Lost Card

We often have lost library cards handed in at the checkout-station, in fact we have a pile an inch high held together with a bright red rubber band.This particular one caught my eye; for one, the name was definitely not English, and secondly, the black and white identity picture on the card made me take a long, hard look.

The name on it seemed Polish: her first name was Adrianna. Her surname was unpronounceable to an English speaking person like me.There was a haunting aspect to the photograph on the card: melancholic eyes

that told the story of someone who treaded the path between a world of unhappiness and moments of hope, fine black hair that was cut short and combed sideways into androgynous style parting, lips that hovered somewhere between a sad smile of disillusionment and neutrality, a slightly drawn and unmade face that conveyed a message of temperance and restraint.

The beauty marks she was blessed with should have been her defining feature; a delightful spot that sat at the crown of her cheek, a pigeon-pair beneath the corner of her lips which added an air of mystery and mystique. It worried me that a person with such potential should look so sad; I shrugged and slipped it back with the others under the rubber band and pushed the pile away to the back of the drawer.

I was curious; I searched to see what I could find about the holder of the card. Our library system revealed very little: her name and address, no contact phone number, a history of borrowing books that was as minimal as one could imagine. I guessed that she did most of her reading, whatever that consisted of, in the library itself; this struck me as strange as I was sure that I would have noticed her if she had been a regular. The books she had borrowed were references: a Polish/English dictionary, a travel guide to Western Poland, a book of poetry and commentary on the works of Adam Mickiewicz.

I could have gone online and researched her further but my conscience got in the way. My friends had often called me out for my tendency to Face-stalk! Despite my interest, I needed to keep professional; nothing could possibly come of something like this. I sometimes irritate myself; I need to learn to keep my childish infatuations in check.

Claimed Card

It was my good fortune to be on the front desk when the inquiry about the card was made. It had been a few days since I had slipped the card with the haunting image onto the lost-card pile, yet thoughts of the young lady in that black and white photograph continued to linger on the peripheral of my mind.

I had a hard time reconciling the woman that stood before me with the image on the card; she presented with a sense of sophistication and self confidence that was so obviously absent from her photo. It was as if an introverted student had been swapped out for a sassy lady of the world.

Her clothes were sophisticated, her makeup perfect. She wore a pink cami beneath a white linen suit, a simple gold necklace with an elegant charm adorned her neck. Her fine hair which had been brushed into a parting still had the same basic style, yet it now had body and bounce, gloss and richness. An eye-catching pair of earrings caught my attention; the pieces were classy and elegant, indicators of exquisite taste. Each stunning setting was made up from a matched pair of black and white pearls that were separated by a ribbon of gleaming yellow gold. Delicate fingers were positioned at each  end of the ribbon, securing the lustrous treasures in a sensuous grasp.

I leaned across the counter to get a better view. Her perfume was light, airy, delicate and fresh. I couldn’t be sure whether it was Chanel or Givenchy but it was evocative and powerful, yet understated and feminine. For just a moment I was lost to the world, succumbing to the magic of that ethereal scent; the caress of a cool summer breeze blowing across a gurgling willow-lined stream, butterflies flitting from one wild flower to another, freshly cut hay drying in sun warmed stacks, droning bees foraging for nectar for the queen that they served.

She didn’t seem to mind my un-invited invasion of her space personal space, in fact I sensed a flash of pleasure that someone was taking an interest at all.


czarne perla

“The darker ones are black pearls; we call them czarna perla in Polish, ” she offered.

“They are lovely.” To my own ears, I sounded breathless; she had that affect on me.

I looked into her eyes; despite her transformed appearance, nothing can change a person’s eyes; they are the window to the soul. Their message was consistent with that which I had seen in the image on the card; despite the façade, this was a person who was looking for meaning in life, someone who desperately wished for someone else to be in control.

“Absolutely gorgeous,” I said in a silly attempt to ground myself and retain my composure. I reached into the drawer to pull her card off the pile. I too was a submissive; I didn’t know how I could help.

The Reading List

The reading list that she showed me was fit for a student of BDSM; I gave it a name, as I often do to these things: “The Submissive’s Compendium.”

Adrianna blushed when she showed it to me, written out hurriedly on a blue scrap of paper in a feminine scrawl.

“Do you think you have any of these books in the library? A friend on some forum recommended them to me.”

I ran my eye down the list: Gloria Brame – Different Loving, Christina Abernathy – Concise Slave Training Manual, Molly Devon – Screw the Roses and Send Me the Thorns…..and so the list went on.

I gave her as warm a smile as I could as I knew the emotional turmoil that she must be feeling inside. Her stomach would be turning, yet perhaps, just perhaps, she was seeking the thrill of showing someone her reading list? Was this her ever so subtle way of making a pass?

“We have a few of these, others you will need to get from a specialty bookshop or online. Come, let’s go and see what we can find.”

