Chapter 4
Autumn
Iused to enjoy visiting the Altera Public Library with my mom, when I was a kid. We didn’t go often during the school year, but during summers when we weren’t traveling, we’d make a trip once a week. Partly to stock up on books, and partly to join in on various community activities they hosted.
Mom would wander through the stacks, her sleek brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, her long, flowy “hippie skirt” as Dale called it trailing behind her. I loved watching her looking lost in dreams as she touched the books’ spines, her fingertips delicately stroking the text.
When I went to UC Davis, I spent most of my studying time in Shields Library, curling up in window seats and drowsing in between classes. I loved the cool air during blazing late spring days, especially.
But The Corbin? It’s like nothing else I’ve ever seen, either in person or in television or film.
Mom would have lost her mind in a building like this.
The two of us would probably break down in giggles, imagining how we could cosplay a certain animated movie character and fling ourselves along the wall on one of those rolling ladders.
When I first lost my mom, a fantasy like this would make me sad. Right now, though, all I feel is joy. She would want me to be happy here.
The receptionist gives me an indulgent smile as I hurry to the welcoming doorway behind the reception desk. The room past this one leads to a wide set of stairs. I have no plan, just a drive to explore.
“The library closes at six,” she says after me.
“Okay, thanks,” I say over my shoulder, giving her a thumb’s up. Six o’clock is hours and hours from now. I have a library to explore.
A wooden sign hanging from the high ceiling in this large, rectangular room reads Supernatural Phenomena.
Holy shit, I found the mother lode in one fell swoop.
Several tables, propped by large, heavy-looking cabinets, display everything from statues, to glass vials containing special “potions,” to relics proclaiming to be tufts of fur from Bigfoot, to stones with acid marks reportedly from a lamia’s venom.
“This is unbelievable,” I murmur, transfixed by a larger-than-life painting of a female vampire locking her jaws on the neck of a man who appears to be in the throes of ecstasy.
I want to take every book from the shelf and read it cover to cover. But there’s more library here. The building looked to be three stories from the outside, and the stairs are before me, beckoning.
There’s no map. I don’t know what any particular room will hold until I come upon it.
I wander through the second floor where I find Music Biographies, Historical Linguistics, Midwifery, European History, Contemporary Indian Film, and 1800s San Esteban.
There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the subjects chosen, but each appears to be more than thoroughly curated, with props on display, and large illustrations and paintings.
“Absolutely incredible,” I say quietly.
The library isn’t empty—I find other patrons, too, many of whom give me strange looks. I’m not sure if it’s because of how I’m dressed, or because they know I’m not a member. Or maybe it’s because I’m practically fucking skipping through the building like a puppy let off its leash at the seaside.
I venture to the third floor and find things like Japanese Fashion, Horse Breeding, True Crime, and, then, the room where I finally park myself: BDSM.
I’m not an experienced woman in matters of the bedroom.
I’m also not a virgin, after a few forgettable nights with a bland college boyfriend Dale set me up with.
And as someone who has spent more than thirty minutes on the internet, I know about kink.
I’ve always been curious, but I’ve never allowed myself to fully indulge in that curiosity.
And this room. This room. It has everything. A set of two large wooden display cases contain a variety of floggers, whips, and paddles in addition to all kinds of restraints.
I glance around. The room is empty, which is a relief, because I feel like I’m having a very private moment with the photograph opposite me.
It depicts a woman with two men. The image itself is tastefully done, with attention to shadow and light, and an angle on the subjects which makes it feel more like art and less like porn.
Still, it’s arousing. The men are sucking on the woman’s neck, their hands all over her body—breasts, pussy, mouth.
Her eyes are closed and her forehead is wrinkled in what looks like pleasure or pain but is probably a combination of both.
I want to be her. I want to be her so badly, I ache between my legs, and my heart pulses with longing.
Then I laugh to myself. I could barely keep that one dude in college satisfied; what makes me think I’d ever be woman enough for two guys?
Reluctantly, I turn away from the photograph and march to the shelves. If I’m paying a hundred dollars to be here, then I am going to spend my time in the most fascinating part of any library I’ve ever visited. My gaze skips from book spine to book spine as I take in the titles.
Classic Discipline in BDSM: A Primer for the Inexperienced. That title sounds promising. I pull the book from its shelf and sit at one of the tables in the room.
The things I read get my blood pumping, and the focus of that insistent pulse is at my pussy. I’m getting drenched simply from reading a clinical description of what punishment or “funishment” can be in a power exchange relationship.
