Red Circles

“Excuse me, Miss….”

“That’s Ms. to you” she mumbled, then turned to face him and replied in her clearer customer service voice; “Yes, sir, how may I assist you?”

“Could you direct me to the biography section?”

“900 – Upstairs, to the end of the room on your left. The stairs and lift are over there.”

“Thank you, Miss.” He leaned closer in, then spoke more nervously. “And I just wanted to say – I mean – you should wear hose or pants… or something. They’re pretty obvious, I mean.” He backed away, turned and walked towards the stairs, pausing only for a second to look back at her.

When he had gone, Dalia walked back to the ‘Enquiries’ desk and sat down behind it. He had been the fourth person to comment that day, and it was only early afternoon. She mentally rifled through them.

The first was a man – must have been in his fifties, judging by the greying hair and beard. She had been restacking the shelves in Moral Philosophy when her sixth sense told her of staring eyes – not an uncommon occurence, even in such a prestigious library. She guessed it was natural. Female librarians were supposed to be sexless, hair-in-a-bun robots; they weren’t supposed to wear tight skirts or high heels. He had only said one word, but she felt no attraction to him, so she ignored it; Mr. Could Do With A Good Shave had got the message, and though his eyes continued on her, he didn’t speak again. She wheeled her trolley of books around to Comparative Religion, and out of sight.

The second guy? He had “gay” written all over him; muscles, white T-shirt and blue jeans, blond crewcut – and perhaps the biggest giveaway, the fact he was arm-in-arm with an older executive-type man. He was camply talking to his companion as she walked past – he had suddenly laid a hand on her forearm and said “my dear, I recognise those, and I’d be ashamed of myself if I were you”. She had grinned at him and walked on.

And the third?

“Excuse me?”

Yes, the third… just the thought then had made her shiver inside.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?” Her attention snapped back to the library. A young boy was standing in front of her desk. “Where could I find a book on the Amazon?”

She stood up. “Here, I’ll show you.”

—-

It was on afternoon break that her mind was taken back to where she had left off. The librarians’ ‘staff room’ was a tiny little kitchenette right at the top of the building, with crumbling plaster on the walls and formica that looked like it was straight out of the seventies. Dalia was, however, glad of it; she was alone up here, away from the eyes, away from the constant requests; if only she had a dollar for every time she’d been asked who wrote Harry Potter.

Her little plastic pot of potato salad remained untouched; the coffee machine bubbled away in the background. It was the third person she was thinking about…

The Government Records section was not a busy part of the library, especially not around lunchtime, when the research students had gone off to eat somewhere. She was just tidying up, re-filing, clearing away a couple of coke cans…

“I’ve noticed you here before” said a female voice close behind her. Dalia spun round; a tall black woman, denim jacket and jeans, short hair in a bob. “And today when I noticed you I knew there was something different about you.”

“W…what?”

“Those marks. Displaying them all for the world to see. To those of us who know what we’re looking at, you’re sending out a pretty damn hot set of signals.” The woman crouched, and put a hand around Dalia’s leg. “You’re doing it on purpose, of course. Otherwise you’d either have covered them up, or you would have insisted on using cushioned ones.”

[Back in the staff room, Dalia’s hand crawled up her thigh. The itch in her crotch was needing to be scratched…]

“You didn’t do this yourself? No, of course not,” continued the woman, “so tell me: was it some pathetic man, or were you getting some real action?”

“I…” Dalia felt powerless in front of this woman, like she had been put under a spell.

“Go on, you can tell me.”

“I’m sorry, it was a man.” She blushed.

[Dalia’s fingers went into her panties, and she was softly stroking her lips. She knew she would hear anybody on the stairs long before they came in the room. She pulled her skirt up around her waist, and kept on rubbing as she remembered.]

“A husband? A boyfriend?” demanded the woman, shifting her hand slowly up Dalia’s leg.

“No… I know him over the ‘net. He came over last night.” She knew she would have to confess all. “He told me to answer the door to him wearing only my black sandals. When I did, the first thing he did…”

“Yes?” The woman’s hand was rubbing around her thigh now.

“…was cuff my ankles together. He told me I was his slave, and would hobble around for him. He led me into my apartment, made me make him coffee and bring him something to eat, and all the time I was having to take tiny steps…”

[Dalia’s legs were wide apart, and her fingers were dancing on her clit now: she remembered how helpless she was – both last night and earlier that day.]

“Go on” said the woman, now standing up and looking deep into Dalia’s eyes whilst she caressed her.

“When he was done, he had me kneel on the sofa and stick my ass in the air… he told me I was beautiful but that I needed punishing… he beat my ass with a belt and with his shoe until I cried.”

“And then? Did he fuck you like that?”

[Dalia knew she was getting close, and was going to cum all in her panties soon.]

“With my ass sticking in the air, he rammed it in me so hard… and I was so sore… I don’t know how long he fucked me for”

“And was he saying anything?”

“He was telling me I was a beautiful cuffs-slut, that he was proud of his bitch. And him saying that just made me…” She tailed off.

“You mean cum, bitch?”

[‘Yes! I mean cum!’ she thought]

“Yes. And he fucked me until I couldn’t stand it any more, and he pulled out, pulled his condom off, and spurted all over my ass. He rubbed it in, and it was so sore, but so good.”

[‘Cum!’ cried Dalia inwardly, as she reached her peak, squirting juice all over her hand and into her panties.]

“And you’ll be his bitch now forever?”

“When I woke up today… the cuffs were still on, but… he was gone…” Tears welled up in her eyes. Dalia buried her head in the woman’s shoulder; she felt her hugging her, drawing away the hurt.

—-

Dalia opened her eyes. Still the same staff room. Still the same formica. Still the same coffee machine. But a sticky hand in a pair of sticky panties.

She pulled them down to her ankles – yes, anyone and everyone could see the red chafe marks. She kicked them off, picked them up carefully, and threw them in the trash. She washed her hands at the sink, dried them, then pulled her skirt down and adjusted it to get out the creases. She hoped there wouldn’t be too much of an aroma, but she didn’t have her spare panties in her purse.

Her purse! She reached over for it, opened it, and drew out a card. She read the hurried writing on it. “Oona. 793-6342. Bring Cuffs.” And she knew she’d be calling as soon as she left the library.