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Subject: {ASSM} <THM> "Overdue" (MF, oral, anal, light bondage); by: Walt9899
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This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting
adults.  If you are under eighteen years of age you must stop reading
now.  Stop, I said.  Stop!

Now that I am addressing an audience consisting of only mature,
responsible persons over eighteen years of age:

This story and all its characters are a work of adult fantasy.  They
live in a world where sex is free of disease and unwanted pregnancies,
and, when convenient, free of the deeper emotional complications that
accompany it.  The characters happily invite you into their world
while you read the story but ask also that you please remember to
return to your own world when you are finished.

Please enjoy this story responsibly.  Share it with someone if it will
make that person happy.  Don't use it to do anything hurtful.  Don't
chase happiness; be joyful instead.

Did you like this story?  Was it worth the time you spent reading it? 
Did it stink?  The author appreciates any feedback you may have to
share about this story.  Send e-mail to



This story was written in response to the ASSTR 5th anniversary theme
challenge.  My assigned topic was: The Library.


OVERDUE (MF, Oral, Anal, light bondage)
By: Walt9899

Connie tugged at the terrycloth bathrobe sash that bound her hands to
the brass bed frame.  She found no give.  It was her bedroom, her bed,
her bathrobe sash, for goodness' sakes, but none of that familiarity
was doing her any good discerning exactly what strangeness she had
gotten herself into.  He was, after all, practically a stranger.  This
is what she knew about him: his name was Kevin; he worked at the
public library; he loved books; and he had a sly and insinuating mind.
 When that's all you know about a man you meet him for lunch, not
allow him to make you captive in your own apartment.  At least, that's
the way it had always worked before.

What was he doing?  He had left the bed after he bound her there.  She
could hear him moving around but had no idea what he was up to.  He
hadn't even allowed her the luxury of sight.  Before leading her to
the bed he'd tied one of her own silk scarves around her eyes.  Not
tightly enough to cut out all the light, but enough that the gauzy
light that got through was imageless.  She turned her head slightly
left and right, testing the blindfold for any slippage, but as with
the sash around her wrists, there was none.  He knew what he was
doing.  She shivered a little about what that could mean, and at the
fact that she was basically helpless to do anything about it if she
didn't like it.  Her legs were free but she suspected that if she were
to fight overmuch he would find a way to secure those, as well.  He
had opened a window and the brisk air of the November evening swept
over her naked body, causing her flesh to tighten.  She could feel the
cool breeze moving across the sensitive peaks of her nipples, and she
even felt, or thought she felt, it curling between her thighs, blowing
through her pubic hair.  He had already toyed with her there, the
cleft of her mons was already parted slightly with arousal,
and--imagined or not--the breath of cool air tingled on the very outer
edges of her sex.

What WAS he doing?  He hadn't told her much of anything.  He didn't
strike her as a man of many words, but then again, no one is a man of
many words in a library.  She didn't really know, did she?  She shook
her head again, trying to keep the hint of fear at bay, to avoid
filling up the enormity of what she didn't know about him with the
darker possibilities of what he could do to her.  After all, wasn't it
all this business about darker possibilities that had led to her being
in this position in the first place?  Hadn't she had it up to her
fucking ears with the
sex of her past few relationships?  They were all nice guys,
wonderful, thoughtful, attentive to her feelings, the kind of boys you
take home to mother and who you just know will make the best daddies
in the whole world.  Each of them was a  boy-next-door kind of guy,
the captain of the football team, the quarterback, the president of
the senior class.  If there had been a war each and every one of them
would have rushed to sign up and they would have flown fighter jets
and jumped out of airplanes and done heroic things in the name of
liberty and freedom and all the high-minded ideals that made America
such a unique and wonderful country.  They were the men that have
careers and not jobs, who take their girls away for long sweet
weekends in Victorian bed-and-breakfasts.  Truly nice guys.  She had
loved them all and been grateful to them for cherishing her as
something precious, and in the end she had almost gone stark raving
mad with boredom and--oh, what was happening now?  She caught her
breath because he was back, moving on the bed, lifting her hips,
placing a folded pillow under the small of her back.  He shifted the
pillow, moving it and her until he found the right position.  "Ah,"
she allowed herself to breathe.  The two large brass balls he'd
unceremoniously popped into her cunt a short while ago were moving
within the confines of her vaginal canal.  The quiet sound of them
snicking against one another was almost as erotic as the sensations
they transmitted as they rubbed against her sensitive walls and made
occasional contact with her G-spot.

"There," he said as he finished arranging things, breathing the
syllable as much as speaking it, betraying just a little bit of
himself, a husky hint of his own arousal.

