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  Dominated by the Librarian (male submission erotica)

  Copyright © 2013 Tara Jones

  All rights reserved. Published by Dubious Press

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reused.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s peculiar imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be regarded or constructed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, actual events, locales, organisations, or groups is wholly coincidental.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  ‘Dominated by the Librarian’

  by Tara Jones

  Part #1: ‘Surrender to your Desire’

  Part #2:‘Surrender to Please Her’

  Part #3: ‘Surrender to Obey’

  Part #4: ‘Surrender to your Mistress’

  Part #5:‘Surrender to Submit’

  Part #6: ‘Surrender Forever’

  * * *

  * * *

  Dominated by the Librarian

  (Male Submission)

  Part #1: Surrender to your Desire

  by Tara Jones

  “Excuse me, but we’re closing now,” a voice informed me in a rather bored tone. It was clear that this wasn’t the first or last time she had to show visitors to the door.

  “Of course,” I said and replaced the Swedish thriller I had been considering on the bookshelf.

  Since it was Thursday, the library was open later than usual, but it was approaching the nine o’clock closing time.

  I came to the library after work to avoid the soulless IKEA furniture in white and grey that filled my flat. It helped that, for a small library in one of London’s suburbs, it had a surprisingly good collection of various free digital art magazines that I liked to browse through.

  I worked as a graphic designer at a small, but rather profitable web agency that had managed to survive the recent ups and downs of the industry, and it never hurt to be ahead of the game. My job wasn’t as trendy as it had been ten years ago, but it paid well and I guess I enjoyed it at some level. Although lately I had to carefully hide a growing disinterest for my work.

  I admit I wasn’t really looking forward to buying groceries on my way home and spending another evening with a micro-waved, ready-made dinner and yet another BBC documentary. There’s only so much of Sir David Attenborough or Neil Oliver that a man can digest.

  Perhaps I should liven up my life a bit and spend a couple of fruitful hours in front of the computer instead, I pondered. Go wild and crazy and watch YouTube videos for the rest of the night, I added sarcastically and stifled a small sigh.

  “Excuse me, sir, but you put the book back on the wrong shelf,” the woman behind me said in a slightly irritated voice, interrupting my thoughts.

  I looked over my shoulder and then turned around to face her.

  She was around twenty-five years old or so, and short enough that she reached just to my shoulder. I realized she looked vaguely familiar because I had seen her at the library before‒she must be one of the librarians, I concluded. She certainly looked the type: Her outfit was neat, sensible, and utterly boring. And she was wearing glasses, of course.

  “Oh,” I said and looked down on her. In an exaggerated, polite tone I added, “I’m truly, terribly sorry.”

  I was slightly sarcastic to let her know I thought she was being rather prissy, as I retrieved the book from where I had put it.

  “Well, I’m happy to hear that, sir,” she emphasized the ‘sir,’ so it was clear that she was, in fact, anything but happy about it. “Now put it back where it belongs,” she ordered.

  She pushed up her black glasses which had slid down her little nose, and raised her eyebrow at me, waiting for me to comply with her demand. It was clear she was rather annoyed with me.

  I must admit I was starting to be a bit amused with this little woman and her big attitude. She had fiercely red, curly hair pulled back with a girlish hair bow, which made her look like Alice in Wonderland’s nerdy cousin. And of course she was wearing a tweed jacket with the mandatory suede elbow patches. It matched a brown checked skirt in the same material and a cream-colored blouse that was rather frilly. She was, surprisingly enough, not wearing the pair of broad ugly low-heeled pumps that I had predicted, but instead had on a nice pair of black high heels that actually looked pretty good.

  I realized quickly I found her quite sexy in a mind-boggling way, although she wasn’t my type at all. I preferred tall and slim brunettes. Not anorexic, photo model-skinny, but the toned type with long legs. The librarian in front of me was quite the opposite, but still I found myself her oddly attracted to her.

  She had an hourglass shaped body, like a pin-up girl from a 1950s calendar, with well-rounded breasts and nicely shaped ankles under her boring, knee-length tweed skirt.

  She was also getting more and more irritated because I hadn’t put the book back in the right place. Her frustration only made her look cuter.

  “Do you mind hurrying up a bit? I don’t have the whole night, you know,” she said.

  To emphasize her comment, she deliberately looked at the small golden watch adorning her petite wrist.

  I looked around. The library was more or less closed. The lights at the end of the room had already been switched off, and the last of the other visitors were just leaving. The automatic doors closed behind them, which meant that only the pretty little librarian and I was left in the building.

  “Well,” I said teasingly and smiled down at her, “I’ve the entire night, if you know what I mean...”

  I usually don’t try to seduce tweed-dressed librarians, but she was without doubt quite appealing with her red hair, tweed jacket, high heels and all.

  It had been a few weeks since I had woken up in a dingy flat somewhere in Soho, entangled with a sleeping and naked art student who didn’t look a day older than twenty. I had gone home with her after getting more than a little tipsy during an opening at a nearby gallery.

