Dominated by the Librarian #3: 'Surrender to Obey' (male submission erotica) (2 page)

“Really?”
Dave stopped dead in his tracks the street. His face lit up.

“Yeah, really,” I said. “And I think she’s into bondage. Now let’s go and get a beer, this weather is horrible!”

The rest of the week seemed to drag forward in slow motion.

Dave called me and told me that his date with the intimidating shop assistant had gone quite well and that they would see each other again. He seemed to be rather smitten and never wanted to hang up or stop talking about her. I knew that he hadn’t had a serious date for over a year, so I was happy for him and hoped that it would work out between them.

On Tuesday I had a meeting with my boss to discuss the possibility to get promoted to senior graphic designer, an opportunity that only a couple of years ago would have me celebrating madly, but these days I’d to pretend to be pleasantly surprised and managed at least to say something appropriated like “how thrilled I was over this development,” hopefully without looking too nauseated by my own faked theatre.

My job as a graphic designer was still a reasonably hip job that paid fairy well and I had an office in inner London, so I shouldn’t complain. It paid the mortgage and let me led a cool and trendy life in London, but with time I had come to understand that it also
–
with a brutal efficiently
–
was killing my creativity.

It wasn’t what I had dreamt about ten years ago when I started art school, but things could have gone considerately worse, I reasoned. I still had friends from collage that worked as a telemarketing assistant during the evenings to support their hippie art lifestyle and painted during the days. They were completely ignorant over the fact that they never would be “discovered” one day. Some days however, I envied them.

Nevertheless, the days moved forward and finally Thursday arrived.

I left the office early, taking the advancement of the last of the beautiful sunny day to walk through Hyde Park to the underground station. It would take me ten minutes extra than to just head to the closest underground and change train to Central line, but I wanted to see at least a little of the sun and not only from my office window, before it disappeared. In late October in England sunny days were few and far in between.

I picked up a bouquet of roses on my way home. I wasn’t sure if she was the kind of girl who liked roses, but most girls did. And although she most certainly wasn’t like most girls I had dated before, I figure out that all women (regardless of which planet they came from) liked roses. I felt a little bit ridiculous for choosing warm orange-red roses that would match her hair, but I couldn’t help myself.

After a quick shower at home to wash away the stress from the busy day at work I left my flat and headed over to the library. I had unwrapped the items from the ghastly pink wrapping paper that the evil shop assistant had insisted on “since it was a present for my girlfriend” and replaced the boxes directly in the shopping bag, which was sophisticated discrete with only the initial of the shop name printed in black on the grey thick, glossy paper bag.

I wasn’t completely sure what Eleanor had in mind for the evening and I had spent the better part of the week wondering if she wanted to have dinner with me or if she would simply ravish me in her little car on the parking lot. The latter idea beckoned at me, but I wouldn’t mind a film and dinner either. I had come to realize
–much to my own surprise–
that I would like to know more about her. Usually I don’t care that much about my casual partners, but Eleanor was different, although I couldn’t figure out why.

I even went so far that I tried to find information about her online late at night in front of my computer. There were quite a few “Eleanor Marston” listed in the white pages, but the library didn’t have an employer’s register online, which was slightly annoying. I was pretty sure that Dave could find more information about her, but I was unwilling to admit to him who she was and tell him the whole story, plus that I didn’t want to appear too curious or creepy. “Stalker boy” was a description I rather tried to avoid.

I crossed the park by the library and I saw her before she saw me. She was leaning against her car, reading. It made me smile.

Of course she was reading!
I thought to myself.

She was wearing a different coat this evening, a deep red perfectly tailored knee-length wool coat that matched her hair. It enhanced her hourglass feminine body and nearly covered the edge of her grey tweed pencil skirt. Although the pencil shirt reached a couple of inches below her knees, it still managed somehow to be quite sexy in a strange way, perhaps because of the way it moulded itself around her curvy hips or because it, together with her grey high heels, enhanced her sensual legs. I would bet anything that she was wearing a matching grey jacket with suede elbow patches and a blouse underneath the cashmere coat.

I tried and fail not to let my glance linger at her legs and the edge of her skirt, unable stop thinking about last time when I had hitched her skirt up to her hips when she finally, breathless and sweaty, had ordered me to take her then and there on the library’s counter. I bit my lip, deciding to get carried away by the memory.

The truth was that she had a timeless beauty and a sensual body that would look disturbingly attractive wearing anything. Somehow she reminded me vaguely of what a red haired Marilyn Monroe dressed in tweed would have looked like.

She had braided her hair into a thick braid that fell down her shoulder, but a couple of loose strands of her red flaming hair had escaped and was dancing in the wind slowly.

She was leaning against a sleek little sports car. Eleanor drove
–
much to my vast astonishment
–
a cream-coloured small convertible Porsche, which seemed rather strange to me.

First of all because as far as I knew it was a ridiculously expensive car, not to mention what the car parking fees were like in London and it surprised me that she could afford it with the salary from being a librarian.

And second of all... well... for me convertible sports cars were in general owned by short men that needed to compensate for something and
not
by curvy women dressed in tweed.

In conclusion, it added to the fog of mystery that surrounded her and the only conclusion I could come up with was that she must have borrowed it from a friend.