Her hips rested comfortably against the pillow but were angled
upwards, exposing even more of her to whatever he had in mind.  Well,
she thought to herself as another shiver of cold and arousal and fear
jitterbugged across her skin, this is certainly not the same old
thing.  She had no idea what he really thought of her but one things
was certain: no one who saw her like this would ever mistake her for
the kind of wholesome princess all those other boys had thought she

She suppressed another bolt of fear of the unknown by trying to think
of all the ways Kevin was in fact familiar to her.  She saw him two or
three times a week, every time she stopped in the library on her lunch
break to return or check out books.  He was almost always working at
the circulation desk over the lunch hour.  There was nothing
remarkable about him at first glance.  His black hair always looked
two weeks late for a haircut.  It was thick and not curly, but rather
unruly.  The first hint of her attraction to him was when she realized
she wanted to brush his hair back from his eyes.  He was, she would
guess, in his late twenties, and maybe it's because he worked in a
library that she found him slightly bookish looking.  He wore wire
frame John Lennon glasses perched high on his angular nose.  He was
not handsome in any describable way, his features were a bit sharp,
his face narrow, but behind his glasses his eyes looked like they
appraised everything and something in the set of his mouth, the way he
sometimes ran his tongue along his upper lip, attracted her attention.
 He often handled her books, scanning them for checkout, and she
noticed the length of his fingers, the way his hands moved.  She loved
books.  She read two or three a week, about everything, classic
literature, biographies, pop psychology, trashy romances.  She loved
the way books felt in her hand, the way they smelled, especially in a
library where she was surrounded by so many different kinds of books. 
She loved the place she went when she read, a place all her own, just
her and the words.  And she could tell just by the way he handled
books, the way he flipped pages of a paperback and the way his
fingertips brushed along the cover of an old hardback, that whatever
else there may be or not be about him, there was a reverence of books.
 She noticed the physical pleasure he took in handling them, and she
understood that he wasn't just passing the time working at the library
waiting for something better to come along.  This was it.  This was
where he wanted to be.

She knew his name only incidentally, from when other library employees
asked him questions.  He wasn't unfriendly but neither was he an
overly warm person.  As the weeks went by and he began to recognize
her from repeated visits he greeted her with a smile and a gaze that
she was aware lingered a bit too long on her body.  He knew that she
was aware of it but he didn't care.  It was always just a moment, a
heartbeat, that she felt him appraising her before he moved on, but it
was never surreptitious.  He knew what he was doing.  It was
discomfiting because he wasn't wolfish or lecherous in any way, just
direct, and because there was never anything more to it she found
herself wondering what he saw, what he appreciated about her, what
possibly he could be thinking or feeling in that half-second liberty
he took with her.

Occasionally he would actually speak, commenting on a book she was
checking out or asking how she had liked a book after she'd read it. 
She learned that he liked American Literature, especially the moderns,
and poetry, too.  Poetry was the one thing she never read.  And he had
an affinity for mysteries, especially the English murder-in-a-teacup
style championed by Agatha Christie.  "I think the Brits get it close
to right," he said one day, almost out of the blue, when she'd
remarked on the mystery novel sitting beside the computer terminal at
which he was checking out books.  "All that superficial civility when
underneath everyone has darker motivations.  That's why this kind of
book never gets old, assuming it's done well."

"Is that all it takes to make a good book?" she'd asked.

He looked her squarely in the eye.  "I think every great book that's
ever been written is about that.  The Greeks, the Russians, even the
puritanical Americans.  It's the one universal place of exploration,
and the one in which writers have achieved their greatest depths: the
ragged shadow place that lies beyond all the light of our culture and
rationality, the difference between who we think we are and who we
really are."

She was taken aback, not only because of the sudden rush of words out
of this otherwise taciturn man, but also because of the insight in
those words and the conflagration of passion with which they'd been
spoken.  He saw that he'd shocked her, and although he didn't look
embarrassed he did drop his eyes and go back to wanding the barcodes
on her latest batch of books.  "Anyway," he said offhandedly, as if he
really hadn't said much of anything at all, "that's why I like the
mysteries.  It's a cool thing to read about."

Cool.  She thought about it as she walked away.  It was much more than
just cool to him.  He'd revealed that much of himself to her.

He didn't mention it again but she thought about it over the next days
and weeks.  She had just broken up with the man she'd been dating for
over a year.  Another wonderful, gentle, wholesome soul who had
finally failed to hold her interest.  She wondered if the discomfiture
she was feeling was in some way related to what Kevin had said about
literature.  All her boyfriends were too nice.  Where were these men's
dark underpinnings?  She knew she had them, dark fears that woke her
in the night, desires that ran counter to the convention and security
of her lifestyle.  But she couldn't speak of anything like that.  She
tried once or twice and received blank stares.  She finally understood
that her boyfriends didn't even realize that such a shadow place
existed at all.  To them, the world was uniformly bright and generous
and they felt thankful for the gifts that they had been given, and to
dwell for any time in any kind of emotional underworld was, well, it
just didn't make any sense.  Who could fail to be blessed and happy
when life has been so good to you?  What had Kevin said?  "The
difference between who we think we are and who we really are."  She
realized that she had some sense of that place that lay in between,
and her boyfriends did not.  Her dissatisfaction began to make a
little more sense.  She still didn't understand what it said about
her, where she could possibly go with the new information, but it was
intriguing, and after that Kevin became more intriguing, as well.

