Brought to Heel

by Brought to Heel [Nexus] (retail) (epub)

  The office door opened and the ash-blonde librarian approached the counter. As she swept by, a date stamp toppled down on to the grey carpet in front. Luke saw her snatch at it, frowning as she missed. Still frowning, she stepped out and squatted down, knees becomingly squeezed together, her buttocks perched above her high heels. Luke peeped furtively. His cock tensed as he saw the glistening sheen of her nylons at her gently squashed calves. She scooped up the date stamp, returned it to the counter by the ink pad and entered her office, closing the door. Luke returned to his doodles – richly embellishing his earlier fantasies with fresh etchings now featuring the lovely librarian in dominant mode.

  No. He couldn’t dare. Not here. In the music library. At five past three in the afternoon. In broad daylight. But he did. Alone, except for the soft, persistent tap-tapping of the typewriter, Luke deftly fingered his cock out and slowly masturbated. Squeezing his eyes shut, he thumbed his glans – imagining the strict librarian being very severe with him – and came in silent violence just as he conjured up the mental picture of his suffering beneath her lash. By the time the library clock joined its hands together for quarter past, Luke’s head was lolling down on his neglected Satie notes. A minute later he was fast asleep.

  She pursued him in his dreams. He was about to be caned. Luke saw the librarian not as a mistress of the belt or strap but of the bamboo. Touching his toes – did anyone actually touch their toes for their stripes? Luke asked himself in the tangled logic of his dream. Yes, Luke happily told himself. Yes, they did. Red-faced as the blood rushed down, those bending for their punishment did scrabble their fingers at their toes – encouraged to do so by the admonishing tap of a quivering cane at their upturned cheeks. The punished, bare-bottomed and bending, had to suffer the delicious agony of waiting for the striping strokes to commence. In his dream, Luke waited. The librarian, studying the tip of her yellow cane, stood behind him. Dominant and supreme over his submissive nakedness. She stretched down a controlling hand and touched his shoulder. Bend down. No. Further. Right down. I want your bottom up, young man. Give me your bottom. Luke moaned. The controlling hand gripped his shoulder tightly, shaking him. Luke squirmed.

  ‘The library is closing in five minutes,’ he heard, waking up with a start. ‘Five minutes to closing,’ she rasped, shaking his shoulder once more.

  Blinking under the neon light, Luke pocketed his pen, sleepily gathered up most of his unfinished notes on Satie – and slunk out into the pale evening sunshine.

  The librarian gazed down at the curious scribblings and doodles as she closed the four biographies of Satie and heaped them up in her arms, cradling them against her bosom. Students, she fumed. Lazy little sods. Too lazy to return the books to the shelves. She paused. She suddenly realised that she was looking at the doodles the wrong way up, rendering them quite meaningless. Arrowing down her finger, she rotated the page. The doodles swam into focus, making their meaning clear. The librarian’s grey eyes widened as she saw a scribbled image of herself, cane aquiver, punishing the bare-bottomed young man. She hugged the books she was carrying tightly to her breasts. Her nostrils flared. Surely not? Spilling the four books back down on to the desk where Luke had sat, and slept, she bent down. This time, her thighs were splayed as wide as the tight pencil skirt would permit. Her nylons sparkled beneath the neon light above. Straining, she peered down under the table. The rank whiff of semen haunted her nostrils. A tiny dark puddle caught her eye. She stretched her finger down to the grey carpet and dabbed into Luke’s small, sticky semen-splash. Raising her moistened fingertip up to her mouth, her grey eyes darkened as her pale pink lips slowly sucked.

  Five past five. Luke ransacked his room, found the number, palmed a fifty-pence piece – you could never find ten pence when you wanted it – and dashed down the impeccably hoovered corridor to the pay phone.

  Four minutes later, he came back into his room and sighed his relief aloud. He’d done it. Phoned in and told the department secretary that he’d have to cancel his tutorial. A sudden migraine. He’d put the essay in the post and arrange another time.

  Telemann. Tallis. Tartini. Luke had over two hundred tapes, all carefully labelled and indexed. Malipiero. Mascagni. Messiaen. Luke had them all at his fingertips. He turned out the light and stretched out on his bed as Lennon blasted out ‘Imagine’. Luke liked Lennon’s haunting song – because that’s what Luke did. All the time. Imagine.

