Claire Currie was being punished. She stood in the corner, where she had been standing for two hours now. The four-inch heels strained her calves, but she suffered in silence. It helped that she was biting down on her shirttails. The buttons of the shirt had been undone and the ends crammed into her mouth. It appeared as if her shirt were a curtain drawn up to reveal the beauty of her heavy black breasts.
Her round bottom was in a similar state. The hem of her skirt had been lifted up over her ass. Her hands gripped her skirt while staying crossed behind her back. Grey thigh-high stockings drew the eye up her legs to her exposed ass. Her panties hung around her ankles, which would have hobbled her if her own willpower hadn’t already been keeping her perfectly still.
For the last half hour, Claire’s glasses had been inching down her nose. Millimeter by millimeter, the glasses kept sliding down, and millimeter by millimeter, they were driving her mad. It would have taken only a moment to push them back up. She was sure she could do it so quickly that no one would even notice.
Claire didn’t move a muscle.
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“Ms. Currie, are you ready for the next phase of your punishment?” It was her employer, Mr. Dillon. He was the most ruthless, demanding bastard she had ever worked for. He was also one hell of a librarian, and in three short months working for him, Claire had learned more about books than she had in her two years in London.
“I am ready, Mr. Dillon,” she said.
Mr. Dillon came into view. He was dressed casually today. Instead of his usual button-down shirt and tie, he was wearing a button-down shirt without a tie. His polished shoes peeked out from underneath his plain black slacks. In place of his usual gold-rimmed glasses, Mr. Dillon had opted for his less formal silver-rimmed pair. Claire allowed herself the hope that maybe he was in a forgiving mood today.
Then she saw the cane. A shudder ran through her as the light caught the smooth blue plastic. Mr. Dillon had received two dozen of the vicious canes as a gift, and so far, he had broken five of them on her tender skin.
“Please recount the crimes for which you are being punished today, Ms. Currie.”
Claire swallowed. She used her tongue to shift the shirttails to the corners of her mouth so she could speak. Talking with her mouth full was a skill she’d picked up quickly working under Mr. Dillon.
“I let a copy of ‘Wicked Match Girls’ fall due to improper placement on the bedside table. I also failed to properly recite the ten most influential erotica writers of the 19th century when you tested my knowledge of my current studies. I compounded my crimes when I failed to wear the proper color thong, as it is Tuesday and I should be wearing dark green, but instead I put on my lime-green thong.”
Mr. Dillon nodded. “The Collette-Ashbee Collection demands a certain level of proficiency in its librarians, Ms. Currie. Not only must you be more careful with your book handling, but you also must improve your memory of the important writers of our focus. It took you two weeks to memorize the greatest lesbian poets of the Greek Classical age, and I forgave your slowness with that list because I had hoped you would improve with your next. Now, I see that I have been much too kind. I hope this punishment will help you focus on how you can prevent future mistakes and become a better librarian.”
“And how does the color of my panties make me a better librarian?” Claire asked.
She cried out as the as cane lashed out against her exposed ass. The shirttails fell from her mouth. It was only one strike, but the pain lingered like a sunburn.
“Your panties, Ms. Currie?” Mr. Dillon said. “The color of your panties is something I require.”
He stuffed the shirttails back into her mouth. Access to her breasts was something he always demanded during a punishment. He reached for one, cupping it with his hand. Claire steeled herself. Once he had a firm grip on her breast, he brought the cane down on her bottom. He caned her ass with quick, precise strokes. Line after line of pain burned into her ass as Mr. Dillon administered her punishment.
The pain brought tears to her eyes, but Mr. Dillon’s rough grip sent other feelings down to her cunt. She was getting wet, and she could feel the trickle of desire leak down her thigh. Over the last three months, Claire had experienced those rough hands in 100 fascinating ways. Some of those experiences had been painful, some had been almost unbearable, but many of those experiences had resulted in orgasms that shook her down to her knees. Right now, they were crushing her breast with an iron grip, but at any moment, they might plunge into her mouth for a crude simulation of a blowjob. Or they might pinch and pull her nipple till she begged for mercy. Or, if Claire were really lucky and Mr. Dillon was really generous, they might plunge into her cunt and get her off while her ass still burned from the cane.
