The Submissive Librarian

At that point, we began to talk. The talk turned to literature and writing. I had a marvelous time, almost forgetting about the indecency I had to endure. We spoke of our favorite authors and great works of literature.

Then I mischievously asked him about dominant/submissive relationships. He refused to talk about what a dominant felt or thought but how a submissive felt was a different issue. He spoke at length about what many had told him. They loved their master and would do anything for his pleasure. They put themselves last, desiring only their master's joy. So, they were willing to do or endure anything to please their master. If he wanted them to fuck him, they would. If he wanted to hurt them, they would bear it. Anything the dominant wanted, they would do.

For some reason, purely physiological, probably, I started to get turned on. My pussy seemed to come alive and twitch, and I could feel my juices overpowering the absorbency of the delicate panties I wore. I don't know what was happening to me. A strange thought came to my mind to ask to have my stockings verified again. How absurd. How ridiculous. Then I heard myself ask him. Yes, I asked him to reverify my compliance.

I threw my thighs indecently wide, and when he began below the knee, I shamelessly pulled his hand under my skirt right to the top of my thigh highs. As his finger roamed circling under the top of my stockings, I squirmed and moaned. When his hand brushed my pussy I scandalously pulled his hand hard into my pussy, and squeezed my thighs around it. My head lolled back, and I whimpered as I churned my hips on it. He left it there until I relaxed and continued to the other thigh. Upon its return, I threw my self-respect aside and did the same thing. When I finally came to myself and released his hand, he pulled it out. The back of his hand glistened with my wetness. I was so ashamed.

Then again, he told me that if we were to meet, I would need to wear what I wore today or similar clothing. I was to have the stockings again and no bra. Both would need to be verified by touch.

I protested strongly, explaining that I had never been out of my house without a bra. I felt superior, feeling I had made an unassailable point. He then asked me if I had ever worn a swimsuit to the beach or pool or just in the dooryard. I had to answer yes, and he said I had been out in public without a bra. There was no answer to this, and so I went off angry. How would he verify that by touch in public?

Why do you have to ruin everything? I am pretty determined to stop all of this.

Reply:

Good job. Yes, this is reasonably accurate. Ellie, I am not ruining anything. If you do not want to meet the request, don't. You can stay home. If you do want to meet again, text me.

Regards,

>>>>>

An email arrived the evening after the meeting.

Email:

I am so confused. I cried all the way home. We met at a diner, and he put us in a booth. Just looking at him, I began to tremble. Starting his inspection of my stockings, I immediately pulled his hand under my skirt. I encouraged his hands to touch the unprotected thigh above and to probe beneath the top of the silk thigh highs. I luxuriated in the feeling of his strong hands touching and stroking me.

When he went for the other thigh, I shamelessly pulled his hand against my panties and silently cursed that they were in the way. I clenched my thighs hard on his hand so it couldn't escape and bore down. The feel of his strong hand pressed tightly on my pussy was electric. I couldn't help myself. The sensations were so intense. I had seduced my boyfriend the night before to give me a good fucking, but it didn't seem to alleviate this malignant attraction growing in my bosom. A despairing moan escaped my throat as I had to release his hand to continue. As he tried to pull his hand out, I again pulled it onto my pussy, leaning forward and groaning, grinding my pussy brazenly on his hand.

He then had me turn my back to him, and he pulled my blouse out from my skirt. I couldn't believe it. He was going to slide his hands up under my blouse, right there, and feel my breasts. Like the design of most dinners, I was looking out of a widow. Not only might customers inside the diner see, but also those coming in and going out. I should have rebelled. I should have said no as his hands ran all around my torso. When he finally cupped my tits, I thrust into his hands and moaned. His hands felt all around me my back, my tits, and my stomach. He teased my nipples and made them long and hard.

Then I went insane. I wanted my author to do it. I didn't care if others saw. I didn't care if he tore my fucking blouse off and sucked my nipples right there. I didn't care who saw it as long as he did it as long as he touched me. As suddenly as he had begun, he was finished and pulled his hands out from my blouse. No one saw, and no one cared. I groaned in disappointment as his glorious hands left my body. He smiled at me. I know it pleased him, and my pussy tingled.