  When the chicken had charred in his auntie’s oven, Luke had experienced – just the once, across her lap – his very own glimpse of heaven. Ever since, he had had to imagine the pleasure he pined for: domination and discipline. He had had to conjure up in his mind the delights he craved: surrender and submission. In the darkness, Lennon’s curdling piano tinkled. Imagine there’s no –

  Three sharp taps at his door. Luke groaned, ignoring the threat of intrusion. Some silly sod out of coffee, he supposed. Three more sharp taps. Luke stretched out and pressed the pause button, then got up and switched on the light. Slipping on a pale blue pair of boxer shorts, he padded barefoot across to the door.

  ‘Yep?’

  The grey eyes of the music librarian gazed unblinkingly into his startled face.

  ‘Migraine?’ she drawled. ‘I didn’t know Lennon was a recommended cure for migraine.’

  Luke blushed, acutely conscious of his boxer shorts and her searching gaze. Grey, penetrating eyes. ‘It’s better now –’

  ‘Perhaps you imagined it.’

  ‘But how did you –?’

  Sweeping him aside – Luke flinched as her firm hand brushed against his chest – she strode into his room. ‘My first love is my work at the music library, young man. Sadly, the philistines at the town hall will only fund a part-time post. So I make up my salary by teaching. I am your tutor. You cancelled. I cannot afford to do so; that is why I tracked you down here. I want to see that Satie essay you claimed was completed and ready to be put into the post.’

  Luke blinked, slowly comprehending his awkward position. He stooped, hastily snatching up his pullover and jeans.

  ‘There is no need to get dressed, young man. I had occasion to look under the desk you occupied in my library this afternoon. I am perfectly aware of what you did. I discovered the nasty mess you left behind. I will require you naked for your punishment.’

  Luke gasped, letting the clothing he was clutching drop limply to his feet. ‘I – I –’ he stammered, blushing furiously.

  ‘After I have punished you, bare-bottomed, we shall take a look at your Satie. Heaven help your bottom, young man, if it isn’t up to scratch –’

  ‘I haven’t – It isn’t –’ Luke mumbled, boxer shorts twitching and beginning to bulge slightly as he retreated backwards to his bed.

  ‘Not completed? Now, I can’t say that I am entirely surprised. I found your notes. Remarkable,’ she purred, extracting from her pocket and slowly unfolding the page of graphic doodling depicting discipline being dispensed. ‘Satie would cover entire sheets with scribbling and not a single note. Remarkable coincidence. Shorts off, young man.’

  Luke slumped down on the bed, head bowed, his fingers plucking at the duvet.

  ‘Let’s see what we can find in here,’ she said, her voice grim but bright, as she strode across to his wardrobe. Opening it, she rummaged briskly.

  Luke looked up.

  ‘Belt? Or do you have a preference?’

  Luke’s eyes betrayed his incomprehension.

  ‘I’m looking for something to whip your naughty bottom with, young man. Just as you depicted in your sketch. Belt? Or do you have a nice, supple slipper, hum?’

  ‘No, please,’ he protested hotly. ‘That was not me, under the desk. That picture was not mine. I didn’t –’

  ‘Bend over across the bed at once,’ she instructed, her tone firm but disturbingly pleasant. ‘Bare-bottomed, like I told you.’

  Luke remained sitting sullenly on the bed. ‘Nothing to do with me –’

  ‘At once,’ she barke
d into the wardrobe, her hands groping in the dark.

  Luke closed his eyes and shuddered. Suddenly, the heaven he had imagined was becoming a glimpse from hell.

  ‘Ah, this will do,’ she pronounced, clicking the wardrobe door shut and turning to face him, brandishing a wire coat hanger. ‘Do you really think, young man, that you can come into my library, draw lewd and indecent pictures of me and then masturbate on my carpet? Well? Do you?’

  Her crisp clinical voice, her cool use of the words ‘lewd’ and ‘masturbate’, brought home the enormity of his offence. Luke squirmed and covered his face with his hands. Anything to avoid her penetrating eyes.

  ‘Look at me, young man. Hands down on the bed. Look at me.’

  Slowly, burning with shame, he obeyed. He flinched as her grey stare searched out his misery.

  ‘Well? I asked you a perfectly simple question.’

  ‘No –’ he whispered, his voice drying.

