The Bookshelf Vol. 01: James Bondage

The Bookshelf, Volume 1: Bondage. James Bondage.

I set a copy of Ian Fleming's original Casino Royale on The Bookshelf, my hands trembling...

This inheritance: it may be the most dangerous remnant of the Lost Age still left outside of the control of the secret societies, my grandfather had written. You must keep it hidden from everyone.

I watched, wide-eyed, as the book began to move by itself -- to open. Not to reveal printed pages, but to reveal a light that made my brain swim...

The rules are as simple as they are unbreakable: any story, in any medium, placed on this shelf with no others present, will call forth a place. Not the place in the story, but the world of the story -- a world where the conventions of the narrative are as immutable as gravity or the passing of time.

I straightened my immaculate (I hoped) 1950's cocktail dress, gripped my champagne flute with enough force that I was afraid it might crack in my hands, and I forced myself to step forward...

Have caution, my dear, for while you cannot be killed -- or rather, if you lose consciousness, including 'death,' you will simply awaken next to the bookshelf -- you can suffer a great many fates, some potentially that will make you wish for your not-a-real-death. Take care with your decisions, and don't attempt to work at cross ends to the story.

The world around me turned a color I had never seen before and couldn't describe to you if I tried...and suddenly, I landed on my back on a plush, burgundy carpet.

―

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?" I opened my eyes and winced against the bright lights from above. A shadow hung over me, shaped mostly like a man's head. A smooth, well-manicured hand reached down and caressed my forehead with cool fingers.

"I...I must have fainted," I began, not entirely sure how this was supposed to work.

"You must have. Perhaps you could use a chair? And a drink?" The man leaning over me offered me his hand, and just slightly over-playing it, I wobbled slightly as I stood up.

"Please and thank you," I did my best to offer a bit of what I assumed was vaguely-British politeness as a chair nudged gently against my calves. I sat, looking around as my champagne flute came back to my hand. I'm not sure where it went, or who returned it, but I sipped regardless, and enjoyed the aroma of a very flowery red wine.

I was in a casino, all right. All around me, rich burgundy curtains, tabletops, and tapestries highlighted every surface that wasn't polished the rich brown of mahogany. Dozens of immaculately-dressed men and women were throwing dice, flipping cards, and making wagers.

Straight out of the book! My heart began to beat in my ears as I realized that my grandfather wasn't just bullshitting me after all. If I could come here and get all of the thrills of gambling, nobility, and the occasional flirty super-spy, what other adventures lie in store for me?

But I didn't want to get too far down that road just yet -- I had here and now to explore and enjoy. Looking toward the gentleman who had helped me to my feet, I realized I was looking at a slightly older man, but definitely a Sean-Connery-as-James-Bond sort of 'older man.' Even sitting there smiling at me with the most banal expression he could muster, he looked like a panther.

A panther that was licking his lips.

That's when I realized why -- apparently my awkward landing on the casino floor (I was going to have to figure that whole 'first step' thing out next time) had left my dress a bit askew, and I was in serious danger of having a Janet Jackson moment in front of a roomful of very rich, very elite people from all over what I'm sure was a very rich, very elite fictional world.

"You seem a bit stunned," he said, his black hair gleaming under the bright lights as he leaned toward me just slightly. "Did you hit your head?"

I realized I must have gone at least a minute without saying anything, and I felt suddenly off-guard. I reached up and touched my head gently...and then realized that my move offered this stranger exactly the view down the front of my dress that he was leaning forward to obtain. I was getting played!

Well, enough of that. I stood up abruptly, re-aligning my dress, and slammed the contents of my champagne flute in the least ladylike manner I could manage. Finally, I looked Mister Cocky in the eye and said "Not yet."

What?!? Some small voice in the back of my brain shouted. You're in a fucking James Bond book, and that's the level of dialogue you can manage? You suck!

I shut out that voice, smiled my best 'don't follow me' smile at Cocky, and turned to make my way deeper into the casino.

―

Nursing a balance between injured pride at starting my career as a wanna-be Bond Girl with a spill and growing pride at resisting the obvious ploys of Cocky, I started looking around for someone who would offer me their dice to blow on. I'd always wanted to play Lady Luck, and this was the right place for it.

