by Tara Jones
Dominated by the Librarian #3: ‘Surrender to Obey’ (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.
By Tara Jones:
‘Surrender to your Desire’
Part #1 in the “Dominated by the Librarian” series
‘Surrender to Please Her’
Part #2 in the “Dominated by the Librarian” series
‘Surrender to Obey’
Part #3 in the “Dominated by the Librarian” series
Dominated by the Librarian
Male submission: Surrender to Obey
by Tara Jones
“I thought ‘Forbidden Planet’ was located somewhere in Soho?” Dave said as we walked past Regency Park. He gave me a quick curious look. “And I didn’t know that you were into comic books.”
Dave was one of my closest friends. I had known him for more than ten years, ever since I first moved to London. He was a programmer, but less geeky than you could expect, although I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he had some weird comic book collection or a set of action figures–probably in the original packages, of course!–somewhere deep in his wardrobe.
“No, we’re not going to ‘Forbidden Planet’,” I told him when I understood that he had got the names of the two stores mixed up. “This is... another kind of shop.”
I had decided I needed manly company for this mission and I didn’t really want Dave to back out, so I’d been deliberately vague about exactly where I wanted him to accompany me.
Because really, what the hell should I say?
“Oh, and Dave, do you mind following me to some kind of kinky sex shop where I can buy some stuff that this girl I meet... well, she’s actually a librarian and her name is Eleanor... ah, never mind. She‘s really hot and I can’t stop thinking about her and now she has asked me–well ordered me, to be honest–to buy certain things for our next... date? So, do you want to tag along? No?”
The handwritten note that she had given me last time I had seen her seemed to burn in my pocket.
How on earth had I managed to get myself into this situation? I pondered for at least the hundredth time. But disobeying was of course not a question.
Still, I felt like I should have worn a grey trench coat, preferably accompanied with a large felt hat pulled down on my head to avoid being recognized, instead of my ordinary boring, but heavily branded, casual fashion clothes that a graphic designer from London was supposed to wear.
My thoughts were interrupted as we reached our destination.
“You are joking right?” Dave said as we stopped in front of the shop. His voice was a perfect blend of awe, genuine surprise, and perhaps a little bit of jealousy.
The outside of shop didn’t look like what I had anticipated. I had thought it would be some sort of Ann Summer shop in stark pink and since it was located in close to Camden market I had indistinctly envisioned lots of black latex and leather in the shop window.
Clearly I was mistaken, because the shop looked more like a sophisticated lawyer office and had a classic designed logotype in strict black and grey that vaguely reassembled an Italian fashion brand.
“Wait a minute...” Dave continued. “Does this have anything with that young girl you are dating at your work...? What’s her name again? Josephine?”
“Well...” I paused.
The fact was that Josephine, the pretty trainer at my office that I had been briefly involved with, had been giving me long, hurt looks for weeks.
Clearly, she had taken it rather personal when I had arrived to the office one day with bite and claw marks decorating my neck from my new lover. My ex-girlfriend Christine hadn’t commented on it at all, but her icy glances had force me to start wearing suspicious-looking turtle neck sweaters to avoid becoming the latest gossip at work.
Luckily however, Josephine had apparently moved on, because earlier this week I had walked into her kissing one of the handsome-looking project leader by the automatic coffee machine at the office. So Josephine’s hurt looks had been replaced by Alpha male challenging stares from the project leader, instead.
Why was my life so complicated? I wondered and stifled a sigh. It was annoying, but I could live with it.
But I couldn’t tell Dave all that, so I felt slightly guilty when I finally said:
“Yeah, Josephine sent me here.”
“Wow,” Dave said before he recovered. “She’s into that? BDSM and stuff? Does she let you tie her up too?”
“Well, what do you think we are here for?” I asked rhetorically to avoid answering his question and I smiled a crooked smile that I knew could mean anything.
I didn’t really want to admit that my newfound lover had future plans that I was pretty sure of didn’t involved her getting tied up, but there was a certain possibility that the other way around may occur, but you could torture me for hours before I would admit that to Dave.
A part of me hoped that the handwritten note that Eleanor had given me before we parted was a joke. That is was some sort of “I dare you” game that I hadn’t figured out yet.
But what if it was not? A small voice whispered in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. What do you think she will do to you?
I shook my head, trying to get rid of the naughty thoughts that threatened to invade my mind. To be honest, I felt slightly guilty over that the ideas of what she may want to do held such a promise over me.
“Come on, don’t be such a ninny,” I said and before Dave–or myself for that matter!–had time to change his mind I pushed brass handle to the glass door open. “I’ll buy you a beer afterwards.”
