. My whole vaginal area just went to pieces under his attack. I was coming like crazy, and Mark just continued to lick and suck my cunt with the same regular, measured strokes.

That's the part that I enjoy the most; that's what makes this way better than fucking or masturbating: Mark's detachment from my orgasm. He wasn't involved in the pleasure as he would be if we were fucking; and if I was masturbating, I would have had to.stop because the orgasm was so shattering. But it wasn't like that. And so, at that very point when my orgasm was fullest, Mark wasn't thinking of his own pleasure. He was still concentrating on mine.

I was coming, and he continued to apply the same constant techniques of pleasure. His tongue moved rhythmically against my clit, allowing me the luxury of a full, unbroken, titanic orgasm.

I came once, twice, perhaps three or four times. The pleasure was so intense that I had to push his head away from my cunt I had to force him to stop making me come.

Then I fell over sideways and had to wait a few seconds to catch my breath. I had to allow the raw waves of intense sexual pleasure to subside before I could go on to the next step.

When I had fairly recovered, I turned over and got up on my knees so that my cunt and ass hung over the edge of the bed. I buried my head into my pillow for comfort. I could feel the cool touch of the night air against the hot flesh of my exposed and elevated body.

Now it was time for Mark's pleasure.

He stood up, facing my upturned cunt, positioning himself between my open legs. He reached over to his night stand and switched on his lamp so that he could watch. Then to make sure he wouldn't miss anything, he put on his glasses.

With one hand around my thigh, holding me firmly in place, and the other guiding his aroused, erect cock, Mark pushed himself into my wet, come-filled cunt. I could feel his enormous length sliding up into me, squishing through the wetness of my juices, until it was fully lodged in my cunt. I could feel his balls smacking against my cunt as they hung down, dangling against my still aroused clit.

Once he was inside of me, Mark placed his other hand around my left thigh so that both hands were holding me in position. Standing on the tips of his toes for better leverage, he began to slide his prick in and out of my liquid pussy. He plunged deeply and slowly, watching how his prick sunk into the flap of my cunt, then withdrew slowly, glistening wetly with my orgasm's discharge. He was watching himself fuck me; humping with the same deliberate objectivity he had used to bring on my orgasm.

There was no urgency to rush; this was his time, and he knew it. He savored each plunge with the selfish knowledge that all the pleasure was his alone now. I had used him, and now he was using me. My wet, dripping cunt was his pleasure box, and my supple warmth molded itself around his plunging hardness.

It was not going to take very long, I could tell. Mark had been greatly aroused while he had been eating, and now he had the dual stimuli of both watching and experiencing his fucking.

I could feel his orgasm building. His thigh muscles tightened against me, and his fingers bit into the softness of my flesh. He thrust forward with his hips and then rocked back on his heels to withdraw.

"Soon," he told me. "Soon."