I found a beautiful boy to lend my luck to -- and over the next couple of hours, a few more. The champagne, as much as it might have been fictional, was doing a great job of keeping me on a wonderful buzz. It made the men -- every single one of which was devastatingly handsome in a different way -- extremely fun to be around, whether I was cheering on their hot streak or reassuring them that their luck would change. Every single one of them hit on me, and every single one of them seemed baffled when I didn't respond almost immediately with an invitation to go off and find a room, but I suppose that was just the genre.

Finally, as the clock struck midnight, I realized I had to get home -- and at almost the same moment, I also realized that I was far too drunk. So much so that the world was starting to move on its own, spinning at odd angles around my head. I realized that the sensation was kind of like what it felt like to step through into this story in the first place, and I thought maybe I was just stepping back out...until I fell down. Again. And hit the soft, burgundy carpet. Again.

―

When I came to, I knew immediately that something was very, very wrong. Someone had stuffed my panties into my mouth, but that wasn't quite as alarming as the simple fact that I was on my elbows and knees, with something wrapped from my neck around the backs of both knees. It kept me from straightening my legs -- and some sort of bar between my knees kept me from putting them together. Which means I couldn't roll over. That was very wrong. Or it could have been the fact that I was naked.

Or it could have been the fact that there were several dozen low, male voices chuckling from all around me.

No. No, it was definitely the fact that there was a smooth, cool fingertip gently tracing its way along my pussy lips. I was naked, and I knew all at once that it was something far more devious than alcohol that had been in that last sip.

"MPH! MRRMPHRRPH MMMPH!" I shouted into my panties.

"You cold-blooded, cock-teasing whore," I heard Mister Cocky growl from between my legs. "You left over three dozen grown men just standing on the floor, wondering what they'd done wrong. That's a level of dedicated evil that cannot be tolerated. And now, you're going to learn your lesson...the hard way." Several male voices chuckled in unison at his lowbrow wit.

"RRMPH? HGGH! HGGH! MMMMPH!" I struggled uselessly against the straps that were holding me in my forced submission.

"Oh, shut. Up." Cocky punctuated each of his words with a sharp thrust of his fingers deep into my body. I cried out and tried to crawl forward -- to get away -- but it was useless. "That's right," he took obvious glee in my panic, "keep trying to get away. Keep trying to deny us what we deserve."

DESERVE? I thought. You didn't even buy me a fucking drink! All any of you assholes did all night was drop shitty puns and smile at me like predators!

And that's when it hit me -- paralyzed me, literally, with the epiphany. I had gone about this all wrong. One hundred percent all wrong. I wasn't here because of them. They were just characters in a world, following the 'rules.' I was here because I failed -- because I had, in my grandfather's words, worked at 'cross ends to the story.' I treated them like they were real people. But I had deliberately chosen a story where God-awful puns and predatory smiles were the gold standard for seducing oversexualized women.

I was here, strapped to a bed and about to be helplessly and repeatedly molested because I didn't pay attention to the conventions of the genre I had chosen.

Fuck.

My.

Life.

I had earned every single penis they were going give me me. I was their rightful fuck-toy, according to the rules. I was bound by convention to put out for anyone who fit the super-spy standard for getting into a girl's pants, and because I hadn't, now I was literally bound. Great, I thought, yet another horrible pun that will get me fucked. Literally. Fucked. A lot. Oh, God, that was a lot of men...

My stomach dropped out from under me, and the shame I felt at failing the rules on my very first time into The Bookshelf merged smoothly with the horror I felt at having my naked pussy splayed open in front of room full of men intent on fucking it. Those two feelings did a little dance in my chest as Mister Cocky's fingers expertly reached inside me and quite casually stroked my G-spot. Shame and fear and oh my god, those fingers and my pulse pounding in my ears came together in a twisted, surging-blushing-wincing full-body tension that was kind of...ridiculously...hot.

Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus God Fuck. Oh Holy Jesus God Fuck Shit. My pussy just dripped...and Mister Cocky could tell.

