Exposure - Various

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sheer hold-ups the colour of smoke, with lacy tops. Not my usual style at all. But this was a special occasion.

      I parted my legs.

      My panties matched my stockings: dark and delicate and insubstantial. I knew that the tops of my thighs presented two creamy strips of bare and vulnerable flesh between the lace panels; I could only hope the sight lived up to their expectations. I ran my fingers over my mound and between my legs, and found that my pussy was already so swollen that my sex-lips were peeking out around the narrow strip of my gusset. I eased the cloth aside and started to caress the wet slipperiness within.

      Honestly, I tried to read. I tried to keep some focus on the page as I stroked my sex and teased my clit. But I wasn’t really concentrating on the words, let’s face it. It was the awareness of the men watching me that was making me hotter and wetter and more daring with every moment – Eyes kneeling before me, a look of rapt attention on his face and a huge bulge in his pants; and the men hidden behind the books too, staring at my spread snatch, doing who knows what, as they watched me play with my wicked pussy.

      But I kept the pretence up. Leaning back, I held on to that book, one-handed, and kept my gaze upon the page as much as humanly possible, while I stroked my glistening pussy until I couldn’t keep my hips from writhing and my breath was coming in tight quick gasps. Impatient, then, I hitched my hips and tugged my panties down, stretching them across my thighs.

      Eyes leaned in, his pupils so dilated that his eyes looked black. He groped his crotch with one hand. I opened my fingers wide for him, spreading my pussy lips to let him see, and bucked my hips invitingly. His tongue flicked across his teeth.

      That was too much for me. My arousal was at such a pitch that I couldn’t pretend to be oblivious any more. I reached out and gestured him to me with a frantic clawing motion, and he understood. Catching at my panties, he pulled them down past my knees, parted my thighs and swooped. I felt the heat of his breath as he ducked in and planted his mouth on my open pussy, lapping at the bead of my clit, kissing and sucking and licking at me. Maybe that wrecked the view for everyone else; I was past caring, I was so turned on. And with a man taking care of my pussy I had a hand free to tug down my top and bare my right breast.

      My nipple felt swollen and hot as I tugged it. I arched my back, lifting the book with a hand that shook wildly. One last go at reading: I still tried to make sense of the words even as he pulled one of my thighs over his shoulder so that he could get his mouth in good and tight to my sex, so that he could tilt me to the correct angle to delve his tongue right into my wetness and taste that honey. But I certainly can’t recall now what I read then; just the incredible sensation of being kissed and sucked and licked into a squirming abandon so absolute that I lost my footing and just surrendered to his mouth, my gasps recklessly loud in the silence and my body arching and my limbs spasming, under the glowering ranks of books and the eyes of my unseen audience.

      * * *

      I got a new job a few weeks later, working on the enquiry desk at the city tourist office, dealing all day with people needing help and information, looking for timetables and accommodation and directions. I loved it. I was the calm at the heart of the storm.

      But for the rest of that term before I left the library, every Friday, I went up to the fifth floor and gave the university hockey team a private show. On the very last day, I even let them take it in turns to kneel before my chair and lick my pussy. They seemed to like that. They stood around me in a circle as I came, over and over again, writhing on the leatherette and spasming with pleasure.

      But I made almost no noise. After all, it’s a library. You have to keep quiet.

      Missus

      Sommer Marsden

      He scared the shit out of her, popping up over her back fence that way. Gina clutched her chest for a minute and waited for her fluttery heart to settle.

      ‘Dear God,’ she said mostly to herself, but he heard. She knew he heard because he shot her an adorable crooked grin that could only be pulled off by youth.

      ‘Sorry, missus. Thought you saw me.’

      ‘No. I didn’t.’ She wheezed it more than said it and then tried her own smile on again. ‘So you’re my new neighbour?’

      She was deliberately ignoring the way the slow lazily drawled missus had suddenly taken root deep in her belly. Causing her face to flush in a way that had nothing to do with the heat and humidity.

      ‘One of them. My parents bought the house. I’m just here until school starts. Junior year of college, here I come. Few more days, though. Rick.’ He stuck his hand out over her fence. Big hand, deeply tanned and firm and smooth. He was a kid, really. Of course he was firm and smooth.

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘Rick. My name? It’s Rick.’

      Oh my God. She was mental.

      ‘Hi, sorry. Sorry! I told you, you startled me right into stupidity.’

      That was a lie. His beauty had stunned her into stupidity.

      ‘Gina. Gina Monroe. Nice to meet you, Rick.’

      He tipped her a nod, grey-green eyes doing a subtle but noticeable sweep of her. ‘Missus,’ he said again.

      She felt downright naked despite her black shorts and her grey tank top and her flip-flops. The baseball cap on her head seemed to weigh a ton and Gina became overtly aware of her top sticking to her sweaty skin. No bra. How hard were her nipples? Her mind was racing.

      She shook her head. ‘Um. Where are you from?’

      She could distract herself from the fact that a thick tempo had started in her blood and was now thrumming between her legs. Was this what heat stroke felt like?

      Stuart had warned her not to garden in the middle of the afternoon. Early or late was his motto. Before ten or after dinner. Never at two, which was roughly what time it was.

      She had heat stroke, that was the answer.

      ‘Alabama,’ he said, watching her slyly.

      She almost said ‘What?’ because she’d already forgotten her question. But she caught herself and for that she was grateful. ‘I can hear it in your voice.’

      He nodded. ‘And I can hear the city in yours.’

      He was eyeing her lazily now. Gina was positive he knew what kind of chaos was going on inside of her and that he’d caused it. She didn’t often respond so viscerally to men – any men – but certainly not young men. She had nothing to say. Her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her brain had shut down.

      So when his head turned and he said, in that sinful rich drawl of his, ‘Cable man’s here. Guess I have to go let him in,’ she nearly fainted from relief.

      ‘Nice meeting you,’ she managed.

      ‘You too, missus.’ Then he was gone.

      Gina watched him recede like a mirage. Tall and lanky, leanly muscled and deeply tanned – this was a young man who spent a lot of time outside. Broad shoulders were hidden beneath a washed blue T-shirt that was probably soft as sin to touch. Gina imagined herself pressing her cheek to that fabric. Feeling the solid muscle beneath, smelling sun and young man and summer air on him.

      ‘I have heat stroke,’ she said to herself.

      But it wasn’t heat stroke that drove her into the cool of the basement and into the small powder room. Stuart was somewhere in the house puttering around or watching golf. He’d never know.

      She locked the door and pushed down her shorts and panties and ripped off her gardening gloves. As she planted her ass, aching from all the squatting while she weeded, on the navy-blue fuzzy toilet-seat cover, her fingers went instinctively to where she needed them. One attacking her swollen throbbing clit with a trembling touch, two more buried deep into her cunt. She narrowed in

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