Just as he was intriguing her now, bound as she was to the bed.  After
he'd gotten the pillow arranged under her hips she felt his fingertips
brushing across the bones of her cheek.  She knew this touch.  It was
the same way he touched particularly precious books, a reverence wed
to hunger.  She wondered what book he imagined her to be.  Actually,
she had a pretty good idea what book he imagined her to be.  It was
LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER.  That was the book she'd checked out that had
elicited a cocked eyebrow from Kevin when he lifted it from the stack,
the book that set their relationship on the course that had led,
ultimately, to what was happening right now.  She felt his fingertips
caressing her temple and remembered that's how he'd held the book when
he'd looked up at her with something like surprise.

"You know what this book's about?" he'd asked, holding it lightly in
his hands, fingertips brushing the spine.

"I read it in college," she said, feeling a sudden unexplained
flushing in her cheeks.  "I'm not sure I got it all then, so I thought
I'd read it again."

"Do you go by Constance or Connie?" he asked, startling her.  How had
he known her name?  Then she remembered of course: her library card,
he'd only seen it about a hundred times.

"I like Constance but it's kind of out of place these days, so pretty
much I go by Connie."

"That's Lady Chatterley's name, you know.  Constance.  Connie."

"I, I had forgotten," she stammered, remembering the sexual nature of
the book, fidgeting at the connection he had drawn between her own
name and Constance Chatterley.

"Well," he said, wanding efficiently through the other two books she'd
brought to him, "enjoy the book, Constance.  I think you'll get all
the stuff you missed in college."  He smiled when he said it but she
left with the impression that he wasn't kidding.  She sat up all that
Friday night and read the book, captured by its raw sexuality, the
connection between Constance Chatterley and the gamekeeper Mellors
that began so physically and deepened into something more, and as
Connie read, her head buzzed with Kevin's words about how great
literature lives in the shadows cast beyond our civilized affairs.  As
the relationship between Lady Chatterley and her lover wound through
the dim forests that lay just beyond her infirmed husband's urbane
estate, Connie felt herself following along until, a short while after
she finished the book at 3:30am, she collapsed into a deep but fitful
sleep, captured by dreams of an equally unrepentant sensuousness. 
Unseen hands the color of bark and moss touched her, opened her, took
their own liberty with her and penetrated her to that very core self
her namesake heroine had discovered at the hands of the gamekeeper.

But how could Kevin have known, even before she read the book, how it
would strike her?  She thought back to the day she checked it out, how
he had looked at her, the way his fingers grazed its spine as he
spoke.  Somehow, he had known.  His fingers were grazing her skin the
same way right now.  He traced the round of her chin and down the side
of her neck, following the path of the big artery that ran into her
chest.  She could feel the blood pulsing through that artery, the way
it spun under the place his fingers touched, whirligging into her
brain and making her dizzy.

She had been a little dizzy the next time she visited the library
after she finished the book.

"I'm guessing you read it all in one night," he said as she set her
books in front of him with a nonchalance she didn't feel.

"Not quite," she lied, not wanting him to be able to read her with
that kind of ease.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said as he handed her her books.  "Have
a nice day, Constance."

As she walked away her face burned with the heat of his having called
her by that name.  She hoped her knees weren't as liquid as they felt.

She visited some friends out of town and a little time passed before
she got back to the library again.  She was more herself again.  She
didn't betray any hint of their last encounter when she brought her
books and handed her library card to him.  Still, she wasn't prepared
for the next thing he said.

"It seems you have an overdue book," he said the next time she stopped
in, glancing at the computer screen after he'd read the barcode from
her library card.

"I don't think so," she said, surprised, slightly offended.  "I've
been checking books out for years and have never returned one late
without renewing."  She always dropped them in the book return slot on
her way in.

"Well, it says here that LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER was due this past
Friday and it hasn't been returned yet."

"There must be some mistake," she said, wondering if he was playing
some kind of game with her.  Of all the books he could have chosen to
tease her about.  "Maybe it got stuck in the book return box or
something," she added.

"Mistakes can happen," he agreed.  "Tell you what, I'll check the
stacks if you'll just look again and make sure you didn't forget to
pick it up or something like that."

"OK," she said, still a little annoyed at what was obviously the
library's mistake, "but I tell you I don't forget to return my books."

"Librarians everywhere salute your dutifulness," he said with a smile.

"Do I still get these books?" she asked, pointing at the ones she'd
brought for checkout.

"You want me to break the rules for you?" he asked.

"I just really don't think I am at fault here."

He stroked his chin.  "Are you worth breaking the rules for?"

"I think so even if no one else does," she said, suddenly thinking of
all her old by-the-book boyfriends.

"I'll have to perform an override," he said in a conspiratorial voice.
 "It's incredibly risky, gallant and daring."

