by JJ Argus
She burned with both embarrassment and anger, lips pursed as she fought to control herself.
“I haven't printed up a list yet,” she said, eyes downcast. “It's in my computer.”
“And have you discovered more rare books?”
“A number of them,” she said, bringing up a list.
He leaned over her, and she squirmed uncomfortably, but he seemed to be looking at the screen and not her.
“The Marquis de sade?” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, four novels by him,” she said uncomfortably, “from the 1790s. Do you uhm, read French?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Liberal education and all that. Where are they? What shape are they in?”
“Well,” she said, rising slowly, “they're in this back area here, up the stairs.”
She led him there and pointed out the books, and he picked one up appreciatively.
“So does this mean old Uncle Stuart was a pervert?” he mused.
“He, well, could have collected it for its historical value,” she said doubtfully, “but, well, there is a lot of similar uhm, literature.”
He snorted and dropped low, perusing the titles.
“Many of them are rare and old, but... some of them aren't,” she said uncomfortably.
He picked up a newer book and grinned. “How to train a slave? Interesting. That would cut my labour costs, at least.”
He picked up another. “The Mind of the Woman: a Guide to Reshaping and Adjusting The Female to Proper Obedience. Now there's a mouthful of a title.”
He picked up a pair and grinned at them .”Disciplining females. Surely a best seller given the need. And what's this, uhmm, a Physician's guide to the safe discipline and punishment of slaves.”
“Yes, well, there are a number of such books,” she said, blushing.
“Liberating the Sexually Inhibited Female Through Submission and Domination,” he said, reading another title aloud.
He stood up and grinned at her. “Do you consider yourself in need of liberation, Quinn?”
“No,” she said, blushing.
“Yes, you did look pretty uninhibited the other day.”
Her face flamed. “What I do in the privacy of my bed – !”
“Is entirely your business,” he said.
“Yes,” she snapped, only slightly mollified.
“Of course, if you were more uninhibited,” he said, tapping the book with a grin, “You'd not be so ashamed of it.”
“I-I'm not... ashamed...!” she sputtered angrily.
“Of course you are, silly girl.” He tapped her nose with his finger and drew back as she batted his hand away. “But don't worry,” he said as he headed for the door, “Here's a book which will teach me how to train you properly so you'll be less frantic in future.”
“That's not the least bit funny!' she snapped.
He paused at the door. “Well, no one ever accused me of being a humorist.”
He looked at the book and grinned at her. “Get that list done or I'll see if I can find some instruments of discipline to punish that saucy bottom of yours.”
She opened her mouth to say something which she was sure would be quite clever and insulting but he was out the door and gone before she could quite frame her answer.
What an absolute pig of a man!
The image of him caning her bare bottom came unbidden to her mind and she flushed in irritation. If it weren't for the money, and the need to build her resume...
* * *
Despite the proper image Hannah displayed to the world she had always been a very sexual person, at least in private. She masturbated, generally speaking, three times or so each day; on waking, on going to sleep, and in the shower. Going four days without was something of a record for her, and so, with the lights off, she indulged herself that evening, legs spread wide, fingers massaging herself, heat building in her body.
In her minds eyes she tormented men with her lovely body, and, much to her discomfort, the faces of the men kept turning to Robert Carling. She imagined him, even now, staring at her, through some sort of peep hole or hidden camera, as she lay sprawled on her bed naked, fingering herself, imagined him getting an erection, squeezing himself as he stared at her, wanting her.
And then he was bending her over a desk, spanking her, caning her, naked, and finally, she thrust three fingers deep into her pussy and arched her back to orgasm, she imagined him burying his steely cock in her belly and rutting into her mercilessly from behind.
That bastard!
* * *
She returned to the library next morning, working in the dusty rear area. Because of the dirt she wore a pair of cutoffs and a t-shirt, sniffing disdainfully at many of the titles she came across. Carling's uncle was definitely a pervert. And for all she knew it was hereditary.
No, that wasn't fair. He hadn't done a thing to her, and his behaviour wasn't really unusual for a man, especially given how much of her he'd seen.
She picked up one of the newer books and opened it to the inside cover sheet, tapping in the information to her computer.
This one was illustrated, with very well-rendered drawings, and they were of beautiful girls in bondage. She flipped through the pages slowly, grudgingly admiring the perverted artist's imagination for the numerous different types of bondage, and the numerous positions he placed his models. She never would have even thought about most such things! Whoever knew how many different ways you could tie a girl up or suspend her from the ceiling?
What would she look like, she wondered, tied up naked like some of these pictures? Would he torture her while she was helpless, as some of the drawings showed? The thought left her more than a little breathless, and she felt the tight seam of her jeans digging into her pussy as she squatted beside the shelves.
What would he think, she wondered, if she stripped off and started masturbating right then and there, and he came upon her? Would he fire her, or fuck her?
Did he want to fuck her? Of course he did. Every man did. And given what he'd seen of her, and his appreciation of her assets, he was no different than the others. She could fuck him, she supposed. There was no danger of word getting around to the people she knew, and he wasn't half bad looking either, though insufferable.
