The Librarian – Sparkly

The Library 

I would not exactly describe the library where I worked as a warm, friendly, family environment. The Head Librarian, Mrs. Stodge,  was a battle-axe; broad, stodgy like her name, and built like a tank. She ruled the environment with a fist of iron; no talking in the library, no levity, no disturbances tolerated at all. 

We had one patron, however, who seemed to get away with murder. She had a complete disregard for the rules and seemed to flout them with impunity; how she got away with it, I never knew. In her mid-thirties, she was bubbly and vibrant, her easy-going manner paired with that self-assurance that seems to come with wealth. Her run around clothes telegraphed wealth: slim-line tailored jeans, elegant boots in the winter, high heeled sandals in the summer, embroidered white linen blouses, gold bracelets that sparkled on her wrists.  Flowing auburn hair with loose curls that drifted away from her face, caramel highlights that gave her that model’s look.  

I nicknamed her Sparkly. 

I was working the Info Desk one afternoon, when she came bouncing in accompanied by two late-teen girls. The three of them were chattering away, unconcerned by the disapproving stares that the Head Librarian was throwing their way. In a kind of exaggerated, showy way, Sparkly wound her arm around as if to throw an underhand softball pitch, and smacked one of the girls gently on her bottom.  

“Run along girls, I will see you later. Her voice was cheerful, her manner completely un-inhibited; ‘How easy it is to be like that if you are rich,” I thought peevishly. I wanted to dislike her for her sense of entitlement, but I was drawn to her, jealous of the girls that seemed to be part of her circle. 


The Interview 

She sat herself down in front of me at the Info Desk with a copy of “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty in her hand. She didn’t look at me at first and I wasn’t quite sure why she had chosen that seat. She read the writeup on the dustcover, and then flipped through the pages, seeming to read snippets from various places in the book. 

Eventually she looked up and smiled at me. I hated myself for reacting the way I did; I so wanted to dislike her, but I just couldn’t. Her manner sent gentle vibrations of pleasure through me; without even having being asked anything, I wanted to please and impress her. 

“So, what do you think? Is it just porn wrapped up as erotica, or is there something more to it than that?”  

I was dumbfounded; what on earth was I meant to answer. 

“Well, I don’t know. There is some artistic merit to it!” I stumbled, not sure where to take it. 

“Hmm..” Sparkly grew pensive, her manicured nails tapping on the spine of her book. “So do you think it is reasonable to submit to someone else just based on their status in life? That seems to be what was expected of Beauty and Tristan.” 

I was at a loss for words. 

“How about this one then,” she continued, now flipping through a copy of  The Pearl, a classic of Victorian Erotica, “Do you think the women who were birched in these stories were any better for the chastisement they received ?”  

I could feel the flush coming to my neck as she looked directly into my eyes. 

“I suppose so,” I managed to get out, “sometimes they deserved it.” 

“Ah, the librarian can talk! So, do you think it changed the way they behaved for the better?” 

I was distinctly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but there was nowhere to go. Sparkly didn’t seem to have any intention of getting up or leaving me alone. I knew I had to answer. 

“Yes, I think they probably did behave better after they were punished,” I responded. 

Sparkly eyed me up and down, seemingly assessing me, then suddenly reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card which she dropped on the desk in front of me. 

“Come to my office this evening at 7pm, if you can. I think you will find it rewarding.” 

She turned and walked away, self confident, not even questioning whether I would do her bidding. 

I look down at the card. It was classy, shiny black with a small line drawing of a lady birching another embossed in gold at the top. Her business name was also embossed in gold; large , ornate capital letters, AAC, with the full name, Attitude Adjustment Coaching” written underneath in a much smaller, discrete font.  Her street address was tucked away on the bottom right of the card; I knew that I had no option but to accept her invitation.  

Sparkly’s Office 

“Some clients keep coming back on their own dime well after their employee mandated coaching sessions have come to an end.”  

She paused and looked directly into my eyes, waiting for my reaction.  

“Well, some women just like to be spanked!” Sparkly continued, “Don’t you?” 

I felt myself flush, not knowing where to put myself. She was not to be discouraged. 

“Oh, come on Caitlin, you read all those books on your adult shelves, I am sure. You knew full well what I was asking about in the library!” 

She was right, and suddenly I felt that things were moving out of control. I was so attracted to this vivacious women, her causal elegance, her self assured manner, but it all seemed to be moving so fast, and in a direction that I had only ever fantasized of and would never imagine myself getting involved in real life. 

We were sitting inside her office; spacious and elegant, it took up the bottom floor of an old, free-standing Victorian style house. It was one of a number in a leafy suburban, mid-town street; a green and gold sign of the house on one side showed it to be a lawyers’ office, the clinical white sign of the neighbors was that of a cosmetic surgeon; a high net-worth neighborhood to be sure! 

Dusk had fallen, blinds had been lowered across the windows, and the office was filled with a warm, muted glow of recessed lighting. It was a cozy and private space, much as I would have expected of any psychologist’s office. 

“You might be surprised at who has been sent here by their organization for some coaching, and then stays on for personal re-enforcement of the regime. Signing the guest book is a must for all my clients; take a look.” 

She flipped a leather bound, ledger size book that was sitting in the middle of her desk, around to me, and opened it to the page with the latest current entries.  

“Oh my gosh!” I gasped as I scanned down the neatly penned page. The columns were titled and each line was neatly filled out: date, name, a reason for consult, corrective action, client signature. On the fourth line from the top, there was an entry for a person I knew so well. The writing was so familiar, the name was one that gave me headaches every day. 

“02/04/17 – Eileen Stodge – Behavior reinforcement – 6  – Eileen” 

Sparkly looked at me, an amused look washing all over her face; her eyes were alive, her lips creased into a grin, her fingers twiddled a little pattern in the air. 

I was still trying to get over my shock when the door chime sounded and the door swung open. Mrs. Stodge stood still, her block-square body framed by the door, her sullen face frozen in surprise, aghast as she looked at me sitting in front of the desk with the open ledger in front of me. If looks could kill, I would have been dead.  

“What is she doing here?” She growled at Sparkly. 

“Oh, we were just chilling!” 

A pause followed….. 

“Eileen, why don’t you go and get ready and wait for me in meeting Room 1. I will be with you in a few minutes. 

The standoff was over as Eileen Stodge harrumphed, and walked down the passage to Room 1. 

