Libby's Liberation

So I rescued the hard drive from my jizz-soaked laptop, and bought a new computer to put it in. For a few weeks I was a good boy; I stayed away from Literotica, away from my saucy stories and Libby's saucy pictures, taking the time to write a new novel and fire it off to my editor. A man's gotta eat, after all.

With that task out of the way, I couldn't stop myself any longer - I went back to check out Libby's thread, justifying it as a reward for all my hard work. She had not been active for quite a while, with the last dozen or so pages filled with other people's posts, all lamenting Libby's sudden and unexplained disappearance from the boards. I felt a little bad for them: her departure was my fault, I had pushed her too far and she had shut up shop, thereby punishing everybody for my indiscretion. 'I'm such a silly prick,' I chastised myself.

Desire got the better of me, and I let myself look through some of her first series of pictures, ostensibly for the sake of reminiscing. It got me riled up, though - it had been so long since I had seen her photos, and going over the half-forgotten images of her slow, tantalising stripteases had me in a wanking frenzy yet again. If there was anyone hotter on the boards than our Libby, I didn't want to see her - I was already at enough risk of hairy palms, blindness and terminal friction-burn.

I went back to her thread the next day, and the next day, and the day after that - each day checking another strip-teasing series, and making myself come again, and again, and again. The day following I folded completely to temptation, and reviewed the X-rated series she had sent me privately showing her and Glen getting down and dirty; on getting to that last shot, with Libby staring back over her shoulder as she bared her come-filled cunt and spunk-spattered arse to the camera, I was so badly worked up that I treated myself to a very rare probing finger, seeking out my G-spot as I wanked myself to distraction. (It is up there to be found, ladies and gentlemen... and how I do holler when I find it.)

Having managed to keep my essence off my computer this time, I sent Libby a quick, sad little PM: "Missing you," was all I wrote. I didn't expect her to reply, or to even read it - throughout my revisits to Literotica that week, she had never come online.

But reply she did - she must have been checking in every now and again, probably also to reminisce on the fun we had over her pics. "Miss you too. How are you?" she wrote in reply, the following day.

And so we got back in touch. We were both hesitant and stand-offish at first, but we warmed up again soon enough. We maintained a respectful decorum though, not talking about how far we had gone last time, and not dwelling on any matters of her pictures, or of me looking at her pictures, or what I might have been getting up to while I was looking at said pictures...

As a few weeks went by, she told me at one stage that she had put up a new series, but she left it at that, not asking me to look at them; "Good for you :-)" I replied, and we said nothing more on it. Though I definitely went and looked at them. Like I could possibly help myself... I'm sure she knew I would look at them, and I'm sure she knew I knew that she knew - and that was enough for both of us, knowing it but not saying it.

Well, I had thought it was enough, but Libby proved me wrong. "I'm getting bored with this photography business," she PMed me one day.

"Yeah?" I replied. "I guess it would eventually become a bit mundane, after a while."

"I'm just doing the same sort of thing, pulling the same poses and doing the same routine, again and again," she complained. "It's like going through the motions, it doesn't thrill me like it used to."

We both knew why, but we weren't going to comment on it. "Oh well," I wrote. "All good things must come to an end - cliché but true," added the writer in me.

"Oh no, I'm not finished yet," she averred. "I want to take it to a new level."

I blinked. "Take what? To what level?"

"The whole 'exhibitionist' thing," she elaborated. "It's boring, just posing for the auto-timer in my bedroom and sticking the pics up on the boards for a bunch of people I don't know and will never meet. I want to take it to the people - show my beautiful body to them face to face," she declared, immodest as ever.

I had to laugh. "And how will you go about that, exactly?" I asked of her. "You planning a 'Lady Godiver' - gonna ride naked on horseback through the town?"

"Lol," she assured me. "No, not exactly..."

"Well go on," I urged. "Don't leave me dangling, Libs - spill the beans? Who you gonna flash, and where?"

"Well..." she began. "I thought about places ladies can get their tits out without getting in trouble, and all I could think of was 'strip club'. And I'm not that desperate to get naked in public - that's a bit too sleazy for a woman of my class and distinction."

"Fair enough," I allowed, with a grin.

