Claire Currie was being tested. Her boss, Mr. Dillon, had taken her for a long cab ride that ended on a busy street corner. They stood together on the corner while Mr. Dillon looked at his watch. Claire didn’t know exactly what the test would be, but after spending a year with Mr. Dillon, she had come to know his moods. Today he was short-tempered, very arrogant and constantly looking at her cleavage. Yes, today was a testing day for sure.
She tried to relax but it was impossible. She was an assistant librarian for the Collette-Ashbee collection; relaxing was not part of the job description. The librarians gathered erotic books from all over the world so that the books could be preserved and stored for the enjoyment of the collection’s elite owners. In the course of a year, Claire had personally handled books that were worth millions of dollars. She had read erotic works written in secret by famous authors. She had masturbated to stories and poetry that defied imagination. Such constant stimulation did not make for a soothing lifestyle.
At least this time, Claire had an idea of what the test was about. About two weeks ago, Mr. Dillon had given her a book and told her to study it. It was a silly little book from the ’60s called “Sandy Asks for It.” In overly dramatic language, the book told the adventures of a nymphomaniac who manages to fuck half of Chicago, primarily through begging and throwing herself at men. The plot was nonexistent, and the characters had obviously been designed by someone with limited experience with women.
As a modern feminist, Claire was offended by the shallow female characters. As a black woman, she was offended by the racial stereotypes. As a British citizen, she was offended by the poor grammar and word choices. Claire studied it nonetheless. She researched the publishing company, the author and even the kind of paper used to print the book. She probably knew more about this book than the author ever had. Whatever test Mr. Dillon had for her, Claire was determined to be ready for it.
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Mr. Dillon finally spoke. “Ms. Currie, I see that your attire is professional and appropriate for a librarian today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dillon,” Claire said. It was a curious statement for him to make. She was wearing the same thing that she wore every day; button-down shirt that stretched across her generous breasts, a black skirt and thigh-high stockings. Today was Wednesday, so her brassiere and panties were electric blue as per Mr. Dillon’s schedule. Her black hair was held back by a silver headband, and gold-framed glasses were the only adornment he would allow on her face. The three-inch heels were a bother out here on the street, but a year of practice would keep Claire on her feet.
“Your technical skills have become quite good,” Mr. Dillon continued.
Claire was so shocked by this rare praise that she couldn’t help interrupting. “You really think my skills have become good?”
Mr. Dillon blinked in surprise. “I meant to say they were adequate, of course. Barely that, to be honest.”
Claire nodded. Mr. Dillon felt that praise only weakened librarians’ abilities, but sometimes he forgot himself. She had learned to cherish his praise, no matter how much he denied it a moment later.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Dillon said, “your skills at indexing and book care are adequate, but there is more to being a librarian than just filing and identification. There is an art that we of the Collette-Ashbee collection have perfected over the years when dealing with the collectors and sellers of our precious prizes.
“It is the art of seduction.”
Claire smiled. She thought of the vigorous fucking Mr. Dillon had given her the previous day. “I thought we had covered that last night, Mr. Dillon.”
He frowned. “I am not talking about fucking booksellers, Ms. Currie. We are librarians, not prostitutes. I am talking about the art of seduction.”
He stepped closer and placed a finger on Claire’s chin. He traced his fingernail across her lips. Despite the busy street, Claire found herself getting immensely wet.
“Ms. Currie,” he continued, “people who buy or collect erotic books do so because they like erotica. Now, as we well know, there is a huge difference between actual sexual relationships and the ones depicted in erotica. Erotica is fantastic, unreal and masturbatory. It taps not into what is real but into what readers wish was real. Do you understand?”
“Good,” he said. “One of the tools we use when we negotiate with sellers is to exploit their interest in erotica. Every collector wishes that the crazed sluts he reads about were real. Or perhaps she wishes that every man secretly desired to be chained down by a woman. Whatever their particular fetish, if we can figure it out and exploit it, we can often drive down the price of the book.”
“How do we do that?” Claire asked. “As you said, we are not prostitutes. We can’t be expected to fuck every collector who has a book to sell.”
“Of course not,” Mr. Dillon said. “However, the very unreality of erotica means that most collectors are helpless when they actually encounter a person who seems to have stepped out of an erotic book. A seller who refuses to budge a cent on his price becomes far more willing to lower it if he is talking face to face with a Catholic student who really does like to be spanked. Seduction is the art of getting what you want by exploiting your target’s sexual preferences. For example, you paid a lot more attention to me when I touched your lips just now.”
“In one week,” Mr. Dillon continued, “we will visit a bookseller I know by the name of Theodore Sweitz. He claims to have a pristine copy of O.M. Murphy’s classic, ‘The Reluctant Actress.’ The copies the Collette-Ashbee collection possesses are in very poor condition. If his copy is as perfect as he says it is, he can command his own price. Our job as librarians is to use whatever powers we have to stretch the budget of our employers. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Dillon,” Claire said.