Sparkly waited for a few minutes until she heard the sound of the door closing down the passage. An infectious grin spread out across her face ,dissipating the tension, causing even me to smile nervously. 

“I think you might like to observe our coaching session, Cait. Just push the door open slightly and watch through the crack.” 

“Won’t she notice? She will throw a frothy if she sees!” 

Sparkly’s peal of laughter would even have been heard down the corridor in Room 1. Her bubbly mood and sense of impunity was so contagious; I felt myself caught up in the drama, an eager participant, loving the moment. 

“Oh no,” she replied, much more quietly this time, “I think she will have other things on her mind to cope with. She won’t notice your being there at all. No chance in hell!” 

A few minutes of innocuous chatter followed; we could have just been friends. Sparkly stood up at last.  

“I think she must be ready for me now. Give us ten minutes, and then come and observe.” 

She left me, flicking through my smart phone news feed as I waited , unsure what to expect.  

Sparkly’s Office 

Sparkly had left the door to Room 1 slightly ajar, and by standing close to the wall, I was able to get a good view of what was taking place inside. I was stunned; this was not what I was expecting. It was an austere room, standing in total contrast to the warmth of the office where we had been chatting. White walls, white ceiling, harsh fluorescent lighting. A narrow, tall free-standing cupboard stood in the one corner; it was clinical to the extreme. 

There was an old, sturdy leather topped vaulting horse in the middle of the room; the last time I had seen anything like that was in my school gym many years before.  A straight backed chair was placed near the end of the vaulting horse. 

What of the occupants of the room? Mrs. Stodge was bent across the horse, her torso lying flat along the tops, bent at the waist, and her feet just reached the floor as she stood on tip-toes. She was gripping the front horse legs as far down as she could reach  She was naked from the waist down; a sharp contrast to the top of her body which still wore her business clothes: a white blouse and formal, tweed jacket.  

Her bottom was fat and flabby, painted lightly with rapidly fading bruises. A thick bush of pubic hair pushed out from between her legs; I judged her cunt lips to be slightly aroused; it was hard to really tell from where I stood.  

Sparkly sat in the high backed chair, holding a wicked looking cane in one hand and tapping it rhythmically into her other. The bubbly demeanor had vanished; she looked all business like and stern. She was driving a conversation with Mrs. Stodge, and not seeming to like the responses she was getting. 

“The atmosphere in the library still seems so down. I really think you need to do something about it. I don’t think much has changed since we last had a chat.” 

“No. A library is a place of study. We need to keep it quiet and subdued.” Mrs. Stodge’s voice was flat and icy; she wasn’t used to being told what was appropriate for the territory she controlled. 

“We will come back to that shortly.” Sparkly uncoiled herself, and slowly walked around in a loop to Mrs. Stodge’s rear. Her route was exaggerated, the click of her boots on the tiled hardwood floor echoing in the sterile room. 

It was a heavier cane, thicker than I had ever seen before. Sparkly told me later that it did not need to be whipped in very hard in order to cause considerable pain. She kept her elbow tucked in close to her body; whatever speed she generated came straight from her wrist. Her shoulder barely turned, her wrist cocked, and then there was a solid smack right across the center of the fat slab of flesh of Mrs. Stodge’s bottom.  

The cane seemed to move in slow motion; I had expected the whoosh of the stick whistling through the air, the splat of wood against flesh, but there was none of that. It dug in deeper than I thought it would, and then seemed to bounce back as if in slow motion. A vivid, red welt sprung up immediately, belying the apparent softness of the blow. A sight trembling of the skin, a clenching of her fat bottom cheeks, and then all was still, exactly the same as before – except for the welt. 

Looks can be deceiving; Mrs. Stodge must have been hurting more than I imagined. The second stroke was lower than the first, but this time she let out an audible gasp. Her head raised up, her hands broke their grips on the horse’s legs, but moments later, she was back in position, seemingly unhurt. 

The third cut caught me totally by surprise; I guessed Mrs. Stodge was equally shocked at the pain. Sparkly lifted her elbow, wound up just that much more, and delivered a much harder stroke. I fancy that I did hear the cane whoosh this time, but I can’t be certain.  It cut into bottom right across the sweet spot; flesh quivered from the stroke, and the cane bounced back a good few inches. There was no muted gasp or ‘ouch’ this time; the screech of pain was almost primordial, the anguish palpable. She pushed her torso up with her arms, looking around wildly, a mix of anger and pain and fear written across her bleak features.  

She didn’t have a chance to say anything, before the next stroke whipped down towards the top of her bottom, framing the earlier welts that were a lovely shade of red. She collapsed onto the top of the horse, sobbing, pleading with Sparkly, begging her to stop. 

“Stop, please, no more, please, I beg you!” 

Sparkly threw a glance my way, a smile flickering across her lovely face, before she walked around the far side of the horse, and resumed her seat on the straight backed chair. 

“So Eileen, I think we need to pick up where we left off earlier. The atmosphere in the library; how about a but of music over the speakers? A relaxation of the no-talking rules? A few easy chairs for readers to settle back in comfort.” 

Mrs. Stodge looked at her blankly. 

“I can’t do that.” Was her reply. 

Sparkly got up and walked back slowly to the rear of the horse. I watched her tapping her target, wondering if she was deliberately aiming skew. The two strokes that she rained down in quick succession, were no harder than the previous, yet the effect was electrifying. Two diagonal welts now crossed the fat bottom, top to bottom, bottom to top, causing a curious hatch-mark affect on the tortured rump below. 

Mrs. Stodge’s sobs were uncontrollable; it was difficult to make out her words.  

“Yes, all that you say, music, chairs, talking, I will see to it tomorrow.” 

Sparkly threw a triumphant glance my way and waved me away, telling me to head back out of sight as the performance was complete. 

As I left, I heard her resume her conversation with her stricken client: “Now next time you come, Eileen, we will be having a little session on manners. Bursting into my office without being invited in this evening, my word!! I think we need some attitude adjustment there, don’t you agree?” 

After affects 

I walked down the corridor to the washroom, and locked myself in, sitting on the toilet seat until I heard the front door chime, announcing Mrs. Stodge’s departure. It took longer than I had expected; she had to pull herself together, compose herself, re-assemble the obnoxious character that she was. Then there was the shuffle to the office; I imagined her standing in front of the desk as she signed the guest book. This time there would be a five in the penultimate column, not a six. I was sure her signature would be more squiggly, not so self assured. 