He was probably just as arrogant in bed, and for all her self abuse she had little real experience with men. If he went through women “like socks” he probably had an enormous breadth of experience to fall back on and would sneer at her lack of skills.
Arrogant prick!
There turned out to be quite a lot of that type of book, many old, but some newer, and several that were fully illustrated with drawings and paintings. Carling returned twice that day to peruse them and to taunt her, and she at first refused to rise to the bait, partially because she was too embarrassed and uncomfortable, given her earlier mishaps.
“Mr Carling,” she finally said, somewhat waspishly, “this will go considerably better if you don't continue to interrupt me.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that the way you think best to speak to your employer, Quinn?”
Well, of course it wasn't, but still.
“I apologize but – .”
“And it's Lord Carling, if you please, or you may use milord, or at least, sir,” he said, “as a testament to the lofty distance between one of your meager station in life and one of my exalted status. I shant insist you be on your knees when addressing me, but familiarity would really be quite improper.”
Such arrogance was breathtaking, but she was certain he meant at least some of it in a humourous vein. Well... probably. Still, it did remind her she was dealing with an extremely wealthy, important individual who was also her employer.
“I apologize,” she said, gaining control of herself, “but your continual fixation on this.. this... material, is most improper.”
“Improper how?” he asked, guilelessly, “It is, after all, a part of the library you're undertaking to catalog and sort, and so
“While that might be somewhat true, this particular... topic, could be seen as somewhat unseemly.”
“Really? What an old-fashioned notion. You mean because you're a woman? Would it be less improper if I'd hired a male librarian?”
“Well, I... possibly,” she said, not wanting to admit such a thing and somewhat flustered.
“And yet we're in the age of equality and all that sort of thing. And you are, after all, no innocent virginal waif.”
“And how would milord know that?” she sniffed.
“Well,” he said, “it's true that I don't know much about your history, but, not to put too fine a point on it, the er, circumference of the item you were using the other day in your, er, self enjoyment would lead one to believe that the ahm, cavity involved had gotten a certain measure of use in the past, so to speak...”
Hannah felt the blood rushing to her face, and was speechless, at first, as he shrugged and smiled, then felt a wave of anger which flustered her, as she didn't know whether to flee in her embarrassment, or scream at him in her rage.
“Not that I am judging in any way, whatsoever, I assure you. I'm merely making a comment on certain physical properties of the human anatomy and – .”
“You are a rotten bastard!” she shouted, jumping to her feet.
“Well, I think my mother might disagree,” he said, unperturbed.
“You know very well what I mean, Lord Carling!” she snapped, biting off his name and title as though they were epithets.
“Oh that, well, yes, as I told you earlier, I am a right bastard, in the colloquial use of the verb.”
“It's a noun, not a verb!” she snapped.
“Really? I could never keep those quite clear. But as you suggest, I'm not the nicest of people. That's why I have to pay everyone doubletime to put up with me.”
“There is a limit to what even that will buy! I want no further references to... to... that incident!”
“Are you giving me orders?”
“Yes! I mean, well... yes!”
“That could be construed as quite presumptuous, Quinn,” he said, “again, bearing in mind my lofty height of nobility and your, er, lack. If one were to read the instructions in these books that would call for rather stern discipline, possibly applied that rather attractive backside of yours.”
“Don't you even dare think it!” she snapped, pointing her finger at him.
“Well, I might not dare do it, but I think I can dare think it. But I take your point and shall leave you in peace for now.”
He sauntered off, and she glowered after him, then slowly sat back down. Imagine him bringing up the size of the bottle she'd used to masturbate with! Of all the filthy gall! And what exactly was that supposed to mean anyway? That she must be a slut of some kind because she'd used a very thick bottle? She was far from that! It was just that... penetration, thick, full, deep penetration, had always deeply aroused her. She knew that physically, it shouldn't but intellectually, emotionally it surely did.
But that didn't reflect on the... tightness... or size of her pussy! What a filthy and insulting suggestion! But how could she have dignified it with an answer? And how could she have answered the the pain, the ache, turned her on? He'd think she was some sort of masochist like in these filthy books!
Well, maybe she was, at least a bit. She did seem to fantasize a lot about being taken, about being, well, perhaps not forced exactly but... taken by strong men who would not brook no for an answer. She had never really put a much thought into the kind of material contained in the books; all that whips and chains sort of thing.
Looking at some of the drawings had turned her on, especially imagining herself bound in those outrageous ways, but just because she found the drawings erotic didn't mean she was a pervert like his uncle was – or he was!
Of course, in her experience, all men were perverts anyway.
She let her imagination slide over a possible relationship with him. He was an arrogant bastard, but in the realm of a sort of sporting sexual interlude, well, he might be a rather novel experience. Certainly it would be different than the sorts of tawdry affairs she'd so long resisted with the young men she'd grown up with. But he was simply too arrogant and unpleasant to really contemplate such a thing.