"You are my hero," she whispered back, as he started wanding the

My hero, she thought, feeing her chest rising to meet his fingers'
continuing exploration.  He had touched her around the farthest
perimeter of her breast, moving to her breastbone, massaging her
lightly there with two fingers, in the cleavage of her breasts.  She
moved, felt the ben-wa balls click inside her, moaned.  He moved his
body closer to hers, pressing against her with his knees and thighs,
and she realized he was naked.  She felt the merest grazing against
her hipbone, his penis.  He was naked and he was hard.  It gave her
some satisfaction to know that bound and all she still held a
fundamental power over him.  Suddenly the fingers that had been
touching her chest scratched down, fingernails dug slightly into her
skin, below her sternum, across her belly, through her pubic hair and
right against her cunt.  "Ahh," she gasped, pressing back against the
pressure.  He toyed with her opening for a moment and finding her
already wet, plunged two fingers unceremoniously inside her.  She
could feel how hot she was by how cool his fingers were against the
confines of her vagina.  His fingers moved the ben-wa balls aside as
they went more deeply into her.  As he wiggled his fingers his
knuckles kept the balls moving around and over her G-spot.  Their
motion was matched by the dancing of his fingertips deep down, she was
sure, almost at her cervix.  Then, suddenly, she cried out in
surprise, in pain, in ecstasy as his mouth clamped down around her
nipple, sucking her between his lips and closing his teeth around the
sensitive pink summit.  He chewed lightly on her nipple for a moment,
pulling his fingers back and jamming them inside her again before he
released her wet nipple to the cool air.  She was rocked by a flood of
sensations.  His carnivorous attention to her nipple had been more
shocking than painful, and she found herself waiting, expecting that
he might pay the same kind of attention to her other breast, the heat
and flush of ardor flooding crimson across her skin.

The heat and flush she'd felt the next time she'd gone to the library
was one of embarrassment.  "I don't know how it happened," she said,
sheepishly handing him the overdue library book.  She didn't mention
that she'd found it, of all places, under her bed, like some
schoolgirl's contraband.

"You'll have to pay the penalty," said Kevin darkly, taking the book
from her.

"What kind of penalty?" she asked.

"Let's see," he said, checking the book back in.  "Forty-five cents."

"Forty-five cents?"

"Fifteen cents a day."

"That's no kind of penalty," she said, handing him two quarters.

"You'd prefer something else?" he asked, looking up at her again, this
time with a penetrating gaze.

"Well," she said, "it just seems, I don't know, kind of silly.  I
mean, if you want to make an impression on someone, fifteen cents a
day doesn't do much for me."

"What kind of punishment would, as you say, 'do something for you?'"
he said, his sharp eyes boring a hole in her chest.

She was flustered.  She thought about all the things she could say,
but she wasn't sure if what she was thinking had anything to do with
library books.  Finally she just said, "You're the librarian. 
Shouldn't you know?"

"I just so happens," he said slowly, "that I do know."

"Well?" she asked.

He returned his attention to his work.  "Agatha Christie," he said,
picking up a book from her stack.  "CARDS ON THE TABLE.  I didn't know
you read mysteries."

"I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about," she said, trying to
sound offhand, her mind still back thinking about punishment and
Kevin's dark eyes, wondering what he might say next.

What he said next was, "All right, then, I hope you enjoy it."  He
handed her the books.

"Is that all?" she asked, feeling suddenly like she had been left

"For today," he said, pointedly returning his attention to his
computer terminal.

She stood there for a moment, aware that someone had come up behind
her and was waiting to check out.  "OK," she said.  "That's fine.  You
can keep the nickel," she said, hoping it came across as witty and
unfazed, but feeling the first real tingle of anticipation and
apprehension.  Something had been communicated, something let out from
her that she couldn't take back, a challenge, an invitation, she
didn't know which.

It had been both, she decided, as Kevin moved his mouth up from her
breasts to her neck, nipping lightly at the skin, pinching it between
his teeth.  And he had certainly accepted both, she realized as
another involuntary moan took flight from her throat.  The ben-wa
balls were in constant motion now, around and around the circumference
of the inside of her cunt, orbiting the rhythms of his fingers. 
Occasionally his thumb flicked across her clitoris, eliciting an ever
more urgent sound from her throat.  Images flitted through her mind: a
deep wood, a gamekeeper's cabin, a woman who shared her own name
driven with single-minded precision to new heights of ecstasy.  She
was rising, floating into that place, that swift calm current of
pleasure that precedes the roaring waterfall of orgasm.  Any moment
now she would be swept over the precipice, engulfed by the churning
whitewater, ripped asunder on the rapturous pinnacles of jagged

And just as it seemed that D.H. Lawrence himself had stepped in and
begun to script her impending orgasm, she was ripped back from the
edge.  Kevin had stopped what he was doing and she was suddenly
adrift, floating helplessly in an eddy that circled somewhere just out
of reach of the waterfall.  She became aware that the whimpering she
heard was her own.

