In my mind, I nicknamed her ‘Squidgy’.
Squidgy! Despite this moniker, there was nothing fat or flabby about her; she was tall and willowy, graceful and poised. Long brown hair tumbled down over her shoulders in a mass of curls, bright red nails tipped off long, slender fingers. She was wearing a light, pink, cotton knit top that seemed to flow down her torso, showing off her perky breasts without clinging, curving gracefully into her waistline without constricting.
Her top fell onto the belt of her jeans and bundled gently across her hips and bottom as she sashayed gracefully through the library lobby; it was onto this part of her body that my eyes were transfixed and the name Squidgy popped into my head.
Her bottom was uniquely feminine, so appealing, so sexy. It was neither fat nor skinny, yet it filled out her jeans in a way that left me breathless. There weren’t saddlebags, nor was there any sign of flabbiness, yet the cheeks curved down and out to create this wonderful shape; a shape that swayed pliantly as she walked, that was soft and malleable, that was dependent on her jeans to constrain it. Squidgy!
I turned back to my job at hand, helping patrons check out their books, pay their fines and to listen to their small talk, yet my mind was on Squidgy; what could have possibly brought her into the library today, what books did she like to read, what interests did she have?
I watched the minutes tick by; at last the end of my shift at the checkout counter came to an end I was free to tackle the other chores: books to be replaced on the shelves, magazines to stack, computer browser histories and caches to clear.
I was pushing my trolley of books down the center aisle when I saw her standing between two shelves. She was looking up towards the highest shelf, a piece of paper in one hand, her other hand behind her, fingers splayed, resting on her bottom. I caught my breath and hurried on to do my business; it would have been unprofessional to do otherwise.
It must have been thirty minutes before I glimpsed her again; she was bending over to look at a lower shelf, her thighs tensed,her bottom pushed out seductively, her hands on her knees. A pile of books lay on the floor besides her and she seemed to have a frustrated air about her; a hand repeatedly flicked hair away from in front of her eyes, her head bobbed up and down as her eyes traversed the titles on the shelves, her shoulders seemed to sag despondently.
And then I was past her, wheeling my trolley, now empty of books, back to the drop-off station. I was torn; should I go back and help her, or would my interest in her seem too obvious? Could I help her and remain detached? Should I just return to the checkout station and watch for her to leave?
A helping hand
Time ticked by and it was my turn on the duty roster to close the library up for the night; closing time was approaching. I had flicked the lights and announced that the library would be closing in fifteen minutes; the checkout queue had dried up and the computer stations emptied. I sensed that I was now alone in the building yet I was sure I had not seen Squidgy leave and there was no way that she could have checked out that pile of books without causing a hold-up.
I walked up the central aisle of the library performing the last check to ensure there were no stragglers. It was when I got to the row with the “M”s that I found her. She was kneeling on the floor next to her pile of books that seemed to have grown ever higher. There was an air of desperation about her now as she repeatedly checked the list she still held and frantically looked back at the shelves.
“Can I help you? The library is closing now. Is there a book I can help you find?”
There, I had done it! I had approached her and spoken to her, and I had not let my childish feelings of infatuation overcome me!
Squidgy showed me her list; there was eclectic selection written down, some fiction, some non-fiction, but all would have taken an open mind to read.
She pointed at the last entry on the list.
“I just can’t find this one, I have looked under all the “M”s but it just doesn’t seem to be here.”
I read the name: “Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns: The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism; Philip Miller, Molly Devon, William A. Granzig”
I remembered this book, I had remembered placing it back on the shelves but perhaps someone had moved it. I ran my eyes along the shelves, checked the last books on the “L”s and the “N”s.; it definitely wasn’t there.
I looked down at the pile of books on the floor.
“Leave those here; let’s go and look under the “D”’s and “G”’s.
The look of gratitude she gave me made my heart melt; it was as if I had offered her the world. The book practically jumped off the shelf at me when I got to the “D”’s
“I must have misplaced it,” I muttered as I reached for it. My eyes lingered on the cover, absorbing the image of the naked women, her eyes covered with a heavily padded blindfold, her arms crossed across her naked breasts.
I turned to Squidgy as she leaned into my space; her hands came up to clutch me gently at the sides of my face and she pulled me forward to kiss me. An exotic blend of fragrances mingled to overcome any resistance I might have felt, seducing me to the core. The distinctive notes of Opium perfume: exotic florals, mandarin and coriander, mixed with her own warm, sultry breath to create its own organic scent that was impulsive and addictive, sensuous and feminine.
I closed my eyes and surrendered to her magic; her lips were soft and creamy, melting against mine, seducing my senses. Her fingers caressed my hair, her nipples brushed against my breasts. It felt as if I had fallen into a wonderful opiate dream; behind my closed eyes, warm colors formed and reformed into graceful clouds, golds and purples and deep reds mixed into orgasmically beautiful tones.
All too quickly, she pulled away, and with a delicate tap on my wrist, she headed off back to her pile of books. There was that delightful swing of her hips again, the roll of her bottom constrained by her jeans, the elegant sashay of someone who is secure and in touch with her own sexuality.
“Please come with me; there is someone I would like you to meet.”
It seemed as though I had no option; the library was now closed, the front doors locked, my time was my own. I helped her pick up the pile of books, but rather than stopping at the self-check station, she led me back towards the conference rooms in the lobby. It was a strange feeling; despite the library being my domain, she acted as if she was at home, as if this was her space and I was the visitor.
We were not the first to get to the conference room; I made a mental note to check that they were empty at closing time from now on.
Squidgy introduced me to Ms. Fleur; I was not sure whether Fleur was a first name or surname. Certain women can simultaneously exude power and graciousness and Ms. Fleur was one of those. It was not just the dress or her manner and it was certainly not her physical size but rather a combination of an aura of command and dispassion, presence without threat, civility without warmth.