  My agency had created the new gallery’s website, so naturally we had been invited to the opening event together with a throng of hipsters and trendy people. I started talking to a stunning art student, and one thing had led to the other. Seducing art students was really too easy; all you had to do was pretend to be interested in their art and not fall asleep when they discussed the inner meaning of their creativity.

  I had left the flat quietly, not even bothering to leave my phone number behind or say hello to the flatmate who had given me a rather disapproving look on my way out.

  And it had been more than two months since my last girlfriend, Christine, broke up with me. Christine and I had been dating for almost two years, but it turned out that she had had a rather strict opinion about how much flirting a man could get away with and still call himself faithful. Not that I had been unfaithful, at least not in my opinion, although I guess it didn’t look too pretty when she found out that I had had a short fling with Josephine, one of the new trainees at work. Christine had refused to listen to any of my explanations, and therefore as a consequent I was single again.

  Not that I care that much, I concluded.

  It meant that I was free to do whatever I wanted now, and that included trying to seduce the red-headed librarian in front of me just for fun.

  “What do you say, sweetheart?” I asked, giving her my most charming smile.

  I knew a lot of women found me attractive. I was in good shape for being thirty-two years old, despi
te a hectic lifestyle and a lousy diet. Clearly I had been blessed with good genes and I did working out, at least occasionally. And it wasn’t really a disadvantage of having large brown eyes for women to drown in. Designer clothes and expensive haircuts came with the job, more or less. You couldn’t work at a web agency in inner London without being a little bit vain.

  Still, I knew I was reasonably good looking, and that when I wanted to I could be quite charismatic in a way most women seemed to fall for.

  This time, however, it didn’t seem to work quite as well as it should.

  “I say, get the hell out of my library!” she growled.

  Not really the response I was hoping for, but God damn, she’s even cuter now than when she was getting cross! I thought. Like a small hissing cat.

  “And if I refuse?” I raised an eyebrow and smiled my best crooked smile, teasing her. It was impossible to resist playing with her. “What are you going to do then?”

  “Please, sir. This is not funny anymore,” she said. “I must ask you to leave immediately, or I’ll...”

  “Do what?” I interrupted and leaned against the bookshelf so I was blocking her way. I gently touched her red curls. “I like your hair, by the way, it’s‒”

  But I never had the opportunity to finish the sentence. Before I had time to react, two things happened so fast it felt like they occurred at the same time.

  First, her arm shot up, and with a surprising efficiency, she twisted my wrist hard to one side. The instant pain made me drop the book I had been holding, and I uttered something that I wouldn’t like to describe as an unmanly ‘squeal’ exactly, but something very close to it.

  Then, when I tried to turn my body away to escape the painful pressure at my wrist, she swept her foot easily in under my knee, knocking me perfectly out of balance.

  I went down hard on the floor. Before I had time to figure out what had happened or what to do, she had twisted by arm behind my back and straddled me, placing a sharp knee at my lower back.

  “What the hell!” I managed to say, my face firmly pressed to the carpet.

  With my newfound close-up of the worn moss green carpet, I couldn’t fail to notice that the cleaning of government-funded libraries in England was somewhat amiss.

  “Do you think women like to be treated that way?” she hissed in my ear and increased the pressure on my twisted arm when I didn’t reply fast enough. “Well, do you?”

  “No! Listen, little lady, you’ve made your point! I’m sorry, okay?”

  “Oh, are you then?” she snarled. “You know, I think you’re just the kind of man who takes advantage of women and treats them like rubbish. Am I right?”

  “What...? No! I’m not like that! Look, I’m sorry! There must have been a misunderstanding! I thought‒”

  “Thought what, exactly? That I would like a man leering at me and giving me sleazy compliments?”

  Leering? I didn’t leer! And sleazy? Now that was just rude! I was being charming, for heaven’s sake!

  But another twist of my shoulder promptly brought me back to reality, as pain raced along my arm.

  She must know some sort of self-defence, because she’s brutally efficient in what she’s doing, I concluded with a small groan of pain.

  “No! Okay, okay. I said I’m sorry! Please let me go!” I wished that that last sentence had come across a little bit more resolute, and not so much like begging as it sounded in my ears.

  “And if I refused? What are you going to do then? Hm?” she said, mimicking my unfortunate comment.

  And then everything went a little bit crazy.

  “What if I won’t let you go?” she whispered, and to my complete shock, I felt her hand touching me.

  Her fingertips glided along my leg, slowly trailing upwards from my knee. Against my will, I instantly started to get turned on.

  “Miss? Eh, Miss...” I started to say, my mouth going dry.

  “What? Don’t you like it?” she said softly, her voice full of mock pitying. I felt her rounded breasts brushing against my back when she leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

  Her hand continued to stroke my thigh up and down, teasingly. I was suddenly incredibly grateful that I was lying down flat on my stomach, because certain parts of me were more than enjoying the sensation. I felt myself grow hard as her fingers slowly started to stroke the inside of my thigh, moving higher up than she had before.