"Not so fast, Constance," Kevin said, his lips wet at her ear.  "It's
not time for that yet."

"When?" she asked, surprised at her pleading tone.

He didn't answer her, but she felt him moving, and again one of his
fingers found her slit.  But instead of dipping into her as he had
before, Kevin merely stroked her lightly, petting her there just along
the surface, teasing the swollen openness of the lips of her pussy,
stopping just below the goal of her clitoris.

He kissed her then.  The first time their mouths had actually made
contact.  She sucked his tongue into her mouth and ground her lips
against his.  He tasted sharp, a little sweet, maybe like bourbon,
another small thing for her to latch on to, as if he'd had to find his
courage to come into her apartment tonight and do what he was doing to
her.  And the way he seemed to melt into her made her think as well
that he was betraying himself a bit.  But still the infuriating way he
strummed her sex and left her moving beneath him left no doubt about
who was firmly in control.  As if to prove it beyond a shadow of a
doubt he stopped kissing her and shifted his position again, his
finger never missing its slow rhythm between her legs.  And even
though she was blindfolded she knew what was happening next even
before she felt the head of his cock brushing against her cheek,
coming to rest against her lips.  She could feel the slick moisture of
pre-come slickening his tip.

"Open," he said, his cock twitching slightly.  "Suck me."

She did as he was told, swirling her tongue out to capture the salty
essence of the dampness off his cock before slurping him eagerly into
her mouth.  She could tell, without actually seeing his cock, that the
head was purple and wide-flanged, and that the rest of his penis was
narrower and ridged with veins.  She lifted her head to take him as
deeply as she could, not quite gagging, and pulling back, sucking him
forcefully between her cheeks, feeling the pop as she broke the vacuum
seal.  He moaned as she commenced a series of lighter sucks, shallower
and more rapid, working his head in and out of her mouth as he
rewarded her by dipping his finger a bit more deeply into her cunt.

She had decided Kevin was just kidding about the overdue thing, just
some sort of joke you had to be a librarian to get.  But the next time
she was checking out, he closed a slip of paper inside the cover of
one of the books before handing them back to her.

"What's that?" she asked.

"New overdue policy," he said without even glancing up at her.

"Especially for me?" she asked, teasing him.

"Let's just say it's not for everyone," he said, and she thought she
detected just a hint of color rising into his ears.

"I'll be sure and study it," she said to the top of his head.

"We may require some additional information after you read it," he

"We'll see," she said, and left.

Outside the library she whipped the slip of paper out and read it.  On
the paper was typewritten, "The library knows where you live.  It is
our policy henceforth to enter your premises and retrieve any library
materials which you may hold past their due date.  In addition, it is
the aim of this new policy to prevent additional overdue violations by
instilling such disciplinary measures as our employees may see fit. 
These measures will be solely at the discretion of the library
employee.  Library employees reserve the right to enter your premises
to redress violations at any time.  Please respond granting your
consent to this new policy before any more books are checked out. 
Thank you for your understanding."

Understanding.  All she was understanding right now was the warmth of
his penis in her mouth and his ministrations to her pussy.  He moved
his hand and placed it under her thigh, lifting.  Instinctively, she
lifted her legs into the air and let gravity pull her knees apart. 
Now she was wide open, the pillow under her back pointing her cunt in
the air and the position of her legs spreading her wide.  She wondered
what he had in mind next, hoping that he would move his head down and
explore her with his tongue while she sucked him.  But what happened
next surprised her.  Instead of the warm moisture of his mouth at her
cunt she felt the cool and lubricating feeling of lotion being applied
around her anus.  The shock of the sensation and the temperature
caused her knees to come together, but he stopped them with his hands
before they could meet.

"Do you want me to tie your legs as well?" he asked.

"Uh uh," she managed, without releasing his penis.

"Then don't resist," he said, and she forced herself to let her knees
relax apart again.

"That's a good pet," he said, "go back to what you were doing."

She sucked him again and momentarily his fingers returned to her rear
opening.  Ah, she thought, not knowing what to do.  Nobody had ever
touched her there before.  But before she could think much she
squealed because his finger suddenly was inside her.  The lotion's
lubrication eased any resistance.  She thought she should stop him,
but why?  Just because it hinted at the taboo?  Had all of those other
boys really thought her so pure that she was something taboo would
blemish her?  She felt a sudden breathless rebelliousness, an urge to
let Kevin touch her like this simply because everyone else had thought
her too delicate a treasure.  A little drunk on this feeling, she
settled back and tried to come to grips with the peculiar but not
unpleasant sensation of his finger sliding in and out of her ass.