All we talked about was dominant/submissive relationships. He finally opened up, telling me what dominants do, and confessed to being one. I asked him to tell me things he would do to a submissive. He spoke of bondage and discipline, domination and submission, and humiliation. The more he talked, the wetter I got and the more I asked. I wanted detail, and in his marvelous author way, he filled in the blanks making it easy to visualize and impossible not to be excited by all the incredibly erotic things he spoke. All too soon, it was time to go, and I asked him to reexamine me. At first, he refused, so I begged and pleaded with him. I threw all my self-respect away and implored him to explore my tits and thighs again. Reluctant at first, he complied, and I savored every moment.

He whispered into my ear with his hands cupping my tits that if I wanted to meet again, I would need to dress as now in stockings, no bra, and no panties. I shivered in anticipation because I knew I was going to comply. I am so ashamed.

Sincerely,

Reply:

You have composed an excellent, complete, and accurate rendition of the meeting. If you want to meet again, text me.

Regards,

>>>>>

An email arrived the evening after the meeting.

Email:

I have officially gone insane. Although my author had not requested it, I wore a much shorter skirt. Its hem was so high the lacy tops of my thigh-highs were almost visible. I had two buttons on my blouse unbuttoned when I left the house, but after parking, I shamelessly unbuttoned a third, exposing my cleavage and most of my breasts. With each step, I felt the silky swish of my thigh highs and the weight of my bouncing tits. The fabric of my blouse excited my nipples, creating hard nubs poking at the delicate clingy fabric of my silk blouse. My pussy was beginning to wet my thighs.

My boyfriend was out of town on another extended business trip, and my author and I were having dinner. It was a very upscale French restaurant with an old-world ambiance. I knew it because I had been there with my boyfriend once. As usual, I loved it, and he didn't. It had booths, but they were recessed into the walls and gave marvelous privacy. The subdued lighting and candles made it very romantic.

He met me at the door, and after checking in with the Maître d'hôtel, my author indicated that it would be several minutes before our alcove was ready. We went to the bar, and I ordered a Chardonnay, and he had a glass of Merlot. On our high stools facing each other, my skirt rode up, and the edges of the lacy tops of my thigh-highs appeared. He looked down at them, and I spread my legs shamelessly wide apart. He looked into my eyes, and I shockingly suggested he begin my verifications.

He laughed, put his hand on my knee, and I trembled. Not because I did not want it there but because I did. I know I blushed because I could feel the heat in my neck rising. He didn't move his hand, didn't violate me or shame me here in this open and public way. Rather, with his other hand, he took the tip of my chin with his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger and pulled me forward into a chaste kiss. Fireworks went off in my head.

We chatted but about what I have no remembrance. All I could think of was that I wanted to begin the verifications. I remembered every detail of the last two and relished the promised violations to come.

Halfway through our drinks, the little buzzer "thing" went off to notify us our alcove was ready. I slid off the stool, making sure my skirt rode up. It rode so far up it showed thigh above my lacy stocking tops, and I held myself suspended, feet dangling and legs spread for a moment. It made my author smile, and a tingle went through me, starting with my pussy. I had pleased him. As we walked to the alcove, I could feel the slickness of my thighs rubbing together. My pussy was leaking badly, and the thought of it caused it to tingle some more.

It was wonderful. The alcove was essentially a booth set back into the wall. It was circular and large enough to seat six comfortably. A large glass top rested on the tablecloth to keep it in place and protect it from spills. It also provided a good deal of privacy. I slid into the booth, and as I slid over to allow my author to sit next to me, the waitress arrived.

She was short with large breasts, neatly and professionally dressed. The girl was comely but not gorgeous. Seeing we already had drinks, our waitress provided us menus, vowing to return in a pronounced French accent.

I was sitting hip to hip with my author, and I knew any movement of either of us would be noticed by the other. So, I reached down and pulled my skirt out from under me, allowing my pussy to sit directly on the cool faux leather Naugahyde upholstered bench. He looked at me knowingly and smiled. I had pleased him, and my pussy tingled again.

The waitress soon returned, and as I was about to speak up to order, he stopped me by putting his index finger to my mouth. He then ordered both our meals, and the waitress left us with a confused look. It was such a misogynistic, patristic thing to do. To not allow me to speak up, to order what I wanted should have sent my feminist side screaming. Instead, I guided his hand to my knee. His hands caressed the luxurious silk stockings, which caressed my leg. If their feel, the sensations they imparted to him, were half as exciting as they were to me, I knew it would excite him.