I led the way down the aisle towards the Lifestyle Section, her list in hand, my mind in a twirl. Could I dare make a move, or did I just have to do the sensible thing and stay professional? I resolved to do the latter but those deep, sad eyes drew me in as I handed the first of the books to her. I felt her delicious perfume wash over me, felt my breathing start to quicken.

I allowed myself to offer a discreet tap on her wrist as I beckoned her to follow me to the next stop for our list. I reached up to the top row of books and plucked out the library’s  only copy of “Different Loving: The World of Sexual Dominance and Submission”. I knew the book well, knew exactly where to find it. Our eyes met as I handed it across to her; she was looking for a reaction from me, I was looking for a sign from her.

Once again, I felt myself drowning in those deep, melancholic eyes of hers. They seemed bottomless, but somewhere deep inside, I detected a flicker, like that of a candle at the bottom of a well. Her intoxicating perfume overwhelming me, I felt myself spiraling down into their depth. I leaned forward, and put my free hand on her shoulder to steady myself. Our lips touched, lightly at first, and then as I recovered my senses, we connected more forcefully.

A light taste of chocolate, a hint of vanilla. Her breath was sublime, her taste was exotic. As I closed my eyes, I felt the taste of Europe overcoming me, the constant rejuvenation, a sense of joie de vivre bathing my soul. I was floating on a cloud of wantonness, oblivious to my surrounds, intoxicated and care free.

I pulled back abruptly as the voice of the library director burst our bubble.

“In my office, now! And that girl you are with….her too!”

The Director’s Office

The director’s office was a bleak room; it reminded me of my principle’s office at my high school in years gone by. I had long suspected that she actually modeled it on a school office and her attitude and manner would have put her right at home in Bleakdale Girls High.

“Would you care to explain yourselves?”

Her eyes were like thunder, her voice was curt and her lips were pursed.

I looked down at the list of books written in that feminine scrawl, looked across at Adrianna who was standing looking dejected and terrified. My mind had been racing on that endless walk from the Lifestyle Section to the Director’s office: would I be reprimanded, disciplined, fired? My eyes looked up slowly to meet those of the Director.

“It was a chance meeting I had with my friend. I was helping her find some books and I got carried away.”

My voice sounded hollow and somewhat shaky and disembodied, as if it was coming to me from a long, dark tunnel.

The blue reading list seemed to flutter like a flag from my fingers. I wished I could secrete it away somewhere, hide it from the scrutiny it seemed to be demanding.

“Is that the list of books she was looking for? Pass it here.”

I clung to the list, hoping the moment would pass, that this would all prove to be a really bad dream.

“Pass it to me! Now!”

There was ice in her voice. I felt my fingers tremble as I passed it across to her waiting hand. I waited; my breathing seeming to have stopped as she ran here eyes down the list. This would not end well. I dared not look at Adrianna who stood at my side and wondered if she was going through the same emotional distress that I felt.

“Is this list yours? Are these the books and subject matter that you have an interest in?”

The question was addressed to Adrianna; I turned sideways and watched her nod concurrence, the movement of her head almost imperceptible.

“Be careful what you wish for!”

This admonishment was delivered to Adrianna; her words to me sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine.

“And you, into the corner with your nose against the wall. I will deal with you afterwards.”

The Sounds of a Spanking

Everything sounds so much more ominous when you are deprived of sight. I looked straight into the walls, saw every dot, was able to study every paint blemish but I was not able to see what was taking place in the office behind me. It was like deja vue; I had been there before! It was as if I was in a time-warp, back to my school days, my nose to the wall, listening as a fellow student was prepared for her punishment.

I heard the director’s deliberate move to get the instrument of chastisement: the staccato tap of her heels on the linoleum floor, slow and steady as she walked around her desk and across the office to her free-standing, oak cupboard; the creak as the cupboard doors were opened.

I could picture Adrianna’s eyes opening wide in astonishment and fear at the sight of a row of canes hanging from the rack inside.


I listened to the rattle, wood against wood, as the director made her selection. I imagined her testing it, eyes on Adrianna, bending it, flexing it, assessing its whip. I heard the swish through the air as she made a practice stroke, ostensibly to test the cane’s whip but really intending to frighten poor Adrianna.

An incorrect choice had been made. I heard the rattle of the cane being replaced, and then another practice stroke. Lighter, whippier; it gave a higher pitch and faster swish. I could sense the fear in Adrianna building, could imagine her stomach churning. The tapping of the heels again as the director turned and came back to the desk, measured and slow, echoing around the office.

A plaintive plea from Adrianna, her voice high pitched and wavering.

“Please Miss, may I go to the bathroom? I need to pee.”

The words sounded so incongruous in her delightful accent but I guess some words have universal meaning. I knew that effect; my bladder also did it to me before a thrashing.