But what kind of friends did a librarian had than owed a Porsche?
The logical part of my brain wondered, but I had no answers to that.

She heard me when I came closer and looked up. Deliberately slowly and with a small smile that made my heart skip not one but several beats, she returned the worn leather book mark in between the pages of her book. I tried to catch the title of the book, before she put it back into her handbag, but I missed it.

“Well, well...” she started to say.

And then everything happened very quickly.

It was only pure dumb luck that I happened to look behind her and saw the dark blue car with turned off headlights creeping slowly forward, towards her.

“I think
–
” I started to say.

Then suddenly with a roar, the dark blue car accelerated with an incredible speed and drove directly towards her!

I reacted instinctively, without analyzing what was happening or why. Without any finesse or gentlemanly delicacy, I ran straight towards Eleanor and roughly tackled her over the low edge of the convertible car door.

The other car missed her with only a few inches. The fender of the car hit my ankle, which instantly went numb and I felt slightly nauseated as the pain slowly started to bloom and spread along my leg. We tumbled down on the front seat, together with the roses and the paper shopping bag and all.

“What the he
–
” Eleanor started to say, but then she saw the other car.

As I watched, the dark blue car was turning around and was coming towards us again from the side. Clearly the intention of the driver was to ram its car against the side of our car. I could only guess that the result would be... brutally efficient and messy. Small sports car weren’t really famous for being sturdy.

Eleanor however reacted much faster than I did and tried to push me over the other seat. Before I knew it she had turned the engine key and stepped hard on the gas pedal, making the tyres scream.

“Go, go,
go
!” I shouted very close to panic.

Eleanor clenched her jaw and with a sharp U-turn that would have made any formula one driver proud we tore away from the car park with the other car in close pursue behind us.

I forgot all about the pain radiating from my ankle as my first priority suddenly became getting the seat belt on. As I struggled with the seat belt frantically, it suddenly occurred to me, that there was a very logical reason why a woman would priorities owning a sports car: She liked to drive
fast.

And she really drove like all hell was loose behind us and the small sports car was almost airborne when she drove up on the A40 motor way, leaving screaming pedestrians and a swearing delivery cyclist behind.

Afterwards I’m willing to admit that I lost count on how many near-death experiences I had during that mad trip. Eleanor must have broken at least half of all of the traffic rules that were
ever invented and it was a miracle that no one got harmed or that we weren’t stopped by the police.

Her car number was most likely photographed only God knows how many times and it was crystal clear that she was going to lose her licence after this and could look forward to heft fees.
Or worse.

That however, didn’t really seem to bother her at all.

She focused only on the driving, and the only thing she did, except clenching her jaw harder until I saw the muscles work under the skin, was checking the back mirror repeatedly. The other car was still pretty close, although the driver didn’t seem to have the same reckless knack for cutting in between the traffic. Also, Eleanor’s disregard for not being afraid of driving high up on the hard shoulders had earned her an increasingly lead.

It wasn’t that she was bending the
Highway Code a little. In fact, I can’t even describe it as she was breaking the rules. I would more like to say that she simply just royally screwed them.

“What the
hell
is going on?” I demanded to know after another razor-close collision with a small red Honda.

“Can’t talk right now,” she said, her eyes never leaving the road and then she added with only a fraction of a second as a warning, “Okay, hold on now!”

The seatbelt locked itself immediately and dug into my shoulder as she turned sharply and mercilessly crossed the grass-clad median between the lanes.

The Porsche made a strangled mechanical sound in protest that merged well together with my swearing protests, but Eleanor didn’t care. She ruthlessly drove on.

Two more uncomfortable bumps later that made my teeth hurt and we were in the opposite lane, leaving a traffic mess behind us that would take hours to clear up.

“Bugger,” she commented and in the side mirror I saw the dark blue car crossing the lanes too, albeit with a lesser death wish than Eleanor seemed to possess. The gap between us was larger now, but the other car was still after us.

There was less traffic going in to London, which I first made the mistake of thinking was a good thing. I should have known better, of course.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

I coughed as a reply, trying to figure out how many ribs the seatbelt must have broken.

“Sure,” I said.

She threw me a quick smile. It was a mad smile, filled with promises of certain death within shortly.

“Let’s go fast,” she said, almost calmly.

In that instant, she scared me actually and she reminded me oddly of a Mary-
Poppins
-on-drugs.

The traffic was less intense, so instead of zigzagging in between the chocked docile commuters, Eleanor simply floored it.

And, let me tell you this: After that day I can never watch another “Fast and Furious” movie without feeling both queasy and ridiculously happy to be alive.

She didn’t wait for me to answered, but when the speed meter started reaching 150 mph, I’ll admit that I started wondering why I hadn’t sorted out my will.

I bargained silently with any higher deity that may be listening, promising to leave my IKEA furniture to charity and let the money from the flat go to an animal shelter.

Surely God will not let me die if I’m willing to save abandoned kittens and mistreated dogs?
I wondered and closed my eyes, while I mentally reminded Fate that since I haven’t actually
written
my will yet, all my money would probably go to my sister in Leicester.

Because
–
airbags or no airbags!
–
if we crashed now, I
knew
that I wouldn’t survive.

“I lost them,” she concluded after what seemed like an eternity.