“And now we come to your test,” Mr. Dillon said. “I gave you a book to study. You have had two weeks. I want you to pretend that I am a stodgy seller of books who loves begging, simpering nymphomaniacs. You are to talk and act like the character Sandy. You may start now.”
“But Mr. Dillon,” Claire began, “there is no way I could act like that sniveling idiot. That was a character written by some misanthrope who thinks women are cock-hungry sluts.”
Mr. Dillon looked unimpressed. “You certainly have the pointless whining down, but it is a poor imitation. Take off your panties.”
Claire looked around. The street was crowded with impatient people rushing to their destinations. She and Mr. Dillon were already getting in people’s way. It was an impossible place to fulfill his request. Claire knew that was the point.
“Right here, Mr. Dillon?” she asked.
He frowned. That was his only answer.
Claire took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and started hiking up her skirt. One hand snaked under her skirt and tugged at her panties. Her other hand kept her skirt pulled down so she wouldn’t flash the entire city. Taking off one’s panties with one hand is hard enough, but trying to do it quickly and discreetly only made it harder. She could feel the heat rushing to her face as she pulled her panties down past her stocking-covered legs. Claire nearly fell over when she tried to pull her foot out of her panties, and of course, Mr. Dillon was no help whatsoever.
As she stood back up, she could feel her face. “Here they are,” she said.
He took them. “Good. You have until we reach the street corner to beg me like Sandy would.
Mr. Dillon started to walk briskly down the street. Claire chased after him. She was aware of the looks on people’s faces. Most were confused, but far too many of them smirked at her display.
“Wait, Mr. Dillon,” she said. “I can do this, just give me a moment.”
He kept walking. “I doubt you have more than a minute before we reach the corner.”
The corner was awfully close. She stepped closer to him and almost whispered her response so as to not attract any more attention. “Oh, please, Mr. Dillon, please fuck me. I would love to have your big old cock inside of me again.”
“Pathetic,” Mr. Dillon said. “Sandy never spoke softly. She was too horny to be discreet. Here we are at the corner. Undo five of the buttons on your shirt. And hurry before the light changes.”
Claire looked down, “Five? That will go below my bustline.”
“Aren’t you the clever fashion expert?” Mr. Dillon said. “Perhaps you should be a dressmaker instead of a librarian.”
She said nothing. A group of people was waiting for the light to change. The last thing she wanted to do was argue this in front of them. Maybe if she did it quickly enough, no one would notice.
Claire reached up and undid the first button and then the second. A man standing beside her started staring when she got to the third. So much for discretion. The man licked his lips when she opened the fourth and the electric blue bra was revealed. When she undid the fifth, she thought she heard him moan.
The walk signal flashed, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief. The relief faded as she walked across the street. Drivers turned their heads as her open blouse flashed her electric blue bra. As people walked toward her, their eyes snapped to her, searching for some hint of dark breast.
When they reached the other corner, Mr. Dillon spoke again.
“Beg, Ms. Currie,” he said. “Beg as if your brassiere depended on it.”
Mr. Dillon walked away, and once again, she had to chase him. This time, she didn’t lower her voice or try to be discreet. She knew his threat was serious, and there were still several long blocks back to the hotel.
“Please!” she cried. “Please let me suck your cock.”
A pedestrian whipped his head around at her plea.
“More creativity, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said.
“Oh, Mr. Dillon,” she said, “I would lick you like you were ice cream until your cock sent all of your syrup down my throat.”
A passing woman pointed at Claire. “Have more pride in yourself, woman! No man is worth it!’
Claire ignored her. They were almost to the street corner, and Mr. Dillon walked awfully quickly. “Mr. Dillon, please let me lick your balls, rub your cock all over my face and jack you off until you come. I want you to use me like the slut that I am. Please let me suck your cock. I would do anything!”
“You can suck mine!” a young man said.
“Fuck off,” Claire snapped. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Claire couldn’t believe she had spoken that way.
“Almost,” Mr. Dillon said. They were at the corner now. “I want your bra in my hand before the light changes.”
Claire was sure that there were more people on this corner than there should have been. Maybe Claire’s vocal theater had attracted the crowd. She knew there was no getting around Mr. Dillon’s request, though. She would just have to do it very quickly.
There is an art to removing a bra without taking off your shirt. There was no art now. Claire reached into her open blouse and slid down one strap. With the blouse already half-open, it was easy to pull her arm out.
The only issue was that there were now six guys and two women looking right at her. All eight whistled in appreciation. Claire quickly worked her other arm out as the group watched. When she slid the cups under her breasts, the people watching stared at the wonder of her heavy breasts. She quickly reached behind her to unclasp the bra, not realizing that this arching of her back would force her breasts out of the already mostly open blouse. There was appreciative applause until she pulled her shirt back over herself. The crowd groaned in disappointment.