  ‘No,’ she echoed tartly. ‘Very well. Across the bed. Arms stretched out. At once. Bare-bottomed and bending.’

  Twisting around, Luke obeyed her command, dragging down his boxer shorts and spearing the duvet’s softness with his hard shaft.

  ‘Bottom up.’ She pressed her stockinged thigh against his as she arranged his kneeling nakedness to her complete satisfaction for the impending punishment. He whimpered as she forced him to inch his thighs apart – and moaned aloud as she tapped his balls dominantly with the curved end of the coat hanger.

  ‘And I have not heard an apology yet.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled into the duvet, clenching his buttocks.

  ‘Sorry? Sorry for what?’

  ‘I’m sorry for –’ he faltered. Shame choked his words into silence.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ she murmured, stroking the curve of his straining cheeks with the blunt tip of the wire coat hanger.

  ‘Please, don’t. Just punish me. I deserve it. But don’t make me say –’

  She guided the thin wire down between his cheeks, rasping the shadowed cleft until it began to burn. ‘Sorry for what, young man?’

  His buttocks jerked and spasmed, trapping the tormenting wire. ‘I’m sorry for drawing pictures –’

  ‘Vile, wicked pictures.’

  ‘Vile, wicked pictures,’ he confessed. ‘And for – for –’

  ‘Masturbating,’ she prompted, primly.

  ‘Masturbating,’ he whispered softly.

  ‘In a hallowed place dedicated to the enlightenment of the mind, not the sordid pleasures of the sullied flesh.’

  Broken, he merely nodded, choking on his shame.

  She raised the whippy coat hanger up, took a pace and a half back, bent down swiftly to smooth out the page of obscene doodling on the bed before him, and then slashed the coat hanger down. Luke hissed his pleasurable pain as the eight strokes were briskly administered. He raised his left foot up, pawing the air in an ecstasy of agony. She tapped it down imperiously and swiped the cruel wire down across his reddening buttocks five more times. They were slow, deliberate strokes. He smothered his soft screams in the duvet and drew his thighs together sharply as his striped buttocks spasmed.

  Another searing lash. He grunted. Then another, biting viciously up into the lower curves of his defenceless flesh. His moaning melted into a soft sigh. The final stroke: swish, swipe. He slumped into the bed, hips jerking and whipped cheeks writhing, coming massively. She stood dominantly over him as he emptied his long liquid spurt over the crinkled page of erotic doodles.

  The grey-eyed librarian raked the wire coat hanger down his spine as the semen splashed noisily. Taloning the hair of her victim, she dominantly forced his face down into the soaking page, rubbing it into the shimmering smear.

  After forcing Luke to wash his sticky cock and belly at the sink, watching him intently as he obeyed, she motioned him over to the bed upon which she sat, her thighs and knees tightly together.

  ‘I know there is no Satie essay. I am paid to tutor you and, now that I have punished you, that is exactly what I propose to do. Across my knee.’ She patted her lap, the tender gesture full of potent malice.

  Luke stumbled to her feet, knelt down before her and kissed the edge of her black high-heeled shoe.

  ‘Brought to heel so soon, my boy?’ she purred.

  Raising his face up to hers, he nodded, then lowered it submissively. He hugged her legs below her knees, burying his hot face in her softly nyloned flesh. Moaning happily, he nuzzled her, kissing then licking her glossy legs devotedly.

  ‘Up,’ she whispered. ‘No more of that now. Later, perhaps. We have all term, all year. And I have so much to teach you.’

  Shivering with delight, he stretched his naked body, belly down, across her skirt. She gripped the nape of his neck. He squirmed, submitting and surrendering his red-striped buttocks up to her. She planted her other hand, palm down, across his seething cheeks. He wriggled at the dominant touch, rasping the wet glans of his thickening cock into her taut skirt.

  ‘Erik Satie, as you should already know, was a dreadful student. Lazy, indolent and much given to day-dreaming. He wasted his student years. Strict discipline saved him. Oh, yes, young man. Only the strict discipline he was made to endure saved him from ignomy and failure.’

  Smack. She smoothed the cheeks that she had just sharply spanked. Smack. Again, her slightly curved palm savagely caressed his hot cheeks.

  ‘Satie came under the stern spell of a very strict tutor. If it worked for him, I see no reason why strict discipline will not rescue you from failure. As your tutor, it is my duty to take you in hand. Severely.’