It was just another day of Claire’s career with the Colette-Ashbee Collection. Three months in, it all still seemed like a dream. A rare collection of erotica, owned by eccentric wealthy patrons she might never meet and administered by one highly capable librarian, Mr. Dillon, the collection had one goal: to seek our and preserve the great works of erotic literature, no matter how obscure or rare.
Mr. Dillon traveled the world looking for these treasures to add to the collection, and Ms. Currie assisted in every way possible. Most days, that meant cataloging and verifying the books they found. She also handled the mundane details of arranging their hotel reservations and their meals. Claire performed the many small tasks that accumulated when you work constantly out of a hotel room, so that Mr. Dillon could devote himself to the important work of the library.
Some days, the important work of the library seemed to involve stripping, punishing and fucking Claire. That had certainly been an unexpected detail of her employment. She was surprised at how easily she had submitted to these little episodes. In any other environment, being caned and finger -fucked by one’s employer would have been grounds for a sexual-harassment suit. However, this was an erotic library, and somehow it just seemed natural. Claire did learn from her lessons. If it weren’t for the paddling, she would never have learned the Nin-modified Dewey system for cataloging erotica. If it weren’t for Mr. Dillon’s use of the nipple clamps, Claire would still be forgetting the differences between 16th-century vellum and 17th-century vellum.
And if it weren’t for Mr. Dillon’s occasionally fucking her cunt, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep soundly at night after a day of examining erotica.
“Ms. Currie, I see you are soaking your stockings again with your damp cunt.”
Claire felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “My apologies, Mr. Dillon.”
He released her breast, and Claire closed her eyes. “Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please,” she prayed silently. It had been two days since he had fucked her, and she had spent the morning reviewing a deliciously naughty book about sex slaves who served at an adult amusement park. She was almost trembling with desire, and although yes, she could have masturbated, Claire preferred to wait for the bliss that Mr. Dillon deigned to give her.
She screamed as the cane landed on her breasts. The shirttails stayed in her mouth, though. He snapped the cane four more times, striking both her breasts with the cruel thin plastic. She ground the cloth in her teeth and clenched her eyes, yet she stayed perfectly still. A woman did not need rope to hold still when she had the unforgiving expectations of Mr. Dillon to hold her in her place.
“I can see by the stains on your stockings that perhaps you are too distracted, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon lectured. “A true librarian must learn to set aside her desires in order to do her work. I am afraid I will have to forbid you from orgasms until you convince me that you can master yourself.”
A groan escaped Claire’s lips, and the cane flashed across her breasts. The groan transformed into a hiss of pain. New tears blurred her vision, but she looked at Mr. Dillon and nodded in acquiescence to his new rule.
“Very good,” he said. “Now, button your shirt and compose yourself. We have that 1 o’clock appointment with the Lepin widow.”
Claire released her skirt and calmly took the shirttails out of her mouth. She waited, hoping that Mr. Dillon might reconsider his new orders, but he was already heading to the hotel bathroom to change his glasses and put on a tie. She frowned and proceeded to get dressed herself. She put on a dark green bra to match her thong and winced as the bra hugged her tender breasts. They kept hurting as she buttoned her shirt; she wondered how long the pain would last. Over the past three months, she had grown accustomed to the way her skirt felt over her punished ass, but this abuse to her breasts was a new experience.
For that matter, so was the experience of being forbidden an orgasm. Mr. Dillon had never before made such a command, and already Claire found herself more aroused because of the limitation. Did this mean he wasn’t going to fuck her till she proved herself? As unbearably aroused as she was, the idea of not being fucked by Mr. Dillon struck her as a form of rejection. That rejection hurt more than the caning.
Claire snorted and left her top button undone. If Mr. Dillon thought he could ignore her, he was sadly mistaken. He might be an erotic librarian, but Claire had once been a sex goddess of the Internet. She had posted dozens of her erotic stories and accumulated a legion of dedicated fans who had stroked to her every word. She had retired when she graduated from college, but she still thought of herself as a woman who could seduce any reader if she put her mind to it. She was more than ready to use her prowess on her boss.
To be continued,