After Kevin gave her the note, she spent some time away from the
library to determine how she wanted to handle her response.  And the
next time she returned a book, instead of dropping it in the book
return box she took it to the circulation desk.  Inside the book was a
slip of paper on which she'd handwritten, "This policy has no teeth. 
The only way I see you have of enforcing such a policy is through
stealth and surprise.  And be warned, I am a very difficult woman to
surprise.  I am constantly on my guard.  Even on Friday evenings after
work when I'm in the shower, if you somehow managed to slip into my
apartment, I could hear you.  At least, I am pretty sure I could.  At
any rate, what are the chances I would forget and leave my back door
unlocked on a Friday night, anyway?  Besides, you still owe me a

"Some feedback on your policy," she said, knowing that now it was her
turn to blush about things.  She started to walk away.

"Aren't you checking anything out?" he asked.

"Just returning," she said, and left, albeit without returning
everything.  That Agatha Christie mystery she'd checked out a few
weeks ago was still in her purse.  She just hadn't gotten around to
reading it yet.  It would be popping up on his overdue screen any day
now.  She hadn't realized at the time how appropriate a title it was. 
Cards on the table, indeed.

Now he laid another card down on the table, withdrawing his cock from
between her lips at the same time he insinuated a second finger into
her ass.

"What are you doing?" she gasped as the movements of his fingers
caused the ben-wa balls to move through the membrane separating her
two canals.

"Opening you," he whispered, bending down to finally plant his lips on
her pussy, bursting into her liquid heat with his tongue.

That first Friday night she'd waited, unlocking the door with
trembling fingers before she got into the shower.  In the shower she
imagined she heard noises, jumped at every flutter of the shower
curtain.  But nothing happened.  She didn't know which was greater,
her disappointment or her relief.  She was in totally new territory
here.  She had never played a game like this before.  She had no idea
how dangerous it could be.  What, really, did she know about him,
after all?  Nothing, only that he loved books and he showed up at work
everyday and he had a devious shadow life that she was taking on faith
wasn't psychotic.

She avoided the library the next week, knowing by now that her book
was well overdue, not wanting to have to look into his infiltrating
eyes.  Again on Friday she turned the deadbolt latch free, wondering
how long she would be willing to do this, how long it would be before
someone, the library police or not, found the unlocked door and
wandered in to see what they might find.

It didn't take long to find out.  She showered, feeling her skin come
alive in the heat of the water and the pressure of her hands.  A
couple of times she jumped, thinking she had heard something, but
nothing else happened.  Then, just as she sighed and shut off the
water, the bathroom went dark.  She screamed in the darkness as the
curtain slid open.

"That's not a nice girl now, is it?" said a voice, a hand going over
her mouth.

It was his voice.  Was it?  She thought so, but she wasn't sure. 
Could someone else have possibly found her unlocked door and come in?

"Are you done screaming?" said the voice.  She relaxed, just a little,
she was pretty sure it was him.  She nodded and his hand fell away. 
"Now step out of the shower slowly," he said, and when she did he
turned her around and she felt something being tied around her eyes. 
It was silk.  One of her scarves, she was sure.  She could smell a
trace of her perfume on the material.  She wondered how long he'd been
out there looking for it while she'd been in the shower unaware he was
even in her house.

When the scarf was secure the light came back on but her vision was
obscured.  "Here," he said, touching a glass to her lips.  She tasted
the sweet red wine.  It had to be him.  Would your standard rapist ply
you with red wine?

"Thank you," she said, feeling like it was a funny thing to say.

"Let me look at you," he said.  She heard him take a few steps back
and she was suddenly embarrassed, realizing she was standing in front
of him completely naked and dripping wet from her shower. 
Instinctively she moved her hands to cover herself up, and as soon as
she did he was back, turning her around by the arm and swatting her
smartly on the bottom.  It didn't actually hurt but it was enough to
get her attention.  She felt the heat rise in a hand-shaped pattern on
her rear.  "I told you I wanted to look at you," he said firmly.

He stood back again and this time she stood there for him, her butt
simmering, her embarrassment at her nakedness mixing with annoyance at
the fact that he'd had the temerity to spank her mixing with arousal
at the fact that he'd had the temerity to spank her.

"That's lovely," he breathed.  "That's truly lovely."  Then his voice
hardened again.  "You have an overdue library book, which I have found
conveniently enough on your nightstand.  On behalf of the public
library I will resume control of it, and in accordance with our new
policy you will submit to the appropriate punishment."

"I don't even get a warning for first offense?" she asked demurely.

"There are no exceptions," he said flatly.

"What kind of punishment?" she ventured.

"You will find out soon enough," he said, and then he was in front of
her again and her knees buckled almost immediately as without pretense
or warning his hand went between her legs and went to work on her
pussy, parting her folds already moistened by shower and arousal.

How long ago had that been? She wondered, feeling herself rising again
toward climax  from the feeling of his mouth against her eager cunt
and the gentle motions of the ben-wa balls being moved about as he
fucked two fingers in and out of her ass.  It seemed like a lifetime
ago, but was probably only forty-five minutes.

"You are ready," he said, lifting his mouth from her pussy.

"Ready for what?" she asked, something in her gut curling inward at
what she knew the answer probably was.

