The Checkout Station
I loved my job at the university library, not so much because I found the work stimulating, but rather because I imagined it to be the epicenter of learning. Students would lounge their way in, chattering amongst themselves, and then peel off to find a quiet place work; members of the academic staff would bustle in with purpose, knowing exactly what they were looking for, at peace with the world in which they lived. I loved their air of self-competence regardless of their style of dress. Anything seemed to go; sometimes they wore casual clothes, jeans and perhaps a sports coat, sometimes they were in suits, fit for any business meeting.
She first caught my eye because she was different. Not different in a negative way, just different! I couldn’t quite pin down whether she was a student or staff; she looked too old for the former and too young for the latter. She was slightly built, with an almost boyish figure. It’s hard to explain why I found her attractive, but let me explain it this way: you know how when someone who has a permanently sullen looking face smiles, then it feels as brilliant as when the sun peaks out from behind a thunder cloud. … and then you keep watching for that smile to light up again? Well, she had that affect on me, yet I watched and watched for the smile, but it never happened.
Her boyish look and deadpan demeanor captured my interest. There was a promise of softness behind that crusty shell that was never displayed, a perverse sense of sexiness about her androgynous body which was hidden by the way she presented.
I watched her come and go, always alone, and with each visit, my interest grew. In my mind, I called her ‘Lisbeth’ because she reminded me so much of Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. As the term progressed, she seemed to come to the library more frequently, and on one occasion, my day was made when she actually stopped at the front desk to check out some books. It was an eclectic selection, ranging from Anne Rice’s vampire stories to a psychology text, but it provided me with material on which to build my dreams.
She dressed in a tomboyish sort of way: low slung jeans with a wide leather belt, olive green spaghetti strap top that barely covered her almost non-existent breasts, nails that were painted green yet were surprisingly trim; a nose stud provided the required grunge. Very often, she would wear a shabby army cap set low on her closely cropped hair.
There were no pleasantries apart from a simple ‘thanks’, but her eyes seemed to stare into my soul and I could feel my face flush.
Lisbeth started to check out books more often, and with each occurrence I shrank further and further into my shell. I barely looked at her eyes when she laid her books down on the counter, but I could feel my face flush and my heart race as I checked the items out. By now, from her library records, I knew her name was really Karina, but she continued to be Lisbeth in my mind.
I know it is bizarre for a thrity-something woman to play the game, but as the days went by, my obsession grew. It was after the mid-term break that my irrational behavior caused me to take actions which were out of character for a staid librarian; I took a copy of Anne Rice’s ‘Beauty’s Punishment’ off the shelf and left it in my top drawer. When Lisbeth next walked into the library, I placed it on the counter with a bookmark in it, leaving it there as if I was taking a reading break. To the outsider, it would have appeared comical, but I was wrapped up in my own delusional world. She never commented on my reading material, but as the weeks went by, she must have thought I was the most sex-obsessed woman on campus; I ostensibly read through the whole Sleeping Beauty Trilogy, and a dozen other gems of erotica from ‘Lip Service’ to ‘The Training of O’.
The days were shortening as the year end approached, and I had yet to get a smile or a greeting. It all changed that evening when she checked out just one psychology reference book on spanking and sexual deviancy. I took my chance, it was now or never.
“Did you manage to find everything you were looking for, Karina?”
It was the first time I had addressed her by her name, and the first time I had hinted that I might be able to help.
“Well, no, actually,” she responded, her voice was surprisingly gentle for someone whose exterior was so brittle. “I was starting to look through some of the external catalogs, but making no sense of them, so in the end I took what I have, and will try some other time.”
That conversation seemed to happen in a dream; I can barely remember agreeing to help her with the catalog search, agreeing that perhaps we should do it from the comfort of her office and agreeing that eight o’clock that evening would be just perfect.
We sat side-by-side behind her desk and poured over her laptop screen. It soon became apparent to me that it was all a pretense; Karina knew her way around the psychology catalogs and journals and there was little value that I was able to add. She turned towards me after about fifteen minutes, and looked straight into my eyes; I felt that familiar flush coming to my cheeks and sensed that the moment of truth had arrived.