"There it is," he said, gloating in his victory. "I knew once we got the cunt where she deserved to be, she'd show us her true colors. And now, Lady Luck, it's time to change your name."

I closed my eyes -- even behind the blindfold, it somehow seemed to make sense -- and a braced myself as I heard his pants come off. I kept repeating in my head: I did this to myself. This is what I get for not paying attention to the rules.

"Welcome to your new life...as Lady Fuck!" Seriously?

But when I felt that fictional super-spy's 007-grade cock slam home deep enough to gently kiss the tip of my cervix, I screamed into those panties with every fiber of my being...in...pleasure?

―

It took less than a second for it to occur to me that super-spies were also, by the conventions of the genre, absolutely magnificent lovers. I knew, intellectually, that I was being punished in some way for not playing along with the 'ends' of the story....but it didn't take long at all before my body completely forgot about the whole 'room full of men giggling about how much fun it was going to be to come inside my writhing pussy' thing and started concentrating exclusively on the incredible sensations my innermost bits and pieces were experiencing.

Every thrust of that manhood was exquisite -- I swear I could feel the ridge of his head gently caressing every fold of my insides. I was far from a virgin, and my third boyfriend was, by all accounts including my own, a downright gifted lover, but this Bond-wannabe blew that memory up like it was Le Chiffre's sports car. Just his dick alone -- no clever fingers, no obvious attempts to add anything to what I was feeling -- just that massive, weighty cock sliding with inevitable, unstoppable force into me over and over again was enough to bring me to the verge of tears. Very good tears.

I was, for a brief moment, glad to be tied helpless to a bed with a completely fictional man violently molesting me. Knowing that it was a story -- even though my straining pussy insisted otherwise -- and knowing that I quite rightly earned the fucking I was getting by breaking the rules -- made it OK. No, more than OK, it made it absolutely perfect that Mister Cocky was getting what he 'knew' he 'deserved' by fucking my helpless hole hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs. I...I liked it.

God knows how long later -- I was lost in a fuck-haze -- he stopped, and my perfection died. He pulled out of me, and in my delirious horniness, I actually whined into my panties. "Bmmpph?" Then I felt a hot splatter of semen land on my back and start to drip down my waist, and Mister Cocky half-grunted, half-moaned his pleasure. After a moment, he leaned down and put his mouth next to my ear.

"That's one of us. You've only got a few dozen more to go...and they're all hard as rocks from watching you take my cock like the horny wench you really are."

But...but I want to come, too!!

I couldn't help myself. Praying that the next super-spy in line would think just a little more about my pleasure, I trembled slightly as I felt him position himself behind me. Would his cock be just as perfect?

YES!! I moaned into my panties as it slid inside of my desperate hole with an almost-gentle firmth. Unlike Mister Cocky's taut, hairless belly, this one had a distinct pleasure trail spilling across a definite six-pack, and he was very happy to press those tight muscles hard into my asscheeks as he ground his super-spy ladykiller deep into my very happy vagina.

Not the same penis -- a little shorter, almost impossibly a tiny bit thicker, but also somehow gifted with an even more dramatic head that seemed biologically designed to unravel the nooks and crannies of my pussy with every stroke. Tangibly different, but no less worthy of my already-welling tears of raw pleasure. God damn, I was going to be some sort of expert on massive male cocks by the time this was all over.

Except I barely got finished with that thought before Anonymous Super-Spy #2's phenomenal dick started pumping into and out of me with absolutely animal savagery, and all activity in my brain simply stopped. I was suddenly less than human. I was a hungry, horny, lusty bitch in heat, and the only thought I could sustain was:

ohdearfuckinggodwon'tSOMEONEtouchmyclitPLEASESOMEONETOUCHMYCLIT OH HOLY FUCK ME I NEED TO COME SO BAD PLEEASE JUST ONE TOUCH CLITCLITCLITCLITCLIT FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKKK!'