The windows had been tinted and as I stepped through the doors I suddenly understood why. The shop was large and brightly lit and looked like a combination of a pharmacy and some sort of modern elegant spa, with one large difference: The items that were at display were most certainly not the kind of items that you could find at any pharmacy or spa.
“You owe me more than a beer for this,” Dave muttered behind me.
The shop assistant, a tall woman in her early thirties with auburn hair, was helping a middle-aged couple choose between different kind of sex toys and I heard them discuss the pros and cons of rubber versus silicon like they were discussing which kind of colour they would have on the curtains. The shop assistant gave crisp and professional comments in a way that almost made me look twice to see if they really were still discussing dildos or not. I tried not to blush as the shop assistant finally held up the winning toy for the middle-aged couple to admire, before she wrapped it and the couple left the shop with an air of satisfaction over a “mission accomplished” surrounding them.
Clearly, someone is going to have a nice time on Friday, I concluded and felt a twang of jealousy over their natural approach to buying sex equipment. Personally I rarely felt awkward in most situations, but this apparently was the exception to the rule.
Dave meanwhile had wisely fled the exhibition of dildos in their glass cabinets and he was inspecting various full body latex suits in different colours. The clothes made me
slightly uncomfortable, because there always seemed to be too many holes in them somehow for my imagination.
“Can I help you, sir?” the tall shop assistant asked in her cool and professional tone. Her auburn hair was cut in a neat bob exactly to her cheek and she was dressed in a smart grey office suit that would let her blend in at any business meeting downtown. She was actually quite attractive I realized, with almond shaped eyes and perfectly white teeth.
If I hadn’t been messed up by a certain short and curvy redheaded librarian I would have tried to hit on her and as on cue Dave had started to move closer, pretending to inspect some of the dildos that looked like some sort of futuristic space ships.
“Ah, yes–” I started to say, but Dave interrupted me.
“Are these any good?” he asked and pointed at a rubber dildo that seemed to be designed for more than one person somehow. He smiled a roguish smile; the kind of smile that one day surely would get him into trouble.
Despite being slightly geeky, a lot of women seemed to think that Dave was charming in his own way, something that I never really understood. Perhaps it was his Scottish heritage of simply being himself in combination of his rather playful mischievous nature.
This time however, he had clearly met his match.
“Yes, they are quite popular,” the shop assistant replied without even a hint of embarrassment. “They are from the new autumn collection and they were recently rewarded five stars in QX.”
I stifled a smile as the shop assistant mercilessly continued, unaware that she was deflating poor Dave’s attempt to flirt with her with an almost cruel efficiency. “Is it a present for your boyfriend, or is it for your own enjoyment?” she continued professionally.
Dave blanched visibly and it looked like his eyes would fall out of their sockets. I don’t think I had ever seen him taken that aback.
“I-I-I’ll wait outside,” he said finally and threw me a haunted look before he left the shop.
“Oh dear,” the tall shop assistant commented and tilted her head to one side as her gaze followed Dave as he stalked out of the shop without looking back.
“Don’t worry. He’ll get over it,” I assured her.
“So, how may I help you, sir?”
“Well, I ‘m here to buy a present to my girlfriend,” I lied smoothly. “She has... ah, expressed certain desires that she would like to perhaps try to get tied up.”
By me of course, I wanted to add, just so that there could be no room for misunderstandings, but I decided not to say anything more. It would appear strange if I did.
“Oh, yes, bondage has become increasingly popular,” the shop assistant told me and with a small smile she added, “A lot of girls fantasize about that.”
“I see,” I said neutrally as she guided me over to a glass display cases where various handcuffs in both metal and leather were placed in rows.
“So, your girlfriend...” the shop assistant said and gave me a sideway glance. “Does she have approximately the same diameter of her wrists as you do, by any chance?”
I had a sinking feeling that she had seen straight through me the moment I walked through the door and I could almost see my lies evaporating in front of me.
“As a matter of fact, yes, she does,” I lied on bravely.
I left the shop with a discreet paper bag with various items wrapped in pink paper.
The shop assistant had almost been gleefully amused over my attempt to deceive her and had happily played along, including insisting to wrap all the items in pink paper with large red bows.
“I hate you,” Dave greeted me.
It had started to rain a little and he looked rather miserable in his thin jacket.
“No you don’t,” I replied and smiled at him. “I got her phone number for you.”
“Really?” Dave stopped dead in his tracks the street. His face lit up.
“Yeah, really,” I said. “And I think she’s into bondage. Now let’s go and get a beer, this weather is horrible!”
The rest of the week seemed to drag forward in slow motion.
Dave called me and told me that his date with the intimidating shop assistant had gone quite well and that they would see each other again. He seemed to be rather smitten and never wanted to hang up or stop talking about her. I knew that he hadn’t had a serious date for over a year, so I was happy for him and hoped that it would work out between them.