Of course, he didn't answer.  He was gone out of her completely for a
moment and she was surprised at the emptiness she felt in all of her
places down there.  And just as suddenly he was back, only this time
she knew it was not his fingers but the tip of his cock that was
pressing against her asshole.  The only finger she felt was his thumb
as he gently massaged her clitoris, sending ripples of pleasure
through her that distracted her a little from his cock's insistence.

He hadn't asked.  He had never asked for anything.  She wondered when
she had given him permission, or if he even needed it.  He certainly
hadn't acted like it when he went straight to the point between her
legs back in the bathroom.  After only a few moments of fingering her
in the bathroom, assured that he'd found her already receptive, he
gave her another sip of the wine.  She accepted it gratefully.  Then
she heard him taking something out of his pocket and felt him pressing
it against her pussy.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, unable to conceive of what this
metallic coldness rubbing against her was.

"Ben-wa balls," he said, pressing upwards.

"What? Ah!" she gasped as the big brass ball popped past the entrance
and nestled inside her cunt.

"Pleasure balls," he answered.  "You'll see," and "pop" in went the
second one.  "Now come to the bed," he instructed, and as she followed
him by the hand the motion of her legs caused the balls to shift and
move against one another and against her.  She heard them click and
felt them move and yes, indeed, they were indeed pleasure balls.

She climbed on to the bed and he pressed her shoulders back into the
mattress.  She expected him to cover her then, to move his body over
hers, perhaps kiss her, fondle her a bit, and then enter her.  It was
the way she was programmed to think after years of gentlemen.  Even
though it was clear that Kevin was not like any of those other men she
had been with, it was still just the thing she expected.  So she was
surprised when, instead of any of that, what she got instead was a
lifting of her arms over her head, bringing her wrists together up
near the head of the brass bed frame.  The fear had subsided a bit as
soon as she'd known for sure it was Kevin and not some true stranger. 
But now, as she felt him loop the terrycloth sash around her wrists in
a figure eight and then wrap it a couple of times in the middle to
secure the bonds, she realized how much of a stranger he still was. 
She hadn't ever spoken of him to any of her friends.  No one really
even knew that she knew him.  Certainly, no one knew he was here.  She
had no plans, and so no one would think to look for her if she went
missing.  He could do practically anything.  But by the time she'd
processed this stream of thought he'd already tied the open ends of
the sash tightly to the bed frame.  Now not only were her hands bound
securely together, they were bound securely to the bed frame.  She
was, for all practical purposes, helpless.  She tested the bonds and
found them secure.  She turned her head left and right to see if she
could find any give to the blindfold.  Then she heard him open the
window and felt the cool air moving over her warm skin and she'd
thought with fear and enchantment how much different a place she was
in than with any other man she'd ever known, and then he'd placed the
pillow under her back, arranged her just so, and begun to touch her...

Now that touch had come to an inflexion point, the heart of the
matter.  Everything up until this point, the flirtation and the
allowing him in to her apartment and letting him put sex balls inside
her and tie her to the bed, all of those things, though out of the
realm of her direct experience, were at least things that she could
imagine herself doing, that at some level she had considered as she
wandered shadowy fantasies.  But Kevin, in that way he had known other
things about her, had already discerned the broad parameters of her
fantasies and had deliberately upped the ante, daring her in the most
visceral way to become another kind of woman than she had been before.
 And it was a dare.  She knew--knew even through the bass pleasure
waves of his thumb playing her clitoris and the increasing discomfort
of his cock probing her rosebud anus--that she still had the power to
resist him, that despite being tied up and blindfolded, if she truly
endeavored to reject this banal union, she could prevail upon him to
desist.  But she didn't call him off, and suddenly the head of his
cock slipped past her resistant outer ring and the discomfort morphed
into something merely strange, a dull fullness in her bowels, a the
sensation of being opened.  At the same time that he penetrated her,
he brought his forefinger together with his thumb and started twirling
her clitoris with more vigor, and her attention was drawn back
somewhat to the side of pleasure.

"That's a nice girl," he said, but his voice was ragged now, and he
didn't convey the same control in his tone as he did in his words. 
But still he didn't move for a minute, allowing her to acclimate
herself to his accomplishment.  She moaned and sighed as he diddled
her clitoris and the differences between what she was feeling in
different places began to lose their boundaries.  When she began to
move her hips in compliance with his touch, he moved again as well,
slowly thrusting himself more deeply inside her.  She experienced his
penetration as a complexity, deepened by the fact that she was feeling
*more* of him than she had ever felt of a man, as if her very
tightness touched more of his ridges and contours than any of her more
generous spaces could manage.  It thrilled her in a shocking way, the
shock enhancing the thrill and vice-versa.

"Constance," he breathed, heavily.

"I am," she breathed back, coming to that same place as Constance
Chatterley, feeling herself cored out by "this piercing, consuming,
rather awful sensuality."