“You are late,” she commented, addressing Squidgy, “fifteen minutes to be precise. Well, who have we here? You brought the librarian?”
Ms. Fleur had turned to look at me appraisingly, running her eyes up and down my form, undressing me visually as I stood before her meekly. I had flashbacks to my childhood, being addressed like this by an imposing school mistress I had the misfortune to cross. I flushed but said nothing.
“I am sorry I missed your deadline, Ms. Fleur, but it was her fault!”
Squidgy pointed at me accusingly.
“She had replaced one of the books on wrong shelf. I am sure I could have made it on time, if not for her carelessness!”
Ms. Fleur continued to look me up and down. Eventually she broke the pregnant silence.
“Very well, then you will share the punishment. Two strokes each”
She pointed at Squidgy.
“You first. Get over the table.”
I was in shock; I had no idea what was going on. For the first time I noticed a long, cardboard tube lying on the table; I had seen cartons like that being used to protect posters. Ms. Fleur reached for it and flipped off a plastic cap from the one end. Slowly, her eyes locked on mine, she drew out a cane. As thick as my pinkie, as white as ash, it had a slight bend in its length; I later assumed that had been caused by repeated use.
Pieces of a puzzle began to click together in my mind: the ‘interesting’ collection of books Squidgy had been gathering, “Screw the Roses”, the pink choker necklace she was wearing with the slave ring at the front. Squidgy was about to be caned and I would be next.
My eyes were riveted to her bottom once again. Her legs straddled the corner of the conference table, her jeans were dropped and fell into a disconsolate puddle around her ankles. Schoolgirl style briefs were eased down to the middle of her thighs, her swollen lips pouted out from between the spread cheeks of her bottom. I could discern subtle movement as she pushed down onto the desk, exerting pressure on her pubis, gently building her excitement.
I flushed as the realization dawned on me that she was humping the table right in front of my eyes. The elegant movements were subtle, but the effects became readily obvious. The cane was brought to a rest across the center of her sit-spot; a gentle pressure pushed it into the flesh. I was fascinated by the sight; the threatening cane pressing ever so tenderly into the skin, the heightened sense of threat, Squidgy’s growing arousal.
It seemed surreal and seemed to be taking place in slow motion; the cane being drawn back, the flick as it was brought forward again, the splat of wood against flesh. A squidgy bottom; for just an instant, it seemed to mold itself around the cane, almost kissing it in lust. I was riveted to the dynamics and the after effects: the rebound as the cane bounced back, the redness and whiteness of the flesh, tramlines that ran across her bottom, jumping across the crack to carry on across the other side. Squidgy’s hiss and low moan; was it of pain or satisfaction? Her pronounced and prolonged pushing down onto the table corner, a clenching of her out-stretched fingers, a squeezing shut of her eyes.
I felt my own arousal building, a warmth in my breasts, a delicious pressure in between my thighs. I wanted to experience what Squidgy was experiencing, wanted to be at one with her.
The cane came down again. I had always imagined that a cane had to be drawn back fully and whipped in hard to deliver its punch; perhaps it was technique combined with this cane’s weight, but Ms.Fleur barely exerted herself. Another splat, that wonderful instant of impact when the rod sank into the pliant bottom, the instantaneous appearance of another set of lines, perfectly parallel, perfectly symmetrical.
A muted “ouch” and another sigh escaped Squidgy’s pursed lips: satisfaction or pain or both. Her right hand shot back to massage her pain, fingers spread and kneading. Her pelvis bore down onto the hard surfaces; a few ripples seemed to run up and down her shoulders, her pink knit top flowing across the tense muscles and moving joints, a flush lighting up her neck, mixed signals of exquisite pain and intimate pleasure.
I was spared the indignity of having to bare my bottom. I straddled the corner as I had seen Squidgy do, felt the delicious sensations caused by the pressure on my pubic area. Squidgy was instructed to stand on the other side of the table, her nose to the wall, her bottom towards me; time seemed to stand still for an eternity as she shuffled around to comply, her clothes at half mast but enhancing a compelling vision.
I felt as if I was drowning in my senses; the cane pushed into my own bottom now, my eyes savoring the sight of Squidgy’s fingers massaging her punished flesh, the fragrance of Opium mixed with arousal washing over me like a sensual cloud. I must have been let off very lightly although the bruises the following morning told a different story. Perhaps arousal deadens pain or perhaps pain simply enhances pleasure. I succumbed to lust and ground myself against the table corner as if I was alone and at home. Under the seemingly dispassionate eye of Ms. Fleur, I overcame my inhibitions and offered the performance of a harlot.
The hour that followed was equally strange. Squidgy and I sat at the table while Ms. Fleur lectured us on topics of lust, decadence and erotica. She drew liberally from texts made available from the books Squidgy had so painstakingly collected prior to our assembly, drawing on the whiteboard when emphasis was required; it was like an erotic version of Dead Poet’s Society, played right out in my own library setting.
I was startled at one stage when the door eased open; the library’s director popped her head through and took in the scene. To my amazement and relief, a knowing and sly grin creased her normally deadpan face. She looked directly at me.
“I forgot to tell you that Ms. Fleur had booked the conference room after hours this evening. I was going to ask you if there was any chance that you could stay late to lock up. I assume from what I am seeing that this won’t be a problem.”
Her eyes dropped to take in the cane that was now lying inertly on the desk, the open book displaying a picture of a spanking bench, a coil of rope peeking out from Ms.Fleur’s bag. They settled back on me.
“It’s a repeating booking she has requested; does this arrangement work for you every Tuesday evening?”
I had the grace to blush; I wouldn’t have given up the opportunity for the world.