“Do you really know what you are letting yourself in for, Ms.Kendle?”
Through a fog of emotion, I realized that my librarians name tag had served its purpose. I nodded; my mouth was too dry to respond.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
Either Karina was perspective, or else I was an open book; I suspected the latter to be the case.
Karina stood up and walked across the office to lock the door. Returning, she slowly dragged her wide belt from out of the loops. My eyes were transfixed on her slight fingers, the dull green nail polish set off against the scuffed brown leather. Time seemed to slow down and my heart pounded. It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually the belt was free. I watched as she carefully folded it in half, rubbed her left hand along it, smoothing it, testing its pliability. She smacked it softly against the palm of her left hand, watching me closely, deliberately building up the tension. Her soft eyes seemed to grow hard, her lips became taught, and her shoulders seemed to stiffen. I could feel my arousal start to build, yet I felt frightened despite being turned on.
“Over the desk!”
I looked at her, not moving, a rabbit caught in the headlights.
There was no softness left in her voice; it was steely, commanding. I rose as if in a dream, cleared a space on the desk, and lent right over. A thousand thoughts tumbled frantically through my head: should I have raised my skirts, what will she think of the panties I am wearing today, is my bottom tight enough or too flabby for her liking, will any of my dampness show through?
It seemed like a lifetime that she let me lie like that, wondering, shifting my legs self consciously, wishing I was ten years younger, hoping I wouldn’t disgrace myself, wishing I had gone to pee before leaving the library.
Slowly she rolled my skirt up; darn, I wish I hadn’t been such a prim missy and had worn jeans instead of a skirt. Should I lift my hips to let her pull my panties down, or would she belt me over them? Should I push my bottom back as I had read good submissives do, or should I just lie there waiting? I wished again that I had worn prettier panties; my Hanes briefs were so unsexy. Perhaps if I had worn a thong she would have found me more attractive; no, a thong on a thirty seven year old woman, one who was ten years her senior, would be ridiculous.
Around and around my thoughts tumbled.
She reached to the side of me and took something from her drawer. Was it a ruler to spank me with? Was it a drawing pin to give me some other sort of pain? I felt the cold steel of a pair of scissors against my thigh…snip…the other thigh…snip…the waistband…snip. Roughly, Karina pulled at my panties dragging them from between my thighs, exposing my aroused state, leaving my bottom exposed and vulnerable.
I am sure that she did not whip me as hard as she was capable but the shock of pain drove the jumble of thoughts right from my head. I heard the double crack of the belt as one, leather on my bottom, leather on leather. I jerked forward, feeling the edge of the desk driving into the tops of my thighs. All I could think of was the pain, the burning in my bottom, the bruising that seemed to reach so deep inside.
Again and again the belt struck; I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, willing the pain away, trying not to say “owe!”, clinging desperately to the opposite edge of the desk. There were only six strokes, Karina told me later, but they seemed to go on forever, the pain of the previous stroke mounting and reaching a crescendo as the next one landed. I felt my bottom sagging, indecently, humiliatingly, but I simply couldn’t keep it up, couldn’t bear to offer it to be beaten anymore.
And then it was over, her cool hands dancing their way across my bottom, soothing it, stroking away the pain. I felt her breath on my bottom, her lips kissing the heat, nuzzling my skin, her sweet voice telling me how wonderfully I had handled myself.
I felt proud; I had pleased and impressed her. My pain and my stoicism were appreciated; Lisbeth had accepted my gift.
I sensed Karina kneeling down behind me, felt her hands gently parting my thighs. Her kisses on my pouting sex were dreamlike, her tongue, darting and probing, felt as beautiful as a butterfly kiss on a hot summer’s day. The heat from my belting merged with that from my belly, and as Karina drove me to a place I could never have imagined, my breathing quickened and my arousal became uncontrollable.
She held me afterwards and hugged me like a child; her hands gently clasped around my head, those delicate fingers of hers gently kneading the back of my head, winding circlets of hair around her thin fingers, massaging away my fears and my angst.
It was the start of a beautiful relationship; I looked forward everyday to her library visits, longed for the opportunity to help her after work; when she invited me back to her apartment for a glass of wine, I knew that I had it made.