On Tuesday I had a meeting with my boss to discuss the possibility to get promoted to senior graphic designer, an opportunity that only a couple of years ago would have me celebrating madly, but these days I’d to pretend to be pleasantly surprised and managed at least to say something appropriated like “how thrilled I was over this development,” hopefully without looking too nauseated by my own faked theatre.
My job as a graphic designer was still a reasonably hip job that paid fairy well and I had an office in inner London, so I shouldn’t complain. It paid the mortgage and let me led a cool and trendy life in London, but with time I had come to understand that it also–with a brutal efficiently–was killing my creativity.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt about ten years ago when I started art school, but things could have gone considerately worse, I reasoned. I still had friends from collage that worked as a telemarketing assistant during the evenings to support their hippie art lifestyle and painted during the days. They were completely ignorant over the fact that they never would be “discovered” one day. Some days however, I envied them.
Nevertheless, the days moved forward and finally Thursday arrived.
I left the office early, taking the advancement of the last of the beautiful sunny day to walk through Hyde Park to the underground station. It would take me ten minutes extra than to just head to the closest underground and change train to Central line, but I wanted to see at least a little of the sun and not only from my office window, before it disappeared. In late October in England sunny days were few and far in between.
I picked up a bouquet of roses on my way home. I wasn’t sure if she was the kind of girl who liked roses, but most girls did. And although she most certainly wasn’t like most girls I had dated before, I figure out that all women (regardless of which planet they came from) liked roses. I felt a little bit ridiculous for choosing warm orange-red roses that would match her hair, but I couldn’t help myself.
After a quick shower at home to wash away the stress from the busy day at work I left my flat and headed over to the library. I had unwrapped the items from the ghastly pink wrapping paper that the evil shop assistant had insisted on “since it was a present for my girlfriend” and replaced the boxes directly in the shopping bag, which was sophisticated discrete with only the initial of the shop name printed in black on the grey thick, glossy paper bag.
I wasn’t completely sure what Eleanor had in mind for the evening and I had spent the better part of the week wondering if she wanted to have dinner with me or if she would simply ravish me in her little car on the parking lot. The latter idea beckoned at me, but I wouldn’t mind a film and dinner either. I had come to realize–much to my own surprise– that I would like to know more about her. Usually I don’t care that much about my casual partners, but Eleanor was different, although I couldn’t figure out why.
I even went so far that I tried to find information about her online late at night in front of my computer. There were quite a few “Eleanor Marston” listed in the white pages, but the library didn’t have an employer’s register online, which was slightly annoying. I was pretty sure that Dave could find more information about her, but I was unwilling to admit to him who she was and tell him the whole story, plus that I didn’t want to appear too curious or creepy. “Stalker boy” was a description I rather tried to avoid.
I crossed the park by the library and I saw her before she saw me. She was leaning against her car, reading. It made me smile.
Of course she was reading! I thought to myself.
She was wearing a different coat this
evening, a deep red perfectly tailored knee-length wool coat that matched her hair. It enhanced her hourglass feminine body and nearly covered the edge of her grey tweed pencil skirt. Although the pencil shirt reached a couple of inches below her knees, it still managed somehow to be quite sexy in a strange way, perhaps because of the way it moulded itself around her curvy hips or because it, together with her grey high heels, enhanced her sensual legs. I would bet anything that she was wearing a matching grey jacket with suede elbow patches and a blouse underneath the cashmere coat.
I tried and fail not to let my glance linger at her legs and the edge of her skirt, unable stop thinking about last time when I had hitched her skirt up to her hips when she finally, breathless and sweaty, had ordered me to take her then and there on the library’s counter. I bit my lip, deciding to get carried away by the memory.
The truth was that she had a timeless beauty and a sensual body that would look disturbingly attractive wearing anything. Somehow she reminded me vaguely of what a red haired Marilyn Monroe dressed in tweed would have looked like.
She had braided her hair into a thick braid that fell down her shoulder, but a couple of loose strands of her red flaming hair had escaped and was dancing in the wind slowly.
She was leaning against a sleek little sports car. Eleanor drove–much to my vast astonishment–a cream-coloured small convertible Porsche, which seemed rather strange to me.
First of all because as far as I knew it was a ridiculously expensive car, not to mention what the car parking fees were like in London and it surprised me that she could afford it with the salary from being a librarian.
And second of all... well... for me convertible sports cars were in general owned by short men that needed to compensate for something and not by curvy women dressed in tweed.
In conclusion, it added to the fog of mystery that surrounded her and the only conclusion I could come up with was that she must have borrowed it from a friend.