"But then the other night, Glen decided to go down to the pub for Topless Tuesday -" which is where the local pub gets a couple of topless waitresses in to take drinks orders, tend the cigarette machine, and generally stand around and chat with the grinning, all-male clientele and pretend like they haven't even got their guns out at all "- and I thought 'now there's an idea...'"

My eyes went wide with amused surprise. "Are you gonna offer your services for Topless Tuesday?" I asked.

"Well, not here, not right in town where I know people. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all." I laughed at that - only our Libby could or would say such a thing. "But there has to be 'titty nights' at other pubs in other towns. Don't you think?"

"Well, yeah, of course," I told her. "I happen to know they have 'ladies night' on Thursdays at the Berriga pub, up in the mountains, about an hour away."

"Well that's perfect!" Libby reckoned. "I won't know anybody up there. I'll be safe to get my tits out and shake 'em all around! I'll have to give them a call, and arrange an 'interview'."

"Aw, now let's think for a minute, Libs," I urged her, suddenly concerned - she seemed deadly serious. "Country pubs can get pretty rough after happy hour. I don't know how safe you'll be on your own, in a strange town with no-one to help you out if there's trouble."

"Well then," she typed, "I guess you'll just have to come along and look after me!"

I groaned - I walked right into that, didn't I? "Libby..." was all I wrote.

"Oh come on Tom - it'll be fun!" she cajoled. "And I'm sure those country folk will prove to be a perfect bunch of gentlemen."

"Yeah, but Libby: you and I..." I wrote, thinking on how far temptation took us last time.

"We'll be good, Tom, neither of us will misbehave - I promise," she assured me. "Besides, I'm going to do this whether you'll come along to 'protect' me or not. So: are you in?"

And that is how, two days later, Libby and I came to be standing in the Berriga pub at two in the afternoon. It was empty, with lunch done and the afternoon only young, so we were free to chat with the publican - who we were surprised to learn was a grizzled woman, aged roughly sixty. She had a touch of banjo-strumming genealogy about her, with all her teeth gone and no dentures, and she was spitting into pint glasses and giving them a wipe as Libby put her case.

"So," said the publican, "you're asking if you can get your tits out on Thursday night?"

"Well..." said Libby. "I'm offering my services, yes."

The old lady squinted at us. "I don't usually do it this way," she told us. "The girls usually come down from an agency in the city - they charge a hunnert'n'twenty an hour. They don't usually wander in off the road for an interview."

"Well," said Libby. "If you'll give me a chance -"

"Save your breath, darlin'," the lady told her, kindly. "The agency's been overstretched lately, and yesterday they gave me a call tellin' me they couldn't spare any girls this week. I was gunna have to cancel Tits-Out Thursday! Brings in a lot of money, those girls," she added, with a wink for the wise.

"So... you'll give Libby a go?" I asked her.

"May as well," she shrugged. "You can have eighty bucks an hour, cash in hand - I'm sure the girls would be lucky to get anything like that after the agency's commission. The night usually goes six-til-nine. Just get here in time to get yourself ready and all, and you can stay on as long as you're feeling adventurous. The boys are all regulars and they know to behave themselves, they're out on their arse if they get too rowdy. Sounds good to you?" she asked of Libby.

Libby blinked. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah!" she repeated. "Okay, great! You didn't need... um... an 'audition' from me?" she added, hesitantly.

"I'll be right, thanks sweetheart," the old lady winked, with a grin for the both of us. "But if it'll cheer up your man-friend, you go and knock yourself out."

As the publican turned and left, Libby turned to regard me with a grin.

"I can probably wait til Thursday night," I informed her, wanting to keep things on the safe side.

"You sure?" she asked, cheekily.

"I'm sure," I confirmed.

Thursday night came around all too soon, and I bade farewell to the wife and kids: "Gonna take the Porsche for a spin," I told them. "Might be gone a while."

"Drive safe, my dear," said Kelly: she knew how I sometimes liked to take the Porsche up and down the local mountain passes for a few hours, late at night when the traffic's thin, and so she didn't bat an eyelid. I gave her and the sprogs a kiss goodnight, and I headed off, feeling guilty as fuck.

I picked Libby up from Glen's place, hoping like hell Glen wouldn't be there to see her off. "Ooh: travelling in style," Libby grinned, as she stooped down to get into the Porsche's low-slung passenger seat.

"Glen's not here?" I asked her.

"He's in there, on the couch," she said with a sneer. "Stoned to high heaven, sitting with his derelict mates. He didn't even notice I left."