I played the scene out again in my mind, over and over again. The slow motion of the cane, the affect it had on impact. The grunts of pain that soon became squeals of anguish. Sparkly’s masterful performance, her elegance, her control. The way that she could twist even Mrs.Stodge around. I realize that as much as I was drawn to her vivacious character, I was drawn to her dominance. The more I sat there with these thoughts twirling around, the more aroused I found myself growing. 

I realized later that Sparkly was a master of relationships. Unbeknown to me, she had been sussing me out in the library; I was her mark, the one she wanted to own. She knew how I would react, how it would make me feel. As we came together in her office, I could sense the scent of arousal on her too. Her neck was flushed, her eyes had extra sparkle.  

She led me down the corridor, but it was to the stairs that went up to her private room this time. As she opened the door, and I saw the light cane on her bed, red velvet restraints and a set of velvet twisted chords. I knew what was coming to me, but I also knew that it would be that much more sensual, activities aimed at satisfying rather than for an attitude to adjust


Dark Storm Part 1V – The Trapeze

Before reading this post, you may like to read:

 Dark Storm Part I

Dark Storm Part II 

Dark Storm Part III

In this episode, I conflate scenes and ideas from three works of erotica: L’Image, The Story of O and The Yellow Room. If erotica offends you, please stop reading now.

For an introduction to the characters, take a look at the foreword to Part 1 of this series.

Catherine’s Office

It was gorgeous outside on the Sunday morning when I walked across from the library to her office, and my spirits were high. Catherine was seated behind her desk when I walked in to the office. She made no mention of the punishment that she had dished out to me the previous day, nor of the tender after-event activities that had taken place straight afterwards.  I sat down on the low stool which was placed on the platform in front of her desk; I battled to maintain any dignity and realized that was probably the point.

Under her gentle guidance, I was now dressing and carrying myself more like Anne every day. I wore dresses and heels rather than jeans and flats; I might have stepped out of a sixties movie. Softly feminine styles, deep rounded collars, emphasized waistlines, full skirts that flowed down to my knees. Gaily colored floral patterns, bright yellow polka dots, baby blues and pinks, the colors were summery like the weather we were enjoying. Silky slips and petticoats that caressed my legs, a frilly lace garter belt that was for decorative purposes only; my underwear was all sensual and seductive, designed for pleasure and little else.

She was reading from a manuscript that looked like it had been printed right here in the office and bound in a clear plastic folder. Despite the way she had folded the back cover towards the front, I could make out the title: “The Story of O”.

Catherine barely acknowledged my presence, but eventually she flipped the pages back, looking for something, and then read aloud from her manuscript: “You shouldn’t sit on your slip and skirt. Pull them up behind you and sit directly on the seat.”

She waited; the air seemed to grow cold.

“Well?” she prompted.

With difficulty, I raised myself off the stool a bit, and complied.

I watched her eyes track down the page, searching for a phrase. My own breathing seemed to have stopped. At last she found what she had been searching for further on in the text.

“You will remember at all times, or as constantly as possible, that you have lost your right to privacy or concealment, and as a reminder of this fact, in our presence, you will never close your lips completely, or cross your legs, or press your knees together.”

A deathly silence filled the room.

“Anne, do I make myself clear?”

I flushed at her admonishment; it was partial instruction, partial rebuke. Self-consciously, I drew my feet apart and spread my thighs. My jaw dropped slightly and I hoped I looked as pretty as O and not like some imbecile.

Catherine suddenly glanced at her watch and rose quickly from behind the desk. Taking me by the upper arm, she urged me to stand and then steered me out the door.

“Come on Anne, we are meeting Camille at the park and I don’t want to be late.”

“I need to go to the washroom, before we go out,” I responded to her. Perhaps I didn’t ask deferentially enough, perhaps it was because she felt that I had assumed it was my right, but her answer was totally unexpected.

“No Anne, you can just hold it in!”

I bit back a retort and said nothing. On the one hand, I felt peeved that she so easily put me down, yet on the other she had just made my day! She had been calling me Anne!

The Park

We met Camille at the entrance to High Park. She had obviously come from the lingerie shop where she worked. She was dressed for work and carried a handbag slung from her forearm. Most intriguing, was the beautifully presentation box she held at her side; about eighteen inches long and three inches wide, it was black with the name of her lingerie shop embossed in gold. A pale blue ribbon with a crisp bow on the top tied it all up.

She greeted Catherine effusively; they did that cute continental cheek to cheek kiss which I find so alluring, and then she turned towards me and nodded hello. The downturned smile on her lips, the slight tile of her head, the almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth; the body language said it all. “You are Catherine’s submissive; you and I have different status, so let’s keep it that way.”

Catherine took Camille’s arm and led her into the park. Rose bushes lined the paved way, people walked past, coffee cups in hand, soaking up the summer weather. I held back a few steps; I was obviously not to be part of the Catherine / Camille conversation. The further we walked, the more downhearted I became. I felt jealous of Camille’s relationship with Catherine, angry at the way she was monopolizing her attention, upset that I seemed now to be nothing but an after-thought.

Catherine left the main pathway, and we soon found ourselves in a secluded grove of birches. I was a bit stunned when she turned on me; her language was harsh, her tone uncompromising.

“Well Anne, you wanted to pee, so now get down and pee!”

I was stunned. My heart seemed to stop and I wished the ground would swallow me up. I looked at Camille; she had a quizzical smirk on her lovely face.

“I don’t need to Catherine! I am so sorry for earlier.”

“Anne, get down now and pee! Now!”

I looked around to see if anyone was watching us but we were hidden in our secluded glade. Slowly, I bent down, raising my skirts and petticoat as I squatted.

“Spread your feet, Anne, you don’t want to mess on them.”

Burning with shame, I complied, looking down at the ground, desperately wishing the moment away. Nothing came; I there was no way that I could perform under those circumstances.

“Pull your skirts higher Ann!” She seemed out to goad me.

“Look at me, Anne!”

As I looked up, Catherine smacked me lightly across my face; humiliating but not hugely painful.

The flood burst and I looked down to see my waters spray down onto the dirt, creating a little stream that flowed away, around a grass tuft, soaking slowly into the baked, red ground. I felt the tears trickle down my cheeks; tears of humiliation, my shame on display.

