Mr. Dillon was a perfect picture of his profession. He sat in a chair with both feet on the ground and his hands folded in his lap. His dark blue suit was as immaculate as the not-quite-military cut of the hair on his head. He radiated calm confidence, informing anyone who looked at him that he was a very serious man indeed.
Mr. Dillon was a librarian for the Colette-Ashbee Collection. He was charged with finding and procuring the greatest works of erotica ever written. He was a hunter, a scholar and an appreciator of every kink man or woman had ever invented. He had traveled around the world and experienced many great and terrible adventures.
Today, though, he was bored and horny as fuck.
He was at an auction. The collection of insane packrat and millionaire Brandon Kenture was up for sale. Mr. Kenture had never seen an expensive item that he didn’t want to buy and stick in his mansion. From rare rugs to rarer furniture to unique pieces of jewelry, Brandon bought it all. The only item Mr. Dillon was interested in was a diary belonging to the Mad Dominatrix of London of 1911. Instead of selling the book directly to Mr. Dillon, the greedy Kenture offspring had decided to throw the book into the auction storm.
That meant Mr. Dillon had to sit through an endless list of uninteresting artifacts being sold to crazed enthusiasts of ridiculous hobbies. He thought about his assistant, the voluptuous and very fuckable Claire Currie. Now that was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. He could have been back at the hotel right now, slapping the hell out of her round ass while making her recite from Victorian prostitution novels. Instead, he was here listening to the auctioneer drone on about the kind of copper used in an antique piss pot.
Mr. Dillon calmed the anger he felt rising. Hardships were a necessary part of being a librarian. In fact, he felt that hardships were an important part of life. He had grown up poor, and nothing makes one appreciate the tenderness of Kobe steak as an adult more than the memory of fried Spam as a child. The auction was just another hardship that would make reading the diary of the Mad Dominatrix all the sweeter when he obtained it.
He wondered what Ms. Currie was doing. She was supposed to be cataloging the box of erotic books they had purchased in bulk from a closing bookstore. He had left her behind because, despite his tendencies towards sadism, he wasn’t enough of a heartless monster to drag her here. The poor girl might have fidgeted and then Mr. Dillon would have been forced to punish her in a sexually violent way.
Hmmm. The more he thought about it, the more he wished he had brought her along.
The piss pot sold. The next item up for bid was a plate. Mr. Dillon closed his eyes. A plate! How could people spend so much on something that didn’t tell a story? Where is the fucking drama in a plate?
Mr. Dillon took out his cell phone. He was enduring the auction, but he was in the mood to spread some hardship around. Hardship built character.
He composed a message to Ms. Currie. He smiled as he imagined her jumping when her phone beeped. He pictured the look of dread on her face when she realized that her boss was keeping tabs on her.
“Re-enact the second scene from Mrs. Urquhart’s third book,” he typed. “Send picture evidence. You have three minutes.”
Mr. Dillon smiled. There, a little test would keep her on her toes. Ms. Currie would not have the time to dig the book out. They had reviewed it two weeks ago as part of her education on American suburban erotica. Even if she remembered the scene, it might well take more than three minutes to make the picture with her phone camera.
He relished the thought of her in a panic. Staying calm under pressure was something all librarians must learn to do. Mostly, though, he just relished the idea of her hurrying to obey his commands.
He watched as plate lovers battled to near-bankruptcy. His phone vibrated, and he checked the time. She was under three minutes. He was both proud and mildly disappointed.
The picture loaded. Ms. Currie’s black breast was exposed, and an ice cube was pressed to her brown nipple. He admired the fact that her entire breast was glistening with water. It showed excellent attention to detail. He was very impressed.
He didn’t send a response. He didn’t acknowledge that she was correct or had done an excellent job. Librarians did not work for the praise of glory.
