The Dark Library (5 page)

Strong arms slid around her waist, hands
gripping her just below her breasts, and she was pulled up and out,
then turned and draped across something – a shoulder, as she was
carried, sputtering and moaning up the ladder and out of the
pool.

He laid her down and she blinked up at
Carling's face, trying to clear her eyes, coughing, chest heaving –
naked.

For a moment she was sufficiently distracted
by the need to breath, and coughing out the water she'd swallowed,
to pay that little attention. But with that accomplished she knew
another drawn out moment of horrified embarrassment, and tried to
cover her naked body from his eyes.

“Miss Quinn, you are becoming an interesting
challenge,” he said waspishly.

Hannah sat up, jerking her knees and arms up
to cover herself.

“Not that I mind seeing your naked body, of
course, as its quite attractive, but it is causing me some
temptation to do things you might not exactly approve of.”

“D-Don't t-touch me!” she sputtered, gasping,
looking up at him warily.

He snorted and turned away. “For your general
fund of knowledge, Quinn, there is a safety alarm in the pool in
case someone who can't swim or is quite young accidentally falls
in. You might turn it off in future.”

He paused at the door and gave her a smirk.
“Or not.”

It was horrible having to see him the next
day, and she blushed furiously when he came into the library.

“Well, got your clothes on this time, I see,”
he said drolly.

“That's not fair!” she gulped, staring down
at her shoes.

“Fair? What's fair got to do with anything.
Tell me about the books.”

“I-I'm uhm, I'm not finished cataloging them
yet.”

“What have you got? Come on. I've been paying
you and it's been three days. Unless you're going to prance about
naked all day where I can see you I expect genuine work to be
done.”

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 some of it is quite rare and perhaps valuable.
Indeed, I value your insight, as a librarian and bibliophile. And
it was you, after all, who brought them to my attention.”

“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.