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In A Private Library

I ring the doorbell, and then try to decide how far back to stand on the mat. Footsteps approach, and the door opens.

He stands on the threshold scrutinizing me, and I feel as though part of me has been asleep since I saw him last.

"Hello."

"Hello."

Our words collide.

I follow him into the hall and then down a thickly-carpeted corridor, with walls painted deep red.

As he had described, the main room is indeed lined entirely with bookshelves, fitted around three tall windows whose heavy curtains are drawn against the blazing afternoon sun. Despite the hundreds of books, my eye is drawn immediately by several large incongruous pieces of furniture. He watches my nervous reaction with amusement. "You did know I worked from home?"

I walk over to a window and part the curtains slightly to look out. "Yes, I just thought you'd keep things... somewhere separate."

"I do, usually; I'm having some new fittings installed in the dungeon ceiling and I've moved these here for safe-keeping."

"Coffee?" he asks. I accept the offer readily, and step carefully around a St Andrew's cross to begin examining the contents of the nearest bookshelf. As my eyes pick out titles we have discussed, I relax a little. It's the first time we've arranged to meet in private.

He returns sooner than I expect with the drinks and says, "Do these things bother you that much? You must have seen them in clubs?" I've never been to a club and I was fairly sure he knew that. I stare into the aromatic coffee, wishing it were more homely tea.

Then he says, "Well since it's all here, I'll give you a guided tour and then maybe you won't feel so overawed by it."

To start with he takes me over to a table on which are arranged various collars, gags and restraints. These smaller things seem less overwhelming, more approachable, displayed like so many bijoux collectibles.

I tentatively reach out and pick up a strangely-shaped collar. "It goes the other way up," he points out. "Let me show you." I lift my hair up, and he passes the wide leather band behind my neck; as he buckles it the effect is to force my chin up. He smiles slightly as I discover this, but takes it off even before my throat has warmed it. I touch my skin where it had been.

"You'll know these at least." He hands me what I recognize to be a pair of clover clamps. My awkwardness fades as I turn them over and admire the smoothness of the mechanism. "Try them."

At that point my attempt at composure fails completely and my jaw drops. "I couldn't, just like that. It needs to be ... for someone, somehow."

"So if I put them on you...?"

"Yes, er, No!"

"Do you want me to or not?"

In my anxiety I lose my temper. "I hate being asked - this is just what I've said to you so often." I'm almost in tears.

He puts an arm across my shoulders.

After a few moments I say, "Yes".

I lean into him as he hugs me. He takes the clamps from me and puts them down on the table, then places my hands a little apart on the edge of it. His hands cover mine, and I look down on the fine golden hairs just visible on the backs of them, and think, "It's happening, this is the start of it."

His palms rise to stroke up my sides, up further to rest on my breasts, packaged away inside my bra and my clothes; I can feel the heat of his touch through the layers. He unbuttons my blouse, from the hem up, and unhooks my bra. I feel briefly self-conscious of the slack garment hanging around me, then his fingers move inside, glancing against the skin, brushing the surface of my nipples ever so slightly so that I want to lift my own hands up and press him tightly to me, but I keep still. My nipples tingle as he reaches down and brings the metal clamps and chain up in front of me, and swell further as he purposely holds the cold flat surface across them. "Watch," he says. I look down to see the flat little jaws close delicately over first one tip and then the other. Then he lets go and I'm taken aback as the weight of the chain tightens them. It hurts, and I love that it hurts.

He moves away from me and takes a leisurely drink of his coffee. My skin prickles in goose-bumps. For a few moments the room is thickly silent around me, then he comes back and stands watching me. My fingers spread out further on the table; my head lowers a little. He runs a hand down over my bottom and allows his fingers to linger where the material of my skirt stretches across my hips. I involuntarily open my mouth; he slaps me squarely across the arse, making me cry out suddenly.

"Should I carry on?" he asks. I'm not ready to answer straight away, and before I am he wraps his hands hard round my waist, forcing the fingers almost to meet, forcing the breath out of me. My agreement comes out in a whisper.

I'm trying to tell myself not to panic, but just then he starts to spank me and my thoughts lose their words. So do the sounds I make, quickly becoming no more than a series of "Oh"s. Sharp smacks alternate with gentler ones as he rhythmically covers me down to the thighs. I bend my elbows and push towards his hand. He stops, and puts a hand to the chain between the two clamps. He pulls it slightly; I whimper and my fingers grip the edge of the table. He kisses my hair, without letting go, and pauses.

Taking my hands, he turns me round and leans me back against the diagonal cross. I look him in the eye; he answers me, "I think you'll feel better here." Before it occurs to me to say otherwise, he's secured my legs and arms. He walks over to the table and returns with a gag in his hand. He lifts it up in front of my face and says "OK?" I swallow and nod. He doesn't move at that, except to raise his eyebrows. I smile and say "Please?" He steps behind me and I feel the gag against my lips. I open my mouth, but the ball in the middle seems far larger than I expected, as big as an apple although I know it can't be, crushing my tongue down and back. He pulls it firmly into my mouth and tightens the strap behind my head. I almost hyperventilate with the feeling of constriction and invasion, and turn my head, avoiding his eyes.

I want to rub my legs together but they are held wide apart. My body waits for him to begin to touch it again. He seats himself just in front of me and draws my skirt slowly right up, fixing it somehow around my waist. His playful daring of me to go without knickers seems a long time ago, and a hot flush of red spreads across my chest as I see him staring straight at me.

I flinch as he puts his hand to me, sending the clamps and chain swinging and tugging sweetly, his fingers stroking me too gently to satisfy. At last he touches my lips, tracing their swollen outline, but then I immediately crave the next thing: some touch inside me. His fingers go steadily back and forth, until an embarrassing gargling noise comes from behind the gag - from me.

I'm losing it. A trickle of moisture squeezes out of my mouth; some part of my mind tells me that I must look dreadful. I put my head back but the trickle merely changes course to move towards my ear. All of me shakes, a great shudder, and I start to cry. I'm horrified: what if this makes him stop? I can't help myself and the sobs heave up from me as if they have a life of their own.

My brain thinks, "Please, please, please," wanting to feel something, anything, penetrate me.

I'm so focused on his fingers that at first I can't work out what's happening when I feel a warm, wet pressure against my clitoris. His tongue. Little licks, up each side, flicking across the tip, achieve the impossible and make me forget my cunt, so that when he gently slides first one finger and then another, into me, it feels somehow too good. His fingers flex inside me, and I'm beginning to feel I can't breathe enough. I brace my limbs against the restraints and turn my head from side to side, half-moaning, half-screaming. Moments later, or it could have been minutes, I really have no idea how long, he pulls with sudden cruelty at the chain across my breasts.

I start to come. Warm ripples spread down my legs and up my belly, and I feel as though I'm floating. As I regain consciousness, the soreness in my wrists tells me that in fact my knees had buckled and I had just hung there, but the golden tiredness that envelops me blots out this discomfort.

He undoes the cuffs, helps me to a sofa and makes me lie down. Going over to the middle window he draws back the curtains, and in the evening light I sleep.

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