  The spanking was fierce. Afterwards, he strained, twisting down from her lap, to kiss her. She forced him to kneel against his bed. Soaking the duvet as he orgasmed violently, Luke froze in his jerking contortions – the grey-eyed librarian had promised him a kiss. Hitching up her skirt and dragging down her wet panties, she prised her sticky labia apart and pressed them against his hot buttocks. With flesh whispering against flesh, she kissed him farewell – until their next appointment.

  8

  Night School

  Adam returned to the caretaker’s office at the rear of the Institute and carefully filed away the evening registers. The car park was quiet – both gates locked against thieves and vandals – so he had the next hour to himself until the classes finished at nine.

  He sat down and pulled the desk lamp closer. He opened and closed the desk drawers, enjoying being temporarily in charge. George, the regular caretaker, had gone to be with his sister for a week or so. Her heart. Adam, assistant caretaker, had assumed control.

  He slid a trembling hand into his overall pocket and extracted the small glass bottle of nail varnish. He had found it in the downstairs ladies. He gazed down at his trophy, gently thumbing the cold glass, then grasping it tightly in a tightened fist of triumph. With delicate strength, he twisted the white plastic cap and bent down to sniff the pungent polish. Twelve minutes later, he splayed his fingers out under the yellow glare of the desk lamp, inspecting his shiny pink nails. How long would they take to dry? He’d furtively watched women applying varnish. They often waved their drying nails in the air afterwards – just as if their fingertips had touched something hot. Adam waved his fingers. The varnish glinted as it dried.

  As an assistant caretaker, Adam’s duties did not require him to enter the ladies. But with George away, he had entered the white-tiled room for the very first time. The drip of a cistern had sounded hauntingly loud as he trod the hallowed ground, thrilling to be trespassing in this place of female secrets. Stretching out a hesitant fingertip, he had rubbed then stroked the plastic toilet seats, seats that were kissed by warm women’s bottoms. Without raising the lid, he had unzipped and had a long pee, but his cock was so stiff with arousal he missed and soaked the floor. Down on his knees, he dried the tiles. Down on his knees, before the white porcelain that was dedicated for female use only.

  Adam worshipped women. Adored them. Kneeling down at t
he toilet, he felt a delicious thrill in the delicious intimacy of being there, being so close to their secrets. Being where all males were excluded and forbidden. His nipples had grown tight and sore and his balls ached as he lingered in the cool, white-tiled room. Then he had spotted the forgotten bottle of nail varnish.

  No need to panic. George was away. Adam was in charge. It was official. He could go into the toilets, into the changing rooms. But Adam felt his face grow hot as he pocketed the bottle of nail varnish. If anyone came in now, they would be angry. He trembled, almost swooning at the image of two severe matrons challenging him, then punishing him severely for his trespass – leaving his bottom pink and shining. As pink and shining as the nail polish in his overall pocket.

  A car horn sounded impatiently at the locked gates. Adam rose, guiltily, spilling the nail varnish across the wooden desk. The sudden pink splash spread instantly, then dripped thickly down in a sticky spindle into the waste paper basket below. The car horn sounded again. Two sharp blasts. Spreading the evening newspaper hurriedly over the spillage, Adam trotted out of the office, crossed the square of asphalt and reached the gate. Unlocking it, he admitted the latecomer, watched her park then locked the gate. Pocketing the key, he tugged at the gate to check. With over sixty young women to guard, he was extra careful, protecting those placed in his precious care.

  At five to nine, the first salvo of high heels skittling down the stone steps announced the end of the secretarial class. Word processing. Adam liked to peep at them as they sat, heads bowed, gazing into their blue screens. Lovely little secretaries, chattering noisily. Always first away, in their second-hand VW Golfs and Ford Fiestas, to the pub. The language classes – French and Spanish – went next. Then the local history group, maturer women who walked and never ran down the corridor. Serious, stern women in beige cardigans and polished brogues. The practical classes were always the last out. Especially the cookery class. Always late away, cookery. Waiting for cakes to cool before being tucked away in tins and carried off in triumph. Adam liked the cookery class. The teacher often called him in, offering him something on a wooden spoon to sample. He always nodded his approval, even when it was chutney which he hated. Once, she had wiped his chin with a napkin. Adam had swallowed the mouthful as his cock had hardened.