When the light changed, Claire kept her hands on her shirt as she crossed the street. She tried to keep it shut, but her large breasts were straining against the material of her silky blouse. If anything, keeping her shirt tightly shut was just emphasizing her breasts more.
“Keep your hands behind your back,” Mr. Dillon said once they had crossed the street.
Claire did as he commanded. She tried not to look down at her open shirt although she could feel the wind on her breasts. The only problem with looking straight ahead was that she kept seeing how people were staring.
“One more block to go,” Mr. Dillon said. “Impress me, Ms. Currie.”
Claire didn’t even want to know what new humiliation would result from a bad performance. She tried to think back to that insipid book. Sandy talked endlessly about her pussy. Claire tried to get over her distaste for the character and just give Mr. Dillon what he wanted.
“Please, Mr. Dillon,” she said loudly and clearly. “My little pussy is so empty right now. I want you to fill it with that big hot cock you have. I want you to stick it right in me till I come all over it. Fuck me from behind, fuck me with you on top, or fuck me any way you want, just fuck my biff until you shoot all inside me.”
“Very good,” Mr. Dillon said. “Unfortunately, ‘biff’ is a British term, and Sandy was a rather poorly traveled American. That was not an acceptable performance.”
Before Claire could argue, a man tapped her on the shoulder.
“Your shirt is open,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” Claire responded. “I’m a librarian.”
The man was too confused to respond. Or maybe he was too dazzled by her large tits.
Claire was about to try again with Mr. Dillon when she realized they were at the hotel.
“Damn it,” she said.
“I know. Your skills are truly awful,” Mr. Dillon said. “Open the sides of your skirt up to mid-thigh. Go on; we’re not going inside until you do it.”
Claire bent over, and her heavy breasts fell out of her shirt. She ignored them, but it was hard to ignore the whistles and shocked cries of people passing by. Claire reached for the bottom of her skirt and popped the buttons as quickly as she could. Button by button, she revealed more of her slender legs. When she reached her thighs, she tried to stop, but Mr. Dillon insisted that she keep opening buttons until the skirt was open to a mere three inches below her waist. Now anyone could see the tops of her stockings, which made her look even more undressed.
“Am I going into the hotel like this?” Claire asked.
“Of course, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “Maybe if you appear to be a nymphomaniac slut, you’ll do a better job of sounding like one.”
Claire nodded. They walked towards the hotel entrance. She felt the wind whipping through her skirt and over her bare sex. The doorman greeted Mr. Dillon with a smile; he greeted Claire with an open mouth of surprise.
They walked into the hotel, and Mr. Dillon’s brisk pace slowed to a bored stroll. Claire could feel the eyes of everyone in the lobby. They could see her bare legs with every step she took. They could see into her blouse as she jiggled toward the elevator. Claire could see the questions in their eyes, as well as their lust and their silent accusations. They thought she was a slut at best, a whore at worst.
“May I help you?” a hotel manager offered. He said it with the air of disapproving authority, but Claire could see the desire in his eyes when he looked at her chest.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Dillon said. “We’re just heading to our room. Carry on.”
“Uh, OK,” the manager said. He kept staring as they walked past. Claire realized that Mr. Dillon was right; people do lose their minds when confronted with a living fantasy.
They entered the elevator, and Claire was relieved to see that it was empty.
“One more try, Ms. Currie,” Mr. Dillon said. “You have seven floors to succeed.”
The elevator started to rise. Claire’s heart raced with excitement. Back in the hotel room, they might fuck. Walking around nearly naked had terrified her, but it had also aroused her. She was wet and ready. She was tingling with adrenaline and terror. She seized her own desire and tried again.
“Mr. Dillon, please, oh, please, fuck me silly. I would love nothing more than to throw my ankles over your shoulders as you fuck the hell out of me. I want it bad, Mr. Dillon. Worse than you can even imagine. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. You can penetrate me anywhere you want. Fuck my ass, fuck my mouth or fuck my cunt; just fuck me.”
Mr. Dillon smiled. “Take off all of your clothes and hand them to me.”
Claire groaned. She took off her shirt first. “What did I do wrong?”
“The word ‘penetrate’ is a bit too highbrow for the character of Sandy,” Mr. Dillon said. “The repetition of the words ‘fuck me’ was very lyrical but again, a little too good for Sandy. She is a simple-minded slut. You sound like a very intelligent woman.”
Claire had removed her skirt while Mr. Dillon was talking. she began rolling down her stockings. “Thank you, I think. What do we do now that I am naked?”
The elevator door opened. “You will come to the room, of course,” Mr. Dillon said. “Once we’re inside, I will try to fuck some sluttiness into you.”
He stepped into the hallway. Claire followed, naked and humble. She carried her clothes as they slowly made their way down the hall. No one saw them, but it didn’t matter. Claire was humiliated by her inability to perform as a librarian. The nudity was just a footnote.
Inside their room, Mr. Dillon taught her how to beg.
To be continued,