Taming The Librarian

We were nursing drinks at the hotel lounge when the mousey girl came in—soft-spoken, skirt just past the knee, clearly ready to call it a night. Shay caught my glance and gave the smallest nod. We offered to buy her a round; she shook her head, murmuring about an early seminar. Then we dangled the view from our penthouse. Curiosity won. Upstairs, we framed her on the long leather couch and let our hands wander. She flinched upright, face hot. “Perverted bitches,” she hissed, heading for the elevator. I blocked the door, apologized, promised we were harmless but wanted one last look at something special. She waited. From the drawer I lifted the old pendant, the one that catches light like a fishhook. “Watch it,” I said. Her eyes followed the slow arc until the lids grew heavy, breath slowed. “You’re getting wet,” I told her. “Say it.” “Wet… Mistress.” She said it like a secret. We stripped her, pushed her onto the cool sheets. Shay pried her knees apart; my tongue traced the sweet fold where her thighs met. She gasped but didn’t close her legs. I worked two fingers inside, curled them once, and she coated my knuckles in a sudden, clear rush. Humiliation flushed across her face even as her hips pushed forward. Shay pressed the smaller plug between her cheeks, slicked it in place with her tongue until the tight ring gave way. When the bigger toy followed, that smooth metronome of pressure made her leak fresh rivulets down her crack. Each thrust drew another tremor, another blush, another whispered, “Mistress, please.” She came again, thighs shaking, mouth open but silent until we allowed the scream. Later, she knelt between us, tongue warm and trembling against skin we had already marked, learning the slow rhythm we set for her. At the door, still glassy-eyed, she asked quietly when we would summon her again. We simply closed the latch behind her.