I know there are other books, other rooms. I know that my time in the library is running out. It might be ages before I can afford to return. Yet I can’t make myself move on from these pages.
Xander
A flowery, girlie scent fills my nose when I step through the front doors of the library. My first thought is that Izzie is trying out a new perfume, but when I get closer to her to say hello and ask about the day, I realize the heavenly scent isn’t coming from her.
“Mr. Johannson,” Izzie says with a professional smile. Her giant silver and turquoise hoops catch the light as she tilts her head. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“You too, Izzie,” I say. “And call me Xander, please.”
“Of course.”
I’ve told her this several times, but she seems to prefer the formality and deference.
It could be my dominant nature bringing it out of her, or she could just be a stickler for showing one’s boss respect with a Mr. or a Ms. Or maybe it’s merely a joke to her, to call me Mr. Johannson and then have me correct her.
Perhaps she views it as part of our script when I check in.
“It seems quiet here today,” I say. Do you know where that intoxicating scent is coming from?
“It has been. Two walk-ins, and the rest members, but no more patrons than usual.” She shows me the tally for the daily guests.
“Excellent. All looks well, here. I’m just going to poke around upstairs.” And hunt down whoever smells like jasmine.
“Can I find a book for you?”
“No, thanks. I think I know my way around.”
She laughs and I give her a nod before looking around the entryway, following my nose. That scent. It’s intoxicating. It lingers in every room, taunting me.
I’m a vampire. My primal kink is ingrained in both the subtle and not-so-subtle changes to my DNA.
Nothing gets me harder than a hunt. Not long ago in Low Vice, I watched a young blond submissive run from her Dom, racing between the tables, her heartbeat deliciously fast. It had been a delicious chase to witness.
This chase, however, feels more private, more intimate, likely because I am a participant instead of an observer.
I weave through the rooms on the first floor, but it doesn’t seem she spent much time here, my little mouse.
Up to the second floor, where I get more and more frustrated with every room.
My cock presses painfully against my zipper.
If the library were closed right now, if it were just Will and I hunting her, he and I would be naked, our hard cocks jutting out as we moved.
Once we found our mouse, we’d ravage her clothes with our teeth before plunging into her with our cocks and our fangs, claiming our prey.
We would feed on her blood, feed on her fear, feed on her lust.
She would pay, in pain and pleasure, for keeping me waiting, for making me work for it.
I don’t find her on the second floor.
My instincts are heightened as I take the stairs one by one, moving up to the third floor. One room after another, working my way from the east side over to the west side of the building, systematically looking in every room, stalking through the stacks, winding through display cases.
Finally, my path brings me to my favorite room, the BDSM room. I cannot imagine my luck. My little mouse chose to hide here, of all places? At the entrance to the room, I close my eyes and inhale. Her scent is strongest here.
This is where she’s hiding from me.
I lean against the side of the doorway and examine the room. Falsely at ease.
A woman sits alone at one of the tables with a book open in front of her.
Her long, light brown hair falls down her back in a straight sheet.
Her wide mouth is so expressive as she reads…
and the way she keeps pulling her lips between her teeth tells me she’s aroused.
When she’s not biting them, her pale pink lips are lightly parted.
The rest of her body signals her arousal, as well.
Her heart rate is higher than normal. She squirms in her seat, trying to relieve that ache of need she must be feeling.
I could fill that need. I could fill it until she’s coming all over my cock.
She’d scream for me. She’d scream for Will, too.
I can already picture it—bending her over that table, bunching up her skirt, sinking into her sweet pussy.
Her scent filling my senses. Her moans echoing off the stacks.
I’d hold one hand on her back, to keep her down while I gave her pleasure on my timeline, not hers.
And once I’d finished, Will would take over and give it to her once more.
We’d do it over and over again. Our little mouse would beg, plead for mercy, for a break, but the orgasms would keep on coming. Night, after night, after night.
The images snap out of existence, replaced with darkness. This would never work. I want her too much.
The last time I felt anything close to this, although it was different in its own way, was with Elisabeth.
This woman in front of me, the one who smells so good, I can tell she would make a perfect amant, the perfect forever-third, completing Will’s and my bonds.
I stare at her for a good, long moment.
I want to laugh at the cruelty of fate. She’s so fucking beautiful, it hurts my chest to look at her. This is a woman I would love to protect, a woman I would love to cherish. Not for one night, but forever.
Which is exactly why I turn around and walk away. Will’s and my version of forever only holds danger for a sweet little mouse like that.
Every step I take away from the BDSM room feels like a stake in my heart, but I do it.
I do it for her, and I do it for Will, and I do it for me.