The Garter Belt

Camille had accompanied us back to her office. I stood on my platform in front of Catherine’s desk while she opened the box that Camille had brought

The lid was lifted slowly and a smile crept across Catherine’s face, replacing her sullen demeanor with something that was far more scary to me. Slowly she pulled out the contents; it looked to be a wide, white belt with lacy edges. Four white ribbons were attached at intervals along the belt.

“Oh Cami, that looks perfect! Let’s try it on right now!” Catherine exclaimed.

Camille approached me with a smile; it was that same look that she had given me in the park.

“Anne, may I?” She asked, holding the belt up for me to see.

I nodded, almost imperceptibly, knowing full well where this was headed. I had read the same copy of The Yellow Room, a classic example of Victorian erotica, that sat on the corner of Catherine’s desk.

Camille reached under my skirts and secured the belt as high up around my waist as she could. Her fingers trailed delicately across my skin, caressing me under the cover of my dress. A tickle she gave me with her little finger sent shivers down my spine, flames of arousal caused by her closeness were instantaneously kindled. I breathed in the lovely scent that radiated around her; notes of orange blossom and  jasmine, hibiscus and cedar wood; light and summery, fresh and feminine.

She delicately threaded the ribbons under the elastic of my petticoat and let them hang down my legs. There were two in the front and two at the back, white ribbons that painted stripes down my thighs.

Standing up, Camille joined me on my platform. She tackled the right side first, pulling the ribbon up from the front and back, and tying them together in a secure bow on top of my shoulders. The left side followed pretty quickly. I stood still as she fussed around me, making my skirts that had been pulled up by the ribbons neat and presentable; it seemed that Camille also knew that Catharine was very particular about appearance and dress!

“Thank her, Anne!”

Camille and I knew the expectation by now. We leaned in towards each other, our lips touching. Her eyes lifted up to mine, her eyebrows raised in a smile. I felt the tip of her tongue trace a path across my lips, dart in for just a moment, and then she pulled back chastely. The coffee on her breath was so personal, her actions so intimate. I felt the telltale signs of my arousal, the promise of an encounter, the frustration of withdrawal.

With my skirts now pulled up and out of the way, Catherine’s version of The Yellow Room was under way.


There was a small, old-style school desk at the side of Catherine’s office. It was wooden with a slanted lift-up top and a hole for an inkwell at the top. I struggled to ease myself into the attached bench seat; this was furniture designed for lithe teenagers and not for middle aged librarians!  The wood felt cold and hard against my naked bottom, and I noticed a slick where my personals came into the contact with the surface. The glint of arousal was a reminder of my inner conflict: how could I, a rational person, subject myself to such abuse, and in my perversity, find it arousing?

At Catherine’s command, I removed a pad of paper and a fountain pen from the inside the desk.

“Fifty lines, Anne! I want no mistakes and remember that EVERY character must be legible and neat.”

This was like being back in detention, only worse. Camille watched with that amused look flitting across her gentle face. Self-consciously, I pulled my thighs together, desperately trying to regain my composure and show just a modicum of  self respect.

“Anne!” Catherine scolded, “I thought we had been through this already. Remember what I read to you?”

She picked up the Story of O manuscript from her desk; she had no trouble finding her place this time.

“You will remember at all times, or as constantly as possible, that you have lost your right to privacy or concealment, and as a reminder of this fact, in our presence, you will never close your lips completely, or cross your legs, or press your knees together.”

“…but it seems you have forgotten!” She continued, “I will give you something to help you remember after you have finished your lines.”

Once again, I flushed at her rebuke, complying immediately, wondering what Camille thought of me sitting there with my lips and thighs parted like those of a whore.

I waited expectantly for her to tell me what to write, but I already new from The Yellow Room what it was likely to be.

It came at last, pretty much as I had expected.

‘I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille.’ Fifty times Anne, and I want that done perfectly. No crossings out, no errors. When you have finished it, you may sign it and hand it in.”

With shaking hands, I started to write. I got to the fifth line when I made my first mistake. Looking up, to see if Catherine and Camille were  watching, I self consciously tore the top sheet off and started again.

Their tête-à-tête had resumed; I assumed that whatever had kept them so engaged at the park was back up for discussion. Every now and then I noticed them glancing my way; perhaps I was the subject?  I was half way through my lines when the realization struck: I was being told by Catherine to affirm in these lines that she was my mistress!! I felt a wave of elation, a rush of joy. Catherine was my mistress, I belonged to her. Our relationship had moved on to a new level. I WAS Anne, Catherine WAS my mistress. This was my new reality.

I wrote the last few lines and then signed my lines with a flourish.

“I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

I pee’d like a mare before my mistress and Camille

yours, Anne”.

Struggling out from behind my desk with my lines in hand, I walked across to Catherine and waited deferentially at her side until it was polite to interrupt.

The Trapeze

There were six willow switches standing in the tall, blue vase on the bookshelf behind her desk. Six switches that I had peeled and smoothed, switches which I had known all along would mark my body, make me cry, make me plead for her mercy. I walked across to the vase, feeling the eyes on my naked bottom, wondering what Camille was thinking, wondering if she was aroused by my shameful situation.

Catherine took them from me and laid them onto her desk.

“Kiss them Anne, and then go and stand between the posts.”

A rope had been slung between the two support  posts that were now at each side of her office, and two velvet cuffs were suspended in the middle. Catherine used these to fasten my wrists above my head, and she then pulled the rope taught until I was standing on the balls of my feet. With a switch in her hand, she walked around me, pacing herself, deliberate steps, each of which raised the tension. When I didn’t think I could take it any longer, she stopped right in front of me.

“I will teach you not to close your legs!”

She spat these words out venomously, her perpetual scowl taking on a more menacing look. I was vaguely aware of Camille watching from my side, but as my fear grew, my self consciousness dropped.

Suddenly Catherine slashed me across the front of my right thigh with the willow, leaving a burning stripe of pain. Squealing, I raised my leg in anguish, losing my balance, finding myself suspended my by aching arms. Catherine stepped behind me, and delivered a volley of cuts across the back of my legs. Wildly contorting, kicking out, twirling around; there was nothing I could do to avoid the whipping, nothing I could do to control my movements.

The tip of the switch cut my inner thigh, a new intensity of pain driving me crazy, causing me to cry out, plead for her to stop. Like an out of control puppet, I swung from the trapeze, her swishing teaching me a lesson I would never forget.