―

It lasted hours...maybe days. I have no idea, because by the time it was over, I was so sleep-deprived, so hungry, and so exhausted that I was delirious beyond comprehension. The worst part was, not a one of them had let me come. I was so goddamn horny that if someone had untied my hands, my first and only move would be to reach my clit so that I could finally get myself off. The soreness that was causing my vagina to cramp up in ways that I never imagined it could was only matched by the incredible, nearly exquisite pain that seemed to radiate from my ovaries into every part of my pelvis.

So this is what the boys call 'blue balls,' I thought.

The man that was currently fucking me finally came, grunting like an angry gorilla and pulling on my hips like he was trying to drive his cock up into my throat. I'm not sure, but I think at this point they were calling in bellboys and bartenders to take their turns in my now constantly-oozing pussy. They had definitely been coming back for seconds. Possibly thirds.

At least they've confined themselves to just one orifice. I couldn't imagine what this would feel like if I had broken the rules this badly in a story where they believed in anal sex. That thought made me shudder. And apparently, that shudder caught someone's attention.

"Hey, boys, did you see that? I think she just came a little." That was The Very French One. He was the sixth one. I remembered his cock. It was hotter than all of the rest, and I could feel his pulse inside my cunt as he fucked me, like he just had too much blood. He had come so hard I was worried that he was going to hurt himself, and it had actually surged back along his cock and was flowing out of me before he was even done coming.

The response to his declaration was mostly snoring -- I think I'd been fucked for at least a day and a half by now, and even the guys who were still in line were asleep -- but one voice answered. "Really? You mean maybe she's a real woman after all?"

Mister Cocky. Wait...a 'real' woman? What the fuck did that mean?

"Mpph? Rmm Mm-mmph?"

"Aye, Brock, I think she may be." Of course his name is 'Brock.'

"Well...we'll see about that," Brock Cocky replied to his accomplice -- and then, suddenly, I felt his head slip back between my knees. And just a moment later, I felt his cool, smooth fingers spread my lower lips, deftly wiping away what must have been a vast amount of fuck-juices that should rightfully have splashed all over his presumptuous face.

And then, I started coming. I didn't even have time to consciously register the sensation of his tongue bathing my abused clit -- the orgasms started before the feeling even reached my brain. I came, and I felt my clenching pussy squeeze an absolute river of mixed cum out over his chin. I came again, and my legs started to shake violently. I came again, and again, and again, and every time I came, Mister Brocky did something -- a finger deftly slipped into me to grace my G-spot, a slightly different swirl of the tongue on my clit, and finally, God-knows-how-many orgasms later, a threatening finger just barely splitting my ass to inspire one final, all-screaming, all-thrashing, all-encompassing, consciousness-ending orgasm...and I passed out.

―

I woke up on the floor...in my apartment. Naked, shivering, but strangely otherwise physically OK. The first thing I did was reach down and slip my fingers into myself, testing for signs of damage...but there wasn't any.

Oh, my holy fuck gods, did I bring back some mind-bending memories...long cocks and fat cocks and rock-solid cocks...jackhammer thrusts that knocked my head against the headboard and long, slow, almost-loving thrusts from men who wanted to feel every single detail of my pussy as they moved into me...cum after cum after cum poured into me until I swear I could feel semen moving through my joints and seeping into my blood...it was enough to make me...

Yep. I did it again. Without even trying, I masturbated myself into a full-body-spasm-level orgasm, thrashing around right there on my living room floor. And I was dreaming -- not of the hunky guy who worked the Sunglass Hut outside my store at the mall, or of my ex-boyfriend and his eager tongue, or of any of the other guys that had been my objects of lust in the past -- but of an invisible horde of insanely hot super-spies who had fucked a lesson into me that I would never forget.

And apparently, now that I stopped to think about it, they had literally fucked me unconscious. Possibly even fucked me to death. Why else would I be out here?

Strangely, that thought made me come again, and with that less violent but even more pleasurable orgasm, a giggle bubbled out of my throat. A magic bookshelf, a warning I had perfectly ignored, and, in retrospect, a story I was probably pretty arrogant to think I was ready for...and now I was probably the only girl in the entire world who could tell you what it feels like to get fucked to death (or close enough) by a never-ending stream of cocks, each more perfect than the last.