Chained, whipped librarians
Letha Gerard sat naked on a stool in the bathroom of her suburban condominium. She spread her long shapely legs and slid her hands down from the taut plane of her trim belly to the softly padded dome of her pussy mound.
Slender fingers teased through a broad wedge of blonde cunt hair. With the fingers of one hand, she parted the puffed outer lips of her juicy pink pussy slit.
With the long middle finger of the other hand, she teased the moist bud of her tingling clit. Letha climaxed with her fingertip.
"Oh, God," she moaned, still trembling. "I need a big cock!"
Letha was thirty-two, widowed three years before by a motorcycle accident that took the life of her sexy and extremely well-hung husband. She had never fully recovered from that loss, and no one knew what tormenting need there was in her simmering pussy.
Letha had gone to work at a branch library, where she was strictly supervised by a prudish bitch with a rigidly old-fashioned moral code.
No makeup was allowed, and only "sensible" shoes – cloddish things with thick stubby heels. Nothing was supposed to distract male library patrons from studious pursuits. Letha had even been scolded for smiling at a man checking out books.
She'd have told the bitchy head librarian to take her job and shove it, but work, was hard to find. So Letha suffered and played the role of frigid prude during working hours and maintained an air of rigid respectability whenever anyone who might report misconduct was around.
It hadn't been too difficult at first. Crushed by the death of her loving husband, Letha found comfort retreating into a cocoon of sexless propriety. But now her period of mourning was over.
Letha grinned lewdly and plunged her long middle finger deep into her cunt. She groaned as her cunt muscles shivered and squirmed, squeezing her finger in a pliant vise of moist flesh.