  “I... Eh, that is... I think...” I started to say, but words failed me.

  All I could do was concentrate on not pressing my hips against the floor or spreading my legs for her to more easily reach down between my legs. I didn’t want her to know how turned on I was.

  All of my senses sprang to life. I could feel her touch and the soft skin of her curvy legs against my side, and the scent of her hair reached my nose as she bent closer. My heartbeat increased and all I could think of was her teasing touch, but I refused to let her know how much it affected me.

  She already thought I was some kind of creep, and there really wasn’t any reason to confirm her suspicions because, by God, I was getting incredibly and unexpectedly aroused. And it wasn’t only because she was touching me in a rather naughty way, but also that she was pinning me down on the floor, I realized vaguely.

  But I instantly rejected the thought.

  “Are you getting turned on?” she whispered in my ear while her fingers were slowly getting dangerously close to my most intimate area.

  I swallowed hard and licked my lips.

  “No,” I denied. “Of course not.”

  “Really?” she asked in a teasing voice, her fingertips gradually climbed higher and higher, just reaching the edge of my tight balls.

  “No, I-I-I... That’s to say,” I managed to say before my mind went blank when she cupped her hand around my balls and reached down to gently surround the base of my erection.

  “I think you’re lying,” she whispered, adding, “It doesn’t feel like that at all.”

  I felt her shift her weight and press her hips against me. She still held me down, pinning me to the floor. When I struggled to get free, she only laughed softly and increased the pressure on my shoulder until I lay perfectly still. She didn’t twist my arm so much that it hurt, but it was enough to make sure I didn’t move unless she allowed it.

  “Good,” she whispered. Her fingers spread around my erection and she lazily stroked me up and down. “It’s not for you to decide what happens next, is it?”

  “No,” I agreed breathlessly and tried not to moan with pleasure.

  I realized I would tell her anything as long as she continued. I licked my lips and experimentally arched my back the slightest against her moving hips. No renewed pressure on my manhandled shoulder told me I was allowed this kind of movement.

  The whole incident was so utterly unreal. I had never been the kind of guy who liked stronger women or got turned on by leather-clad vixens holding whips. Well, all right, toned girls wearing tight-fitting leather outfits, sure. Hey, what kind of guy doesn’t get turned on by that? But whips and handcuffs and stuff like that weren’t really my thing.

  Except now, apparently, as I was being held down against my will by a red-headed girl who barely reached my shoulder and had shown me that this time, she was unquestionably and without any doubt in charge.

  And it turned me on. Severely.

  My breathing became more and more irregular, as she pressed herself against me and continued to stroke, touch, and tease me. If she kept doing that, I knew I would come, probably ruining both my trousers and the carpet in the process. But at that moment I couldn’t care less. I had never been so turned on, not since that summer when I was seventeen and I had my first girlfriend, although admittedly I had never felt so exposed either.

  The whole situation was absurd, but that didn’t damper my libido or my erection, which by now was fully hard.

  “I want to ride you,” she whispered, and all I could do was moan eagerly in reply. I think I would let her do a
lmost anything to me at that point. “If I let you go, do you promise to do exactly as you’re told?”

  “Yes! Anything,” I instantly agreed.

  “If you don’t, I’ll have to call the police and report you,” she threatened playfully. Or at least I hoped it was meant as a joke.

  “I’ll do anything. I promise,” I assured her a little breathlessly.

  I thought she would release me; however she only allowed me to roll over onto my back and forced me to keep my arms above my head. As she straddled me, she held my wrists together with one hand, but it was more a sign of her control over me than an efficient grip. I was quite sure that I could probably get loose if I wanted to, but I had the dreadful feeling that if I didn’t obey her, she would simply stop. I moaned softly as I felt her thighs brushing against my erection and I gasped involuntarily. Although this new position didn’t hurt, it still left me feeling vulnerable and exposed.

  She quieted me with a kiss. It wasn’t a gentle or soft kiss that I would have expected from someone I had never had sex with before. It was demanding and full kiss. Desperately I answered her, kissing her back as deeply as she would allow me, pressing my pelvis against her so she could feel how hard and ready I was.

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” she whispered. It wasn’t a question. “Keep your hands together all the time.”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice. I was rather distracted by the sensations as she straddled me. Her tweed skirt had gotten hitched up, and I could see the edge of a pair of white cotton knickers. Even the sight of them turned me on more than I already was.

  There was something so entirely wrong about the whole situation, the moral part of my brain told me. Luckily, my lower region had its own agenda, and I could tell she could feel me through the thin layers of clothes that separated us.

  Without hesitating, she tore off my shirt and pulled my trousers and boxers to my knees in one swift move. I tried to lay as still as possible, like she told me to. She then removed her knickers, unbuttoned a few the buttons on her blouse, and pulled down her white bra. She was still wearing her skirt, but took off her tweed jacket and let her curly red hair down. It fell around her shoulders, wild and unkempt.