Catherine did stop at last when she felt that I had probably taken enough, and then she lowered my cuffed wrists to head height, but left them locked in their velvet restraints. She stood in front of me with the switch until my sobbing died down. My head hung down, exhausted, my arms racked with pain, and my thighs and calves burned from the punishment received.

All my doubt as to whether the relationship between Catherine and Camille was platonic or not evaporated in the next instant. Their arms encircled each other, their lips locked. I watched in shock as Catherine’s fingers burrowed their way up under Camille’s skirt, felt my own arousal growing as their passions played out. With my own body on fire, a wonderful blend of arousal and pain, I watched and waited patiently for my own release.

Darkstorm – Part II – The Bijou

You may like to read Darkstorm Part 1 before reading this post.

Catherine’s  Office

I began to develop a comfortable working relationship with Catherine. She had suggested on one of her trips to the library that I might be interested in assisting her as a research assistant. It was to be an unpaid assignment, and one that would not interfere with my job as a librarian.

“Come to my office for an hour or two after work and before you leave for home,” she had suggested, “you just might find it rewarding.”

Reward comes in many forms; this was not to be a financial reward. In fact, as I soon found out, the gratification I received from working for Catherine in close proximity was to be the sole compensation. The work was light; she was not particularly demanding of my skills. I think it was the companionship that she enjoyed.

Every now and again, she would ask my opinion, but mostly she kept a comfortable silence. Classical music played quietly in the background; she seemed particularly keen on the soothing melodies of Brahms, the clarity of the notes played in Teleman’s trumpet concertos, and the mood inspiring works of Vivaldi’s Four Season. It was a dark yet warm office. Light spilled from a desk lamp onto her formal wooden desk, and a gas fire kept artificial logs glowing with its flickering blue flames. A glass of red wine often sat on her desk, but she did not offer me any in those early days of our relationship.

I would mainly sit in the formal chair at the side stand of her desk and occasionally she had me standing on that little platform in front of her. “I like to see you when I look up,” she mused.

I enjoyed watching her work away on whatever was keeping her busy at that time: sometimes it was marking assignments, sometimes it was working on her research project. She would look up at me from time to time, considering my presence for a moment or two, and then returning to her task at hand.

She never did instruct me to change my style of dress, but over the course of a few evenings, she made some pointed remarks which guided me on her expectations. Any sloppiness which might have been put down to having spent a long day in the library was put right before I entered her office; I freshened my face, made sure my makeup was flawless, tapped a few dabs of perfume onto my pulse points. Underwear was changed, working flats swapped for heels, a check made that my nails were neat and trim.

The semi-permanent scowl that she wore no longer frightened me. Her occasional smiles lit up her face and brightened my evening. I felt comfortable with her, loved the feeling of intense submission when in her presence, and wondered how long it would be before she once again conjured up a scene from L’Image, or perhaps from another classic work of erotica with which I knew her to be so familiar.

Expectations not met

It was in the second week of my unpaid assignment that events took a turn. I was standing on the little platform in front of her desk with my hands by my sides. Catherine was behind her desk, the stem of a wine glass twirling slowly between her fingers, the light from her desk lamp falling on one side of her face, but casting an ominous shadow on the other, exacerbating the menace her perpetual scowl.

She started to stare at me intently; her eyes seemed to be fixed on my breasts.

“Is that a black bra strap? Am I really seeing that?” She seemed incredulous, exasperated by my failing.

My stomach churned. We had never discussed a formal dress code, much less under-wear. Was there something I had overlooked from her pointed comments? What was I missing? My voice seemed tinny to me, distant and child-like.

“Yes Catherine.”

“Take your dress off. Just drop it.”

“Black..” she muttered. Her voice was filled with derision, “what sort of submissive is she if she doesn’t even know to wear white. Really!”

I hesitated for just a second, then reached behind to drag down the zip. With a bit of help from me, the dress descended and puddled on to the platform around my feet. It was worse than I could have planned for; my bra was black, my panties a pale blue. Uncoordinated, un-submissive. I could feel the fear coursing through my body. My nerves were ragged, my breathing fast.

“The rod, Anne, get it! And move that dress off the pedestal immediately, now!”

She had used my given name Anne; I slipped into my role without further thought. I could guess what was coming and knew what was expected.

My walk to the antique oak cupboard with the diamond shaped, glass panes seemed to take me an eternity. I could feel her eyes boring into my back. Yet suddenly I was there, my trembling hands swinging the door open, my eyes darting around to find the rod. Two canes hung by their crooks, one as thick as a finger, varnished brown and cruel. A senior school dragon, no doubt about that. The other was thin black and whippy, more than a toy yet its sting would be viscous. My hand hovered – which was the right choice, what if I got it wrong?

Then I saw it: the rod.  It was there, hanging on the right, a slender white stick with black, leather-wound handle, hanging from the rail by a thin leather thong. It was thinner than I had ever imagined it would be, more menacing, yet in a perverse way, more erotic, more evocative.

I closed the glass doors carefully and stood for a moment, looking at the other implements of punishment hanging inside. My own reflection caught my eye, the offending bra reflecting dully in the old glass panes. In the distant reflection, I could just see the outline of Catherine, staring malevolently at me, ghost like and threatening.

Brahms Symphony No3; an anchor that will always pull me back to that instant. The melodies, the tap of my heels on the hardwood floor, the chill on my skin, the fear that raced through my veins, my obvious arousal that threatened my betrayal.

Catherine’s outstretched hand, my attempt at mounting the platform with what little dignity I could muster; these are images that are burned into my mind. I knew what was required; I turned my back to Catherine and started to bend over. Reaching to myside tenuously, slipping my thumbs beneath my panties bands. It was a movie that seemed be playing in slow motion, a movie that starred me as the victim.

“Leave them! I never told you to take them off!”

Her voice was sharp, her tone unforgiving.

I bent again, my hands on my knees. I felt uncomfortable; mismatched underwear; a patch of damp most certainly showing.

This time it was Catherine’s shoes that I heard moving around on the hardwood floors. More of a shuffle than a click, a bit of a squeal of rubber against wood, a horror movie that seemed to have stopped in mid reel.