I found that hard to believe: Libby wore a very small, very high black miniskirt, matched to a tight and thin black boob tube (with no bra, not that she really needed it tonight) under a leather jacket, and at the other end of her long, shapely pins were a pair of red high-heeled stilettos. Slutty to the utmost, but she wore it well. Very well.

She looked at me, and I realised I was staring at her. "Shall we go?" she prompted.

I laughed a little at myself. "I think we shall."

The hour-long drive to the Berriga pub was a fairly easy, pleasant affair. I soon got used to the distracting proximity and niceness of Libby's partially-clad self, sitting so close in the tight confines of my sports car, and we chatted amiably about nothing of consequence. It was as though our indiscretion of the month prior - how we lost control over the phone while viewing her latest and raciest photos, succumbing to our urges and devolving into the best phone sex anyone had ever had anywhere - it was as though it was completely forgotten. Perhaps Libby had put it completely out of her mind, so I tried to do the same.

"So what exactly do these topless girls do at the pub?" Libby asked as we neared our destination.

"They're waitresses," I shrugged. "They take orders for drinks, collect the money, get the drinks at the bar, bring back the drinks and the change. They make a bit of small-talk, sit for a chat every now and again... nothing special, really."

"They don't have to do a dance, or pull any poses?" Libby checked. "They don't rub their tits and go 'hey boys, the guns are out and about! Check em out!'"

"No they don't," I laughed - she was rubbing her own tits to mime it out, right next to me in the passenger seat. "In fact, the coolest thing about it is: there's no real acknowledgement of the fact you've got your tits out. You just go about your business, talk and laugh and be yourself - it's as though there's nothing unusual going on, like you haven't got your cans out at all."

"So everyone cops a perve on the sly?" she said.

"That's right. And if the better girls catch someone having a lingering look, they might just give the guy a smile and a classy little wink - and that's that. They don't make you feel dirty or perverted at all."

"I think I understand," Libby nodded. "Thanks for the advice, 'coach'!"

We soon pulled up to the pub carpark, which was full to overflowing with trucks and four-by-fours - people come from miles around for Tits-Out Thursdays, it seemed. "Here we are," I observed.

"Yep," she agreed. I looked at her: she took a deep, steadying breath to compose herself, a telltale sign that she was nervous.

"It's not too late to go back home, you know," I told her. "We can just drive off again, and no-one will ever be the wiser."

"No no no," she admonished. "I'm actually excited! I can't wait to get my guns out - it's gonna be great!" Having encouraged herself thusly, she turned to me. "Should I whip 'em out now, do you think?" she asked, with a wicked grin.

"You can go in and get yourself ready, I'm sure," I told her, thankful for the early darkness of the evening - that damn cock of mine was stirring already.

"Yeah..." she allowed. "Or maybe I should have a practice run, in here, just to make sure I've got what it takes. What do you think?"

'Of course she left the decision to me,' I thought. Time to be blunt: "Libby," I said, "if you really wanna flash me, go ahead and flash me."

Libby grinned, and quicker than I could blink she reefed her top up and let her breasts fall free and easy, in all their glory. "Have I still got it?" she asked me, keeping those divine melons out for my personal benefit. "Are they just as good in person as they were on the net?"

I couldn't help but sigh a little. "Libby: they're awesome," I assured her.

She grinned, and put the top down again. "Thank you," she said, and she gave me a quick little peck on the cheek in thanks; as she leaned across she laid a hot little hand on my leg - ostensibly to steady herself, though I couldn't help but notice it landed on my inner thigh, laying near as damn to my bulging cock. But it was acknowledged by neither of us, and as she leaned back the hand went away again. "Alright then: let's go!"

We went around the back as instructed by the publican the other day, going in through the kitchen. Libby received a few whistles of appreciation from the cooks as we passed through. "Thank you boys," she told them, with a demure flutter of the eyelids.

"Alright then," she said to me, as we came to the cubicle marked 'STAFF ONLY' that the publican had told us would serve as her changeroom. "Wish me luck!"

"Best of luck, Libs," I grinned. "Now I won't ever be far away if you need me - I'll be at the bar all night, keeping an eye on you."

"Thanks, Tom," she smiled. "I'll give you a smile and a wink if I see you, okay?"