She had trouble sleeping again that night. She had the occasional dream, and even a brief erotic dream. In it, she was naked at a strip club, prancing and dancing about, and sitting in the front row was Carling, staring at her.
She woke, troubled, and got dressed. She needed exercise, so put on sweat pants and a tank top and went downstairs. She made her way outside and then began to jog around the estate. There were a lot of walkways, and exploring them was interesting, if tiring. She returned to the back of the house panting and sweating, needing a shower. She looked longingly at the swimming pool, thinking about throwing herself into it, but she doubted they'd appreciate it.
She headed back into the house, thinking about how delicious it would have been to strip naked and slide beneath the cool water, right out in the open like that! But if Carling saw her he'd have no doubt she was some sort of exhibitionist pervert and who knows what he'd do or say.
She showered, her hands enjoying the tactile pleasure of sliding across her warm, soapy body, but again did not dare linger long. She dressed, ate breakfast, and started in on the books again.
What else could she do?
She wondered if Carling had a girlfriend. Apparently not. He had spoken of going through them like socks. No doubt no self-respecting woman would stay around an obnoxious lout like that, Lord or not.
She was determined to finish off this particular category of book and start in on something else as quickly as possible. Let him try his sly innuendo on books about geology!
She was in the rear of the alcove, when her hand pressed against the side of the shelf to balance herself, and the three lower shelves and all their contents slid forward into the wall, almost dropping her on her bottom. Intrigued, she dropped to all fours and peered inside at the narrow passage revealed. An old house with a secret passage in the library, she thought in delight. How wonderfully cliched!
She stood up and hurried over to the cabinet, where, in her initial inspection, she'd seen a number of torches. She grabbed one, flicked the button on and off to test the power of the battery, then returned and crawled into the passage. She looked around nervously, but was gratified to see a distinct lack of spider webs and accumulated dust. She was a slim hipped woman and even so had to move carefully so as to not brush against the stone walls as she moved along the passage and around the corner.
There was a stone stairway there, and she followed it down, heart thumping, wondering if she'd find treasure, or perhaps the skeletons of old pirates.
It was an awfully long staircase, she thought, going down past the basement, into who knew where! When she reached the bottom she searched about, found the outline of a doorway, and then a small lever which allowed her to pull it inward. She slipped out and swung the flash about, lighting up a dark stone hall of sorts. Again, like the passageway it was oddly clean. In fact, the floor looked polished!
That was disappointing, in a way, for it indicated this was no long-lost hideaway, but something which must be used still. Perhaps it was a wine cellar? The walls were of rough stone, but the floor was of very clean square stones, and as she moved around, it reflected the light ahead. To her right and left were broad, rounded doorways in the stone wall. The right giving onto a large group of wine racks. But it was the left which interested her.
Both openings were about ten feet or so across, and covered with bars. There was a doorway, also of bars, in the midst of each, though, and neither were locked. On the wall next to the opening on the left was a plaque. This is the original underground detention area of the Lords of Eastwick, and dates to the fifteenth century, when the present location was occupied by Eastwick Castle.
She pushed open the one on the left and found herself in a long, low room with odd contraptions spaced about. They were clearly torture devices, and from the evident age of the wood they looked like the original contrivances. Hannah gazed at them in fascination. She had always loved history, and the thought of seeing, and even touching, torture devices which might have been used six hundred years ago was quite exciting.
There was the rack, obviously. There were shackles hanging from the ceiling in places, perhaps to hold people suspended. There was the wheel, to be bent back upon, and a whipping post. There was a much-scarred table with shackles spaced at the corners, to be used for God knows what, and a small cage hanging from the ceiling!
One item made her blush to see it. It was a T-shaped frame, with shackles along the top and a very phallic looking thing projecting up and out from the vertical portion. She imagined some poor man – or woman – bound to it, impaled through the bottom, and otherwise hanging there! How horrible!
Beyond these were the cells, with shackles on the walls. Her heart was beating more quickly, and she imagined being imprisoned in one of the barred cells, shackled to the wall, awaiting the tender attentions of the torturer. She stepped into one of the cells, making sure the door was not the type to swing closed and lock her in, and examined the walls, looking to see some sort of sign of previous tenants. But perhaps, if they were shackled they couldn't do anything like scratch off the days on the wall.
The shackles seemed fairly obvious in their operation. They were hinged, and the locking tongues fit into one of several little holes, depending, she supposed, on the thickness of the wrist to which they were bound.
She turned and pressed her back against the stone wall, then raised her arms dramatically, imagining she was locked in there, helpless, perhaps even … naked... awaiting the cruel attentions of a lecherous jailor!
Perhaps someone like Lord Carling.
She felt a throbbing between her legs which was echoed a moment later by a tingling in her nipples. She felt a temptation to strip herself, to press her naked body back against the stone, and let her imagination run riot. But no, there was no way she was going to risk being exposed to Carling yet again! The man had already seen far more of her naked body than was anywhere close to being decent!
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