I could sense her behind me, could feel her displeasure radiating at my back. The pain was unannounced; she gave no warning, provided no hint. It was a streak of fire that burned across my bottom, burrowing into my flesh, setting a thousand nerves on edge. A pain that seemed to grow by the hour, yet only seconds could have ticked by on the clock. And then again, another slash that burned even deeper, taking my breath away, causing me to rear up and grab my bottom for relief. I knew I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care; I just needed to escape the terrible pain, to rub away the throbbing that threatened to overwhelm my rear.

“Stand up and get dressed Anne – you can go home now. We are finished for the evening. Tomorrow you will be dressed properly. Just remember that you will NOT wear blue panties. In fact, it is preferable that you don’t wear panties at all.”

Then she was gone; I heard her shoes moving across the floor, the door open and close. I was alone. With tears running down my cheeks, I quickly dressed and let myself out. They were tears because I had failed; I had disappointed Catherine, I had let myself down. At least there would be a tomorrow.

The Bijou

I recalled the scenes from L’Image vividly: Anne being taken into a lingerie shop; the shop assistant being told that Anne wore a garter belt rather than panties because it showed off her patch; the humiliation that she felt as she tried on the new underwear in front of the assistant; her mortification when told to thank the assistant in kind for the help received.

I knew what Catherine was expecting of me, and I dressed accordingly. I wasn’t surprised then, when Catherine stood up as soon as I entered her office the next evening and told me that I shouldn’t get settled as we were going out shopping together.

The lingerie shop was in the old French Quarter. Cobbled roads, ornate gas-lit streetlights large snowflakes drifting lazily down. Mannequins dressed in lacy underwear in window displays, a promise of seduction beyond the threshold, intimate moments to be indulged in private.

A “Closed to the public– private fitting appointments available on request” sign hung at the door, but Catherine pushed the door open and dragged me inside.

The sales assistant was just as I might have imagined her to be; she could have stepped right out of a ’70’s movie. Soft, compassionate eyes, lovely complexion; neither slender nor fat; knee length, pale beige woolen skirt and light rose pink cashmere cardigan. A string of pearls added a touch of elegance, a touch of class, a display of reserve. Her demeanor was warm and attentive, intimate without intrusion.

She greeted Catherine warmly but deferentially; they obviously had met before. She looked me up and down quickly, inquisitive without being judgmental, and then turned her focus back to Catherine.

“Madame Discret, how lovely to see you! How can I be of assistance today?” Her French accent tantalized, an erotic blend of English words and Continental mystique; sensual and seductive, a promise of passion.

“Anne, get on the platform and wait!”

Catherine took the sales assistant’s arm and guided her away. I picked up the words “gold”, “bijou”, and then they were out of my hearing.

Perhaps five minutes had passed before they were back, yet it seemed that I had been standing self-consciously, alone on my pedestal, for an age. The sales assistant carried a small jewelry box, handling it delicately, something of value.

“Anne, drop your skirts, Camille will fit you.”

I looked at Camille, perhaps for a second too long. What one earth could she be fitting me with; this was a lingerie shop! My face flushed as the realization came. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled my skirts down and let them fall into an untidy mess around my ankles.

Camille dropped to her knees onto a cushion at my feet. She reached forward and a dragged a fingertip slowly down from the top of my hair to my slit.

“Turn around Anne, so that she can see you properly!” Catherine’s voice was harsh, unconcerned that I might feel embarrassment in front of this stranger.

Mortified, I shuffled slowly around on the platform until my back was towards them. I felt a nail running slowly across my skin, gently tracing the bruises, savoring the texture. It stopped briefly where the bruise leapt across the chasm to the opposing cheek, a slight tickle, almost imperceptible, a salacious probe, and then it moved on.

“She was punished, Cami; her underwear was inappropriate. Face us, Anne!”

Another flush of humiliation, and frisson of lust.

Catherine’s voice was harsh and I felt my body respond.

“Part your legs, Anne. Don’t keep Camille waiting. You will be punished again if you stall.”

I turned and spread my legs, my face burning, my embarrassment obvious.

“Anne, do you mind I call you that?” Her voice was solicitous and sensuous, soothing my nerves.

I nodded, warming to her manner.

“Anne, I am going to fit you with a clitoral bijou; have you ever worn one?”

I shook my head; no, I had never even heard of one!

“Anne, you will love it! It will keep you so aware, so ready!” Her voice was silky, a touch of passion, a promise of sensuality with purity, no seediness in mind.

She paused; her fingers traced their way around the top of my hood.

“But Anne, I need you to be aroused to get the fit right!”
There was nothing condescending in her tone, no salaciousness, no malice.

Catherine’s had flashed out, striking my bottom, a stinging slap that left me shaking.

“You heard her Anne! Let her prepare you.”

I understood, and dropped my hands to my pubis and gently parted my lips. Mortified, I watched Camille lean forward, and then as she worked her tongue slowly around my lower lips.  I gave in to pleasure. The warmth, the proximity, the shame; it all melded into a state of arousal, one of deep hypnotic submission. My fingers circled around her hair, creating little ringlets, and pulling her gently closer, maximizing the contact, directing her focus. I could feel her tongue working gently, lapping at my offering, generating waves of pleasure that rolled through my belly, heating my breasts.

And then her fingers were working, deftly clipping a beautiful little ornament around my clit hood, brushing my swollen clit lightly, trailing her fingers for a last time through my curls. The clip squeezed my clit forward, applying a delicious pressure; a pair of gold plated weights brushed against it, threatening to send jolts of pleasure at every move.

Camille slowly pulled back and stood up, and looked straight into my eyes. A gentle smile played at the edges of her lips, slight amusement at my predicament, yet perhaps a touch of sympathy glistened in her eyes.

“Thank her, Anne!”

Camille and I looked at each other, our eyes locked. We leaned slowly into each other and I felt her hands reach up to my face, gently guiding me until our lips touch.

Her scent was sublime; vanilla and jasmin, mandarin and amber. Black Opium, sultry and rich, a lingering trace of my own arousal on lips, a sip of coffee on her breath.

I vaguely heard the shop door swing open, the tinkle of a door chime, the crisp click of heels on the tiled floors. A deathly silence, broken at last by Catherine’s voice, soothing now, but still in control.

“If you will just wait a moment, please Madam, Camille will be with you shortly.”

A smack on my bottom again; it was soft this time, her gloves barely leaving a mark.

“It’s time Anne, we need to be going.”