He began his examination slowly, touching, caressing, and teasing all the most sensitive spots he could reach below the hem of my skirt. I basked in the tantalizing sensations, my breaths shallow and rapid. When his finger slipped beneath the lacy top, I quivered, delighting in the feel of his hand on my naked skin. In his transfer from one thigh to the other, his hand again made contact with my nude pussy. Instinctively I thrust forward, and thankfully he stopped, pressing back hard. I closed my eyes and bore down, and another moan slipped from my throat. He completed his verification of the other thigh, just as tantalizingly erotic, and when he returned, he pressed the back of his hand hard into my pussy while I brazenly pushed back. Another moan slipped from my throat, and when he retrieved his hand, it glistened with my wetness. He licked it and then offered it to me. My scent filled my nostrils, and I tasted my juices. He smiled. I had pleased him, and my pussy tingled.

As I had thought, his following verification would be that I wore no bra. I shivered in anticipation as he had me shift and face him as best I could. My hands went to pull my blouse out of my skirt, but he stopped me taking a wrist in each hand. I know I gave him a confused look. He put a Velcro wrist cuff on one wrist and hugged me, drawing my hands behind me, completing my bondage. I couldn't breathe.

Still facing him, he freed my blouse from my skirt. To my amazement, he unbuttoned another button, then another, and then another, until my blouse lapels hung open. He hugged me and ran his hands all over my back and sides. He groped my tits, pinched, and pulled my nipples, making them hard. His hands ran all over my torso from neck to waist. When he had finished stroking me with his hands, he grasped my left breast, lifted it, and suckled. My chin rested on his shoulder, and I felt every delightful violation watching the other people in the restaurant quietly eating their meals.

As he was sucking the nipple on my other breast, the waitress appeared. She didn't say anything and stood there, her expression businesslike. Maybe she had come to see if we needed another drink. I will never know. She raised her hand to her neck and touched a dangling ornament on her pretty choker. I realized it was a small lock. Was she someone's submissive? Then she stepped away.

I didn't care if someone saw. All I wanted was for my author to continue. He took his time, and when he was sated, he pulled my blouse together but did not button it. His hand then went up as a signal, and our waitress returned. She could easily see my blouse completely unbuttoned and me panting as though I had run a race. I could feel the flush on my face, neck, and bosom. He ordered us two more drinks, and the waitress went to get them.

He turned to me, pointing to the glass of chardonnay I had brought to the table, and asked me if I wanted a sip. I shrugged and indicated my hands. He picked it up and put it to my lips, and I sipped the last, finishing the glass. With a flourish, he used my napkin to remove a drop at the corner of my mouth. I know I should have been ashamed, but my author smiled. I had pleased him, and my pussy tingled.

Without waiting for the waitress to return with our drinks, he again faced me and began my final verification. He ran his hands up my thighs under my skirt to my waist and back around, cupping my cheeks. I felt my miniskirt raised to my waistline, exposing me fully in this very public place. My heart raced, and my breaths became strangled and irregular. The scent of his cologne mingled with the musky fragrance of my wet pussy.

His hands sought out and tormented all the sensitive spots except the one I wanted him to. I moaned and groaned and struggled uselessly against my bonds. He finally ran his fingers down and explored my labia and all the folds. The restraints amplified the sensations by inserting feelings of helplessness, vulnerability, and dependence. When he finally began to tease my clit, the waitress arrived with the drinks neatly balanced on a small round tray. My chin was on his shoulder, and I looked her right in the eyes. She again reached up to tap the small lock on her choker and waited patiently. I couldn't help but moan and react to his touch. It was impossible to hide from this woman, this stranger. I was almost there, I was going to cum, when he suddenly stopped.

I whimpered in protest, longing, and desire. He straightened up and thanked the waitress. She looked me in the eyes and leaned forward, placing my glass in front of me. Then she served him, asked if we needed anything else, and turned, leaving us.

My skirt was still around my waist, my pussy on full display to anyone with the right angle to see it. My blouse lapels kept edging away from each other, exposing more and more of my torso. I whimpered, telling him I was close, and pleaded with him to give me relief, to make me cum. He smiled and said he would when he decided.