The sight of Ms. Currie’s nipple helped Mr. Dillon through the next hour. He even became mildly interested when a rather kinky-looking chair was up for auction. His hardships increased, though, when four Tiffany lamps in a row were sold. Mr. Dillon couldn’t understand why people would pay so much for lampshades that you could scarcely read by.
He decided it was time to build some more character.
“Re-enact the final scene of Ms. Morgan’s last known novel. Send picture evidence.” He paused as he debated the time limit. He opted for viciousness. “You have one minute.”
Mr. Dillon sent the message. A minute was a long time to wait when one was listening to the selling of a Tiffany lamp. Could itreally be worth that much money?
The phone vibrated. It had taken her only 44 seconds. Well, well. She must have remembered that scene especially well. The question was how did she reproduce it?
The image loaded. It was a close-up of Ms. Currie’s lips wrapped around something white. She was stretching her full lips to take in the immense girth. Her mouth was impaled by the phallic object.You could just barely make out the edge of her glasses on her nose.
Mr. Dillon nodded in approval. She had used a shampoo bottle. Quite clever. Part of him had been hoping she would grab someone in the hotel hallway and suck his cock for the picture, but that was perhaps a little optimistic. Still, she had done an excellent job.
“Twenty minutes of stroking,” he texted back. “No orgasm.”
Ms. Currie usually came in 10. Making her go 20 minutes would be hard on her self control. It wasn’t much of a reward for her, but it would help Mr. Dillon get through these damn lamps.
As it turned out, the thought of Ms. Currie masturbating in frustration helped him get through the lamps, some chairs and a mirror with a smile on his face. He thought about her standing in the hotel room in her stockings. Today was a Thursday, so her panties would be bright yellow. Ms. Currie would be using her fingers to fuck herself. Mr. Dillon firmly believed that a librarian was meant to self-stimulate without the aid of artificial devices. All a man or woman really needed for pleasure was a book.
He became content as he waited. That was all well and good for him; he was a man who appreciated hardship, but Ms. Currie was still in training. She had to have regular doses of terror and anxiety. Right now, she was back at work cataloging the books. She would be horny and finding it hard to concentrate. She would be looking forward to his next text while at the same time dreading it.
Mr. Dillon thought about a suitable challenge to send her.
“Recreate the most common punishment that the housewife suffered in Mr. Hat’s novel. Include photographic evidence. You have five minutes.”
The time limit might seem generous until Ms. Currie remembered the punishment. She would understand then that the five minutes was an indicator of how long she should inflict it on herself. Mr. Dillon put his phone away with a smile.
The book was finally offered. Mr. Dillon waited impatiently as the auctioneer relayed its history. Not being a librarian, he got most of the facts wrong. It was to be expected.
The bidding was healthy. Mr. Dillon was tempted to throw the entire weight of his budget into a single bid and end this, but he refrained. As a librarian, he had to show restraint. He had to be deliberate and minimal.
His phone vibrated. Ms. Currie had sent him a response. His cock twitched as he imagined what it was.
He kept bidding — slow, tiny micro-bids. He slowly beat out the competition while spending the least possible amount of money. When he won, he allowed himself a polite nod of victory. Still, he did not look at his phone.
He got up to pay for the book. He wrote the impressive check and inspected the book again. Only after he put the book in a special protective briefcase did he walk outside. After stepping into a cab, he looked at Ms. Currie’s message.
It was a picture of her pubic hair, grasped tightly in her hand. She was pulling her hair hard enough to make the skin lift with each follicle. It looked terribly painful. It looked like it had been done for at least five minutes.
Mr. Dillon typed a response. His hardship was over. He was free of that damn auction and ready to enjoy himself. As for Ms. Currie, perhaps she deserves a little enjoyment herself.
“Strip down and wait for me on the bed. I will take your ass tonight.”
Mr. Dillon put the phone away. Well, maybe he would give her a few more hardships before her pleasure. Maybe a spanking or perhaps a little humiliation. It was all for her training, of course.