Glimpses of Us

Chapter 1 #2

After Petra told me, I knew it’d be perfect to peruse together. Except how to find it? There were no more copies except for the few used online ones going for about a million dollars. But the special collection room in the library equaled success.

In huge letters that took up all the space on the first page, the book read: I’ll teach you how to fuck.

I let that sink in. This would take up all the breathing space anywhere, but especially in the library. The woman in the light blue hoodie stretched her arms up, hands together, as though they were being hoisted and restrained.

Petra looked at me. I tapped on the page, a signal for her to turn it.

On the next page, Madonna stared back at us. She wore a cut out, studded leather bra. Her finger was stuck inside her pouting mouth. Her other finger seemingly disappeared into her leather panty-covered cunt. I allowed Petra to look for a few minutes. She squirmed in her seat.

I opened my manilla folder again. Took out a thin stack of lined paper. The red lines were one long gash along the margin. The blue lines, veins trailing across the page. I put the paper in front of Petra and passed her a rollerball pen. Whatever she wrote would be slick.

She moved, agitated now, scratching above her wrist until it became red and blotchy.

I put a yellow sticky on top of the stack of papers.

Lines. Write down each sentence ten times in your most perfect handwriting, it said.

Next sticky.

If a line doesn’t meet my standards, you will need to redo.

Next sticky.

Remember. Everyone is watching us.

Another sticky.

Begin, was written in big letters like the shot of a starter gun.

I put the next sticky on top of the others.

I am a slut in the library. I am dying to be fucked.

Petra looked at me with alarm. I knew she wouldn’t want to write the filthy lines I had prepared.

This, of course, made it the best possible thing for her to do in the best possible place.

I was in heaven. The air vibrated as I stared hard at the pen, to indicate she needed to pick it up and get going.

I think she hoped I was just kidding around. Except the other part of her knew that I wasn’t. I never kidded around when I delivered an order to her. She picked up the pen and slowly started to write. Petra’s head was almost kissing the page, her writing achingly slow to avoid making a mistake.

I flicked her thigh to indicate to hurry up. I had other stickies. This was going to take all day if she didn’t get a move on. Finally, she raised her head and put down the pen.

I am slut in the library. I am dying to be fucked, was written with one mistake crossed out. Misspelling library with extra letters. Pointless. Possibly a mistake on purpose, since Petra always aimed for perfection.

I used my red correcting pen and circled her mistake. I kept circling, making a violent oval around her mistake. The shape of her mouth open and screaming. The pen dug into the page like I wanted to dig into Petra’s skin.

I pulled out my corrective sticky which I’d thought I would need, at least once with her.

I said, no mistakes are allowed. Underlined twice.

Again, said the second sticky.

I wanted to spank her. I wanted to yank up her dress and pull down the flowered panties she liked to wear and push her over my knee.

But we were in the Special Room Art Stacks.

I couldn’t do any of those things. I had to rely on my eyes, my red pen, my sticky notes.

It was getting just as painful for me as it was for her.

Yet again, our beautiful reciprocity. Feeding off each other, hungrily.

I am slut in the library. I am dying to be fucked.

I reviewed the lines the second time, this obscenity written ten times in unwavering penmanship. There was nothing I could correct. I wanted to turn the page. Give her the next sticky.

I traced my finger over Madonna’s, the one that sunk into her lips. Petra spread her legs slightly, but wide enough for folds of her skirt to land between her eager thighs.

I tapped the page. Petra turned it.

Madonna was tied to a black chair with thick, white rope, her head thrown back. Her tits were being blessed by an androgynous minx with a shaved head.

I knew Petra wished she was tied to the chair instead of Madonna.

Everyone in the library is studying. But I am looking at filthy pornography.

Petra knew, again, to write her lines, ten times.

Again, she intentionally made a mistake on two lines with the word pornography. Petra meekly grinned. I hated when she played stupid. When she played games. She wasn’t usually such a brat, but she was taking advantage of the situation I had created. No talking in the library. I cursed myself.

I again aggressively circled her mistakes with my red pen, serving as a metaphorical paddle against her ass. I circled the page until it almost ripped in my annoyance.

Madonna, up against a wall in shiny, thigh-high patent leather boots.

Wearing an array of black fetish gear and chains hanging every which way.

She was holding the head of another androgynous woman who was on her knees, her face pushed into Madonna’s black leather-covered cunt.

Madonna was wearing the same hot panties she had fingered earlier.

Madonna calmly held her hands on either side of her sex servant’s head to keep it in place.

Petra swooned. Her brown eyes glassy and large.

She loved it when I took charge. She loved it when I manhandled her head while forcing her to go down on me.

This photo was perfect. Madonna had a nonchalant look on her face even though they were in public.

Dangerously close to being discovered any minute.

I desperately need you to fill all my aching holes at once.

Pages and pages of Madonna in black leather, beautiful harnesses with thin straps biting into her skin, along with her perverted crew who grabbed and groped her. The book became a nasty blur. So did the lines that Petra kept being forced to write.

I knew how wet Petra was at this point, which was perfect for when I made her return the book.

Waddle up to the nosy librarian and get slicker with shame as he took the book back.

I’d make her tidy up all the papers with her lines inscribed on them.

Ensure none of her disgusting yellow stickies fell on the ground.

I’d grab her bony arm and yank her out of the glass fishbowl.

March her through the library. Past all the people innocently sitting in front of piles of books and notebooks and pens.

Burdened by their work instead of burning with intense longing.

Then I’d pull Petra into the library bathroom and push her into a stall.

Beige just like my manila folder and mustard hat’s sweater.

I’d make her close the lock. Seal her fate.

Ignore the alarm in her eyes that someone would catch us.

That we’d get kicked out of the library or security would be called or whatever fucking panic bender she was going to spiral through.

And she would be spiralling, in the best way.

I’d want to slap her face but stop myself because it’d be too loud.

I’d make her pull up her modest dress and pull down her stockings.

Then her sticky panties. But before I’d allow her to pull them down, I’d finger her through the wetness from the other side, cotton sliding into her, pounding on her clit like it was a doorknocker.

I’d get her to pull her own panties down.

Do the work herself that she so desperately needed.

Step out of her adorable Mary Janes, rip down her stockings, and get her pretty feet dirty on the washroom floor as she took her panties off.

I would watch the whole time. Petra would beg to get back in her shoes.

She hated getting dirty and had a thing about germs. I’d get her to open her pretty mouth wide open.

Ball up her soaking panties and stick them between her lips.

A homemade gag that hopefully would ensure Petra would stay quiet.

But there’d be no guarantees. Bend her over so far, her head would be almost in the toilet bowl.

Punishment for her mistakes. Then I would fuck her like she’d been dying to get fucked since the moment she received my detailed directions to go to the special collections room and stay silent.

I had texted her the very type of specific instructions that got her off. A kind and generous gesture. Petra was my girl and I loved taking care of her.

Do not be late. Fifth floor. Turn left at the elevator.

Enter the glass room. Quietly. You will now be in the Special Room Art Stacks.

Come sit next to me. Wear a pretty dress.

And special panties. No talking. You will already be sorry from the moment you enter.

Special Room Art Stacks—that is where you will meet your demise today. ”

Oh, how I love libraries…