When they came to serve us, my author had pulled my skirt down enough to hide my pussy, but my lapels were still quite separated. The male server who helped our waitress bring the food had my food and leaned well in to place it in front of me. His eyes were wide and getting an eyeful.

My author gave me another drink of my wine and began to feed me. Fork-full after spoon-full, he spoon-fed me like a helpless child while chatting about great literature, writing, and all the marvelous things I enjoy. I know I talked, but I have almost no remembrance of what was said. My stocking tops, my tits, and my pussy screamed for violation. The lapels of my blouse continued to separate, and with less than an inch, my nipples would be on display. Pussy leaked, wetting the faux leather and making it slippery and erotic. My skirt had edged up, and my pussy was on display again, filling my nose with the scent of my musky wetness. Oh, how humiliating, oh, how mortifying, and oh, what degradation I felt. All I could think of was that I wanted the humiliation, the mortification, and the degradation because I wanted him to smile so my pussy would tingle again.

I began to nuzzle him and hint at my need to be relieved, and he kept continually declaring that he knew and would in his time. Frustrated, I turned to light pleading, but when that didn't end my suffering, I threw all self-respect away and begged him. To my delight, it seemed he relented when he impaled me with two fingers and flicked my clit with his thumb. Joyously, I accepted this degradation only to be disappointed again when he brought me to the edge and stopped.

I whimpered in need and tried to close my legs to bear down, but his hand stopped me. He said that if I made myself cum he would leave. Terror, like a lightning bolt, shot through my whole body.

"No, don't leave," I begged and swore I wouldn't.

He did not smile, and I was devastated.

The waitress returned, and my author ordered a bowl of French Vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate fudge and two spoons. He turned to me and again brought me to the edge of an orgasm and stopped. I was going out of my mind. My passion burned. I knew my face, neck, and breasts were flushed, ready, and willing. How could he do this to me?

When the waitress returned with the dessert, he quickly took a spoon and touched the back of it to the sticky fudge, and a small dollop stuck to it. In full view of the waitress, he parted my lapels put a dab on my nipple, and sucked it off. Our eyes met, mine and the waitress, and she again tapped the lock at her throat. My author, leaving my nipple exposed, politely dismissed the waitress. I felt dirty and humiliated.

Again, he attacked my pussy and clit and brought me right to the edge while adding sucking my nipple into the mix. Breathless, I could only hold on as he spoon-fed me ice cream and chocolate while taking his serving from my tits.

When we had finished the ice cream, he motioned again for the waitress and then, in perfect French, said, "L'addition s'il vous plait (check, please)." The waitress went to retrieve the check. I almost panicked. My blouse remained unbuttoned, my skirt was again a belt, and my hands cuffed. What was he going to do? After paying the bill with his credit card and dismissing the waitress, he turned to me and again brought me to the edge of an orgasm. I whimpered in disappointment when he withdrew his strong hands. I would not have resisted if he had forced me over the table and fucked me openly in the restaurant. I was insane with lust for my author and did something incredible.

I said, "Thank you, Master."

He smiled the grandest and broadest smile I had ever seen. I had pleased him, and my pussy tingled. Thankfully he pulled my skirt down and buttoned the two bottom buttons on my blouse. It exposed me from neck to navel, but my nipples and areolas were safe. He helped me rise, encircling my waist with his arm, held my cuffs, and walked us slowly out of the restaurant. I saw the startled looks of people as we went.

My author whispered into my ear as we went, "Hold your head high. You are with me."

We walked this way to my car. I had parked near the back of the parking lot, and when we got to my car, he pushed my back roughly against the driver's side door. He nuzzled my neck and then repeated the verifications there, publically, in the parking lot. I could hear people talking around us but didn't care. He inserted two fingers into my pussy and flicked my clit with his thumb. He brought me to the edge, and just as my panic began to rise, fearing that he would stop again, he took me over the edge. Waves of ecstasy flowed through me. I arched and bucked and squealed at the powerful release, but he held me tight and forced me to experience every ounce of the pleasure he bestowed on me. I squirted for the first time painting my thighs and legs with cum. I just collapsed, spent, and he held me. He gently turned my head and kissed me.