“No! Just hold it in. And don’t you dare puddle on my floor; that will earn you extra.”

The director’s voice was harsh and unsympathetic.

A sound of paper being shuffled across the desk. I recalled that our old headmistress used to allow first offenders to bend over the desk rather than grasp their shins; the desk provided support, gave the student something to grasp.


I heard the shuffling as Adrianna moved up to the desk, imagined her bending over, reaching for the far side. She would be feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable now, her toes pointed and her calves stretched, the edge of the desk digging harshly into her thighs, her breasts being squashed to look and feel ridiculous beneath her own body.

And then followed the moments of near silence broken by a series of footsteps as the director took up position. I wondered if Adrianna would get it on the bare or across her skirt. I recalled that sometimes, if the skirt was deemed tight enough, first offenders did not have to show.

That frightening sound again of a practice swing and then a lingering moment of silence before the first cut whistled down.

I closed my eyes and stared into the welcoming blackness of my eyelids, a canvass on which to project my mind’s thoughts.

The woosh of the cane and the sound of the strike came almost at the same time: the sickening sound of cane striking the material on her bottom followed by a screech of pain. The agony would have been worse than Adrianna had been expecting; it always was.


No sympathy from the director; she was devoid of compassion.

I heard Adrianna’s sniffles, heavy breathing as she braced for more. First offenders often only got two, so perhaps she would be lucky. Swishing sounds of the practice strokes again, designed to instill the maximum fear, serving no purpose other than to terrorise.

I screwed up my eyes and clenched my fists, feeling desperately sorry for Adrianna yet knowing I could receive an even worse beating in just a few minutes to come.

Adrianna’s second cut must have been a real scorcher. Perhaps it crossed the first; it’s sometimes difficult to see exactly where to hit when the target is covered by a skirt. She let out a tremendous wail that the Director immediately told her to stop. It was lucky that the offices and conference rooms are relatively soundproof and away from the main wing else who knows what number of heads would have popped in to see what all the screaming was about.

Adrianna was told to get up and go to another corner. I listened to her sobs and imagined her rubbing her burning bottom, but kept my own eyes focused into the corner in which I stood.

The director wasn’t gentle when she grabbed my upper arm and led me back to the desk.

I received a similar number of strokes across my own backside. The sounds didn’t seem as harsh as when I stood in the corner and listened in; perhaps it was because I had other things on which to focus my mind: the ignominy of having to bend and offer my bottom as a target to be struck, the hard desk edge that dug into my thighs, the unyielding surface that crushed my breasts and cheek, the pain that seared me with each of the strokes I received.

We hurried off to the washroom as soon as we were allowed and the sound effects that followed were exactly as I had remembered from school. Doors banging shut and locks clicking as we each made a bee line for the privacy of our own stall; the stream of a pee as pressure was relieved, the  ‘oohs’ and ‘ouches’ as bottoms were inspected, welts massaged and bruises traced.

But it was the final sounds that remained stuck most vividly in my mind and played out to perfection so many years later: the faintest hiss of delicate parts being rubbed, the ever quickening breathing, the occasional quiet sigh of bliss and pleasure. The sounds of the activity from the two occupants seemed to magically synchronise; a louder and more frantic breathing, some shuffling as positions were changed, and then the moans and sighs of pleasure as fires of passion and pain were extinguished.

We exited the cubicles simultaneously, avoiding each others’ eyes as we stood at the basins. Adrianna t was the first to leave; she walked out ahead of me, her hips swaying seductively, yet it was with the distinctive gait of someone who has been well and truly swished. I never saw her again but I often think of her. I hope she had experienced what she was looking for, but one can never be sure.

I worked through the rest of the afternoon, standing at the checkout counter, avoiding the director’s occasional inquisitive stares. I was glad when the day came to an end and I could hurry on home; for then I once again enjoyed a routine that I had remembered so well.

I paraded in front of the dressing table mirror, admiring my stripes, enjoying the sight. I preened, I prodded, I traced every inch of every welt. Then, when my visual appetite had been satiated, I lay down on the bed with a hard pillow between my thighs, closed my eyes, and re-lived the scene. I tried to recall every emotion, every blissful moment of connection with Adrianna, the sense of fear as we walked to the office, my moments of anguish as I stood in the corner. I thought back to my humiliation, bending over the desk and offering my bottom to be swished. With every thought, my wetness flowed faster, my breathing quickened and skin seemed to glow. As I humped my pillow, I felt the waves of pleasure enhanced with pain, the warmth between my thighs mingling with the warmth from my bum.

It had been a long time since I had climaxed so hard, all brought together by the potent recipe of lust, submission and pain.

I never heard from Adrianna again. The library director acts as if that incident never took place, yet every time I walk past her office, I look at the cupboard and, like skeletons, I hear the gentle rattle of the canes inside.


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