Camille and I disengaged. Flustered, I pulled up my skirt. Still on her knees, she looked up at her next customer, an angelic smile on her face, a twinkle in her eyes.

“Mademoiselle, it is so thoughtful for you to be on time for your fitting! I will be with you in just a moment.”

The look Camille gave me as Catherine led me out by my wrist caused my heart to flutter; I suspected that we would be seeing each other again.

Dark Storm

Clipboard01Author’s Note:  “The Image / L’Image” – written by Jean de Berg, it is one of the most famous erotic novels of all time. It was produced as a movie and the scenes I watched in it have had a profound effect on me. This story puts me in the roll of a librarian who ends up playing the role of Anne in a scene with one of the library’s patrons. If you have never seen the film, I recommend it and I hope you do not become confused by the role I play. Either way, I hope you enjoy this piece of erotica and look forward to any feedback.


Narrator – The Librarian
Catherine – The Professor
Anne – Submissive in “The Image”
Claire – Domme in “The Image”
Jean – Narrator, male voyeur and dominant in “The Image”

Dark Storm

In my mind, I gave her a nickname; I called her “Dark Storm”. She moved around the library where I worked with hurricane speed, touching down at her selected shelves, leaving a trail of destruction and chaos in her wake. Her face was habitually dark and thunderous, her eyes squinting as if staring into the pouring rain, a dark and gloomy demeanor that telegraphed menace and malevolence for all that stood in her path.

There were occasions though, when she actually interacted with me and it was then that the magnificence of her nature came to the fore. Her smile lit up the darkness with mega-watts of brilliance, flashing down in electrifying forks, jolting pure white light into the deepest darkness. On occasion, the smile was accompanied by laughter; sheet lightening that seemed to ripple on and on, casting a surreal light on the scene that lasted for seconds rather than its momentary norm.

I was attracted to her dominating character yet wary of her power. She had never harmed me, never confronted me, but I knew it was in my best interests to treat her with respect and deference. It was with some trepidation then, that I watched her approach the Information Desk where I was stationed, a couple of books clutched to her breast, but obviously some unfinished business on her mind.

The Image

Catherine held a copy of “L’Image” out to show me. Published in French, it was a sadomasochistic work of erotica by Jean de Berg. The library also had a copy of the movie in its collection, and this is what she was also after.

My heart seemed to stop beating and my stomach seemed to roil when she asked me to help her locate it. I could feel the blood rush to my face and my fingers begin to shake. The truth is that I had personally removed the DVD from the library’s collection and taken it home to watch many months earlier; it was still sitting in my player well watched, the scenes that titillated me on the player’s quick-search. I was fascinated by certain of the scenes depicted in the movie and wrapped up in the relationship between Claire and Anne, repulsed by Jean and distraught by the tangle of emotional involvements between the male narrator and the two women.

In that moment that Catherine rested her arms on my desk, looked into my eyes, and asked me where the DVD was, I had instant flashbacks to the scenes that I had found so erotic:


Anne squats to pee – from “The Image”

Anne being made to squat down in a secluded area of a public park and pee under the harsh supervision of a menacing Claire; Anne selecting the whip with which the leather clad Claire was to beat her; Anne standing on a platform in a lingerie shop, bottom and thighs protected only  by a lacy set of suspenders and being made by Jean to turn around so that the lovely sales assistant could see her whip marks.

The images tumbled through my mind, haunting me with their erotic promise, leaving me at once feeling aroused and disturbed. Yet ever present in the movies scenes was Jean, an ego-centric male who I had come to detest. I loved the images that lingered in my mind for they enabled me to wipe him from the scene and replace him, when necessary, with Claire; to imagine out that which I found objectionable and refashion the images into ones that fed my deepest and dark desires.

“Well, where is it?” Catherine asked. “Who exactly has checked it out?”

My embarrassment was so obvious, my discomfort so blatant, that I could not even start to lie. It had been on the tip of my tongue to say simply that another library member had checked it out, yet I could not bring myself to say that now.

My voice sounded husky and low, a cross between a whisper and a croak.

“I have it; I took it home and forgot to return it.”

“You did, did you?”

A look of bemusement crossed her face and her eyebrows rose up as she appraised me with an intense look. I sat still, waiting for the storm to erupt, for the rain to start lashing down.

“It just so happens that I need it rather urgently,” she continued. “Now what would I tell the head librarian about this misappropriated treasure?”

My defenses were down and I was tongue tied, scrambling for a suitable response.

“I could bring it to your office this evening. I just need a chance to get straight home after work and pick it up.”

“Yes, you do that!”

She rose abruptly and dug into her purse. She found a business card and she dropped it down onto the desk in front of my screen.

Mlle. Catherine Discret
Professor – Room 69
Dept. Classic French Literature
Faculty of Arts

Catherine bestowed one of her dazzling smiles on me, one that made me feel both privileged and dismayed, turned on her heels and stormed out through the aisles. My fingers were trembling as I turned back to my keyboard, yet I felt a disturbing wetness between my thighs, a warmth and delightful tingling in my breasts, and a disturbing emotion that oscillated between anticipation and dread.

Room 69

There was a little platform rather than the traditional visitor’s chair in front of her desk; it reminded me of the dressing platform that Anne had presented on in the lingerie boutique. I laid the DVD on Catherine’s vintage desk and watched nervously as she picked it up. Her eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul, melting my insides, turning my muscles to jelly.

“Well, you’ve watched the movie, so why are you standing there?” she asked. She was back into her mood of threatening clouds, a promise of dark and stormy weather ahead. I stared at her blankly for a moment, then realized what she was demanding.

The platform was perhaps eighteen inches high and two foot square; high enough to make me feel self conscious though ridiculous was perhaps closer to the truth.

“Your skirts; lift them!”

I slowly raised my skirts, the realization that I had adopted the ways of Anne so closely, now seeming childish, most definitely immature. Beneath my floral skirt, breezy and feminine, I wore a white lace garter belt; it held my stockings in place, but provided no other modesty of which to speak. Intimate and delicate, tasteful yet coquettish, it united me to Anne in my mind, made me at one with my fantasy world.

Catherine had risen from her chair and come around her wooden desk. She rested against it and eyed me up and down. I felt like a slave on a block, chattel being appraised.

“Turn,” she commanded.