The more he moved into her and played with her pussy, the more the
awful sensuality joined up with the electricity he was sparking from
her clit and, when the head of his cock moved past the point where it
knocked through her walls to the ben-wa balls, causing reverberations
deep within her cunt, she began to converge in on herself, as if
everything down there had begun to melt together into a single molten
amalgam of sensation.

"Ah," she moaned, "Oh, fuck."

"Oh, fuck," he concurred, and began to fuck her faster, his cock
sliding easily into her now, the fat head bumping and rolling those
pleasure balls in her cunt, along the walls, back and forth over her
G-spot, his fingers working her clitoris furiously now, scraping and
pinching and rolling in syncopated time with his fucking.

"Ah," he cried out, as if he were in pain, "Ah, oh!" and she felt him
pulse inside her like a live wire, the swelling of his cock as he came
the final impulse needed to shoot her out of her interminable eddy and
over that orgasmic waterfall.  She burst like a dam, a single
thunderous release that left her falling, falling, falling through
space, tumbling and twisting around herself until finally her orgasm
dissolved into tiny droplets of pleasure that drizzled down around
her, sprinkling every inch of her with bliss.

Being held so long on the edge of orgasm, being brought finally there
in this strange new way, left her disassociated, floating for a moment
in unattached space, before she regained her awareness of the room and
her surroundings and the man who had provoked her so, the man who now
groaned like he'd been beaten as his spent penis slipped out of her
and he collapsed, finally, on top of her, his sweaty slick weight
helping her to recall that she was something incarnate and not in fact
an amorphous mist.  She brought her legs down, hugging him with the
only appendages he had the use of.  Neither of them could speak for
several minutes.

Connie finally broke the silence first.  "Am I properly disciplined?"
she asked, squeezing him with her calves.

"God," he said, unable to come up with anything more intelligent. 
"Constance.  God."  She had the feeling that whatever this session had
required of her, it had required much more of him.

"How about untying me?" she asked, feeling like she was ready to be
free but unable, really, to see how she would spend they would spend
the rest of the evening.  What were they supposed to do in the
immediate aftermath of what had just taken place?  Cuddle?  Eat
Chinese food and struggle to sustain a conversation?  What she really
wanted now, she admitted to herself, was to be alone.  She was too
exhausted to try and get to know him tonight.

Apparently he was of a similar mind.  "I'll loosen things up before I
leave," he said.

"You're leaving me like this?"

"I've got my book," he said, working the bonds around her wrists
loose, trying to sound as coolly confident as he had before.  "That's
all I came for."

"Liar," she said.  "You are a liar."

"Don't try and outsmart the library," he warned, pulling on the
bathrobe sash.  "There, you can get out of that in a minute or two."

She worked her hands as he dressed, trying to get free before left. 
He'd had it all his way tonight.  In the aftermath of all that had
taken place, she at least wanted the satisfaction of looking him in
the eye.

He won the race.  He finished dressing, leaned down and kissed her
longingly on the lips and said, "Goodnight but not goodbye."

She was free by the time she heard the back door close, but by then of
course it was too late.  She pulled the blindfold off, surprised to
find the room filled with candlelight, strangely touched that he would
set that kind of mood knowing she wouldn't see it until afterwards. 
Her whole body was sore and sweaty.  Her clit was sore.  Her
deflowered butt throbbed.  So much for that first shower.  She was
headed back into a soaking hot bath with a big glass of wine.  What
had happened to that wine he'd let her sip, anyway?  She'd drink the
rest of that while she soaked and processed some of what had happened
and what it said about the kind of man she needed in her life.

As she sat up she felt the ben-wa balls move inside her, ticking out
small hints of pleasure through her still simmering nerve endings. 
She wondered if he'd merely forgotten them or if they were some kind
of gift.  He was full of gifts in his own bizarre way.  Was he the
kind of guy that could hold her interest?  He certainly had her
interest for right now.  Hopefully, she allowed, she would get the
chance to see if that interest held up.  But who knew if he was as
intrigued as she was?  He might have no interest in seeing her a
second time.  She shook her head ruefully, thinking, "I don't even
know that much about him."

When she saw the book sitting on the nightstand she thought with a
snort that after all this whole production he'd forgotten to take the
very thing he'd come for.  But then she realized it wasn't the same
book that had been there before.  It was another Agatha Christie book,
titled THEY DO IT WITH MIRRORS.  She laughed at the double entendre
even as she pondered why he'd left it.  Another gift?  She flipped
through it.  It was a library book, and, she noticed when she got to
the end, he'd checked it out in his own name.  Didn't he understand
anything?  She was a known offender of the library's overdue policy! 
What kind of a librarian would knowingly leave a book checked out in
his own name in the hands of such a person?  Did he think he was
somehow exempt from the possible consequences?  She remembered what
he'd said earlier about there being no exceptions.  Did he actually
trust her to do the right thing?  No exceptions, huh?  She smiled just
a little as she slipped the book far underneath her bed.

November 6, 2001

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