I grinned at the cheeky thing. "Knock 'em dead, Libs," were my parting words, as I left her to get herself ready.

Out in the barroom, I found an empty stretch of bar and took a seat, ordering a pint of light beer to keep my whistle wet (I didn't want to get too hammered - the possibility of an early and hasty exit was troubling me). Bang on six o'clock, Libby sauntered out into the bar - and she received an instant round of applause from the gathered patrons, a polite bout of clapping interspersed with the odd whistle and cheer.

I just had to clap along too. Libby had done little more than shrug out of her jacket and boob tube and touched up her makeup - the red stilettos and itty-bitty belt-like black skirt remained, and as she turned to give a modest curtsy to her applauding admirers one could see that her buttocks were bared by the wearing of a sheer black g-string. Her hair shone long, golden and blonde, and her face bore a terribly cheeky grin as she drank in the admiration of all - forty or fifty men of varying age and decrepitude, though they all seemed nice and polite.

And as I drank in the sight of her wondrous breasts once again, she turned to me and sure enough: she gave me a smile and a wink.

I fired off a grin in reply, shaking my head at her cheek.

The night progressed at an easy clip, as Libby settled into her tits-out-waitressing role like she had been doing it for years. She sauntered about the bar as though she owned it: taking orders, tucking the money demurely into the beltline of her mini-miniskirt, striking up amiable chit-chat with guys in their groups or on their own - fixing them in the eye with an easy repose, shooting the breeze as though there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on below her neck. She was a hit, our Libby - everybody loved her, she knew it and she loved being loved.

"And what would sir like to drink?" she finally asked me, sauntering over to my corner of the bar after a good ninety minutes of strutting her stuff for the edification of all.

"I might just have a 'light', thanks love," I informed her, trying not to grin at her cheekiness as I handed over a fiver.

"A light?" she cried. "Now sir, that will never do," and she grabbed my hand before I could drop the note on her tray, and she gently guided my hand down to tuck the note deep beneath her beltline - and the touch of her fiery-hot skin upon my fingertips gave me quite the thrill, let me tell you.

"I'll get you something nice," she added, and as her eyes leapt towards my crotch I realised she was aware of my growing arousal. I wasn't too pleased with myself about that - 'what a loser,' I thought of myself, 'pointing a great big boner at her in a place like this.' But she soon let me know it didn't bother her - her eyes met mine once again, and she gave me a conspiratorial flash of the eyebrows and an enormous, cheeky grin of her own.

She was gone only shortly, returning with a drink that looked nothing like a light beer. "A Jaeger-bomb for sir?" she asked, most innocently.

"Libs!" I chastised - a Jaeger-bomb was about as far-removed from a light beer as one could achieve, without resorting to something served in a half-shelled pineapple with a heavy base of gasoline. "I can't drink this, I'll have to drive you home in the next couple of hours."

"So you'll need something to keep you pepped up, won't you?" she returned. "Sir needs his energy for the long drive." And she left me with that, the words hanging tantalisingly in the air for my consideration.

'Good grief,' I thought, as I took a pull at the drink to steady myself - or unsteady myself, as the case may have been. 'What has she got planned for me on the drive home?'

The next ninety minutes passed in quick fashion. Libby disappeared for a quick minute - to powder her nose, she had assured me - and she returned in a new outfit, which proved to be a familiar piece: a very small, very sheer pink lacy g-string with a fluffy pink waistline, the same item she wore in her X-rated series before Glen tore it off her and covered her in his spunk. The pictures from that series were virtually tattooed into my cornea, and as Libby fired more and more sneaky, saucy looks in my direction as the night wore on, I was given to wonder...

...was this wardrobe-choice a deliberate attempt to fire me up? What was she doing? She knew I would remember her X-rated pics when I saw that g-string. Was it a deliberate move, or an innocent coincidence? As well as I knew our Libby, I simply couldn't be sure - and the continuing series of Jaeger-bombs that Libby kept delivering to me weren't helping cogent thought on the matter, or cogent thought on any other matter either.

Nine o'clock rolled around far quicker than I would have given credit, and Libby let the boys know that she was clocking off. "Thank you all," she announced, "for such a wonderful evening - I can't wait to come back next week. If you'll have me, that is," she added, demurely yet alluringly, and a deafening din of cheers and applause let her know that each and every one of them would love nothing better than to 'have' her.