I slowly rotated, shuffling around, hearing the heels of my courts clicking on the platform, the soles rubbing on its varnished surface. I did not hear her rise, but felt the smoothness of her fingers as they traced their way down the lace straps, the warmth of her palms as she brushed them against my bottom, the wild scent of her perfume as she leaned forward to kiss the back of my neck.

I closed my eyes and breathed in as her wonderful fragrances washed over me; notes of heather and moss, ferns and a hint of lavender. I was transported into a world of French perfumeries, Paris Couture, Eighteen Hundreds erotica, boudoir secrets.

“Your bottom, it’s so perfect!” she murmured in my ear, “but still unmarked. We must fix that, you know we must!”

Her voice was smooth and hypnotic, sultry yet persuasive; she expressed no doubts that she would be completely obeyed. I felt her fingers tweak the fasteners on my dress, tease the zipper. A gentle tug and the dress fell, half draped across the platform, tumbling across to the floor at its edge.

“The whip, you know where it is, Anne; go and get it.”

I felt delirious, it all felt so right. I was Anne…she had called me Anne!

The Cut Glass Window

I stepped off the platform as if in a dream. The cupboard was directly in front of me, looking just as I had known it would be from that movie: ‘The Image’. It was an antique oak, self standing dresser; a window, its diamond shaped glass panes held in place by dull lead moldings, offered a peek into what lay behind the door.


Anne selects a whip – from “The Image”

I slowly swung the door open, lost in my own world, oblivious now of Catherine’s eyes watching my every move. A number of implements hung from the rail inside; it was exactly as I had imagined it would be. Leather straps, heavy and supple, the ends split into tongues that would cut into punished flesh. Gags and halters that look like they had come straight from the equestrian shop, the leather bits chewed and gnarled from agonizing screams. Single tail whips, some braided in tight leather thongs, others in the reds and whites and blues of corded rope.

Canes hung from the rail, rocking gently on their crooked handles as I reached in and disturbed their rest. A set of chains hung down, its links dull and scuffed; a set of handcuffs clipped loosely to the bar; a chain with shiny chrome ankle cuffs lay coiled on the cupboard floor.

I reached in slowly, selected a tawse. It felt heavy in my hand, but oddly alive and full of menace. I brought it to my lips, rubbed the dark leather across my face. It was smooth and supple, polished to a dull luster. Saddle soap and pine, tears and pain. The sensations and promise of what to come washed over in a wave, driving me deeper into my lust, further into my submission.

I replaced the tawse and watched enraptured as the chains jangled, the whips swung from the straps at their base, the canes rocked gently; they offered no hint of the pain they promised to deliver.

I selected the whip that was furthest to my right. It had a short handle, the core covered by braided leather strips; white and black, interlocked, Catherine’s dominance, my submission. The tail was perhaps a meter long; it was made of braided leather thongs that came down to a tightly lashed tip. I closed the door slowly, and turned towards Catherine. My heart was pounding and I knew now that there was no going back. Waves of submission washed over me; I knew that whatever Catherine demanded, I would be compliant; whatever pain she offered, I would accept and cherish.

The Velvet Pillow

A red velvet pillow had materialized while I had been lost in my reverie; it now covered the top of the little platform over which I was instructed to lie. It felt warm against my belly, silky and plush. By contrast, my hands resting on the hard wooden floor in front of me ached from the pressure, felt dusty and exposed. I had removed my court shoes at her bidding and my legs were now stretched out behind me, my thighs spread apart, my aroused sex on display.

Catherine stopped and reached down to my gaping sex, her fingers tracing the outline of my lips, probing my depths, circling my clit.

“You are wet, you slut! You want to be whipped!”

Her words were harsh, intended to cut and hurt; she wanted to humble me, to show me my place. I felt myself flush, abject humiliation rocking me to the core.

I watched Catherine walk around the front of me, the staccato tapping of her heels reminding me of the roll of the executioner’s drum. Slow and deliberate, she circled me twice, raising my fear level, reducing me to a wreck.

When the lash whipped down into my bottom, I whimpered, astounded by the pain and shocked by its depth. She had lashed me from the top of my buttocks across to my right thigh, a diagonal line of fury that seemed to cut right into my flesh.


Anne’s whip marks

I had watched the movie and knew what would come next; my brain barely had to register this thought before the lash hit me again. A parallel line to the first, from the top of my left thigh to the center of my bottom. Indescribable pain, as if a scalpel had been slashed across my back side. I heard myself whimper again, felt the tears running freely down my cheeks.

I couldn’t take another blow; my body and mind simply wouldn’t take it. The wild gyrations of my hips, my falling off the platform, my tears, my pathetic pleadings.

“No more, no more…please, I beg you, no more.”

None of this seemed to soften Catherine; she seemed impervious to my pain.


Anne kneels – from the “The Image”

“Kneel, now! Thighs apart! Look at me!” With teary eyes, I scrambled into a kneeling position, my knees spread apart on the hard floor. I held my hands up high as I knew Anne had done, pushed my breasts out lewdly, and looked up into Catherine’s eyes in fear. Waves of pain continued to course through my bottom and flanks, yet I knew that my aroused cunt expressed my abject shame.

She bent down and her lips covered mine, her tongue pressed between my lips, her sweet breath inflamed my passion. Once again, I became aware of her perfume, her distinctive animal scent. She did not need much time to drive me over the edge; her fingering was gentle but persistent and her rhythm exquisitely timed.

My moans were of pleasure this time and not of pain. Somehow the terrible fire that her lash had ignited, melded with my internal flames; waves of pleasure overcame me, and with my arms still in the air, I shuddered, felt my thighs spasm, felt my juices flow freely.

I came there on Catherine’s office floor, naked except for my lingerie, my bottom striped like a wretch’s, my sex on show like a common tart’s. In just one short evening, I had become Catherine’s slut, humiliated and whipped, broken and submissive. Yet rather than feeling self pity, I felt awakened, my erotic dreams had become reality, Anne’s persona had become my own.

Clipboard11It was a better outcome than in the L’Image though: it was just Catherine and I, her dominance and my submission; there was no Jean, no one to come between us, no third party to upset the balance. When the Dark Storm blew over for the evening, I knew that rainbows would arch over us and in the morning, the healing sunshine would melt the physical pain to a delicious glow.

We both knew instinctively, though, that when the conditions were right, the Dark Storm was sure to blow through the Library again.


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.


Library Hours

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.

Society Meeting

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.

The Librarian

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.