1. The Dewey Decimate System (Cracking Her Code)
You hadn’t thought you had a problem—not a real one, anyway. Sure, your therapist had used words like ‘compulsion’ and ‘reckless impulse’, but you’d brushed them off. That was why her suggestion—a trip to the library—had seemed so laughably benign.
You’d expected to leave with some dry, clinical manual on impulse control, something to skim and discard. But the moment you murmured your request to the librarian—“The Carnivore’s Guide to Sexual Addiction”—her fingers froze mid-keystroke.
Aileen was the kind of woman who made herself invisible: sensible dresses brushing just below the knee, hair an afterthought of unimpressive neglect, glasses perched like armor. Yet behind those lenses, her eyes—wide and startled—darted to yours before flicking away, as if she’d been caught doing something illicit.
“F-Fiction or N-Non-F-Fiction?” she whispered, voice stuttering with embarrassment. You leaned in, elbows on the desk, close enough to watch her throat tighten around a choked swallow. “Definitely Non-Fiction,” you uttered. “I’m told I have a problem.” Her lips parted, tongue wetting them—a reflex, an admission. You didn’t miss the way her thighs pressed together under that demure fabric, nor the tremor in her fingers as they hovered above the keys.
The tension was palpable. The hum of the library’s fluorescents suddenly became deafening. She should’ve pulled up the catalog, should’ve recited some sterile “Let me check our system” and shuttered her expression. Instead, she held your gaze a beat too long, her paralyzed lungs struggling to draw in air.
“I-I’ll…. h-have to retrieve that f-from Special C-Collections,” she murmured, voice barely audible. The way she said it—like it was a secret, like she was already complicit—sent a thrill down your spine. You smiled, slow and knowing. “I’ll follow.” And as she stood, she tugged at her dress clinging to the backs of her thighs. You let your eyes trace the curves of her ass. The hunt was over before it even began.
2. Stacked Fiction (And Stacked Truths)
Aileen led you deeper into the library’s labyrinth, her sensible wedges whispering against the carpet like a guilty secret. Every step betrayed her—the way her modest dress clung to the curve of her hips, the way the lights caught the lace edges of her bra through thin fabric. You memorized the rhythm of her breath, the nervous hitch when she sensed your shadow fall across her shoulders.
She stopped abruptly at a shelf labeled “Self-Help: Compulsions,” fingers nervously fluttering over the spines like a sinner at confession. “I-It’s, um… s-somewhere here,” she pleaded more than announced. You didn’t glance at the books. The real compulsion stood right beside you, her pulse pounding in her throat, lips bitten red with restraint.
“Do you ever read these, Aileen?” The question was innocently sinister. Her breath stuttered—“N-No. O-Of c-course not”—but her body arched infinitesimally closer, drawn to the heat of your proximity. “Liar.” You crowded her against the shelf, your arm brushing hers as you reached past, deliberate as a predator circling prey.
Something dark, something hungry, flooded your senses. She didn’t retreat. Her tongue desperately made a futile attempt to moisten her parched lips, and the surrender in that tiny moment sent fire licking through your veins. “You’re curious,” you advised. She didn’t deny it. The whimper she stifled was all the answer you needed.
3. Overdue Notices (And Overdue Desires)
You crowded her against the shelf, the ancient wood creaking as she backed into it, your heat searing through the careful distance she’d tried to maintain. The scent of her—arousal and fear—flooded the narrow aisle, and you inhaled deeply, committing it to memory. “You looked aroused when I said the title,” you stated plainly.
Her eyes dropped in silent knowing admission. “Your nipples went hard the second you understood.” Her gasp dissolved into a moan as your knee parted her thighs, her dress whispering its surrender. “I-I d-don’t—” “You do,” you corrected, fingers tracing her ribs, “and you’re terrified of how much you want this.”
Her breath caught as her fingers clawed at the shelf behind her back. You dragged your gaze down her body, lingering where her dress stretched taut over heaving breasts. “What color are your panties, Aileen?” A choked noise escaped her—”Th-that’s—in-inappropriate—”—but her thighs trembled, betraying her in useless denial. “But you’ll tell me anyway.”
Silence, then a whisper: “…B-Black.” You laughed, low and wicked, a stinging punctuation to her humiliation. “Predictable and boring. Just like the lies you tell yourself.” The first chime of the library’s antique clock shattered the silence, and in her widened eyes you saw it—not just fear, but pure panic, and something far more dangerous—hunger.
4. Reference Desk (And Reference Points)
She shuddered when you stepped back, her body swaying forward with gravitational pull, her lips parting around a silent plea. “Do you touch yourself, Aileen?” Your voice sliced through her composure. Her moan escaped before she could cage it—soft, desperate, honest. “N-Never.” You laughed, the sound dark with triumph, your thumb brushing the frantic pulse at her throat. “Another lie.”
Your other hand skimmed below the beltline of her dress, not lifting it—not yet—just letting her imagine what came next. “You’re dripping right now. I could smell it the moment I walked in.” Her silence was louder than any confession, her hips tilting forward in unconscious invitation.
The library held its breath around you—dust motes suspended in the dim lighting, the scent of aging paper laced with something sweeter, hungrier. Shadows crept up the walls as she pressed herself back against the shelf. “Tell me,” you breathed hot against her face. “Do you dream about this? About being pinned between the stacks, your skirt shoved up, my hand over your mouth to keep you quiet?” A whimper tore from her throat, her thighs trembling as they squeezed together—too late to hide the truth.
“Or do you just lie awake feeling the ache between your legs, praying for relief?” Her gasp was your reward, her body thrashing against the shelf as if electrocuted. A book tumbled to the floor with a gunshot crack that echoed through the tranquil library, a punctuation mark to her surrender.
5. Special Collections (And Special Reactions)
Your fingers danced over her dress, feeling the waistband of her panties, tracing slow circles on the overheated skin below her belly, not yet venturing lower but promising what was to come. A dark chuckle vibrated through you when she gasped—that delicious, involuntary sound she couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly she pressed her lips together. “Still pretending you’re not soaking wet?” you murmured, watching the way her pupils swallowed the last fragments of reason in her eyes.
Her hips gave the truest answer, that tiny, reflexive jerk forward that made you smirk knowingly. The library’s hush magnified every hitched breath, every whisper of fabric as she squirmed, the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock counting down to her inevitable collapse.
Time stood still between you as she hovered on the precipice, her fingers still grasping for purchase. You could see the exact moment her resistance unraveled in exquisite detail—the desperate swallow, the way her lashes fluttered shut, the slight tremble of her lower lip before her head rested back against the shelf with a quiet thud. “…I-I am w-wet.”
The confession slipped out like a stolen secret, sending a current of triumph through you. You leaned in, close enough for your lips to brush the shell of her ear as you whispered, “Good girl.” The shudder that wracked her body was more satisfying than any touch, proof that you’d already ruined her with nothing but words and the barest hint of contact. This was her first page of a much longer story.
6. The Binding of Books (And Her Inhibitions)
You left her trembling against the shelf, her fingerprints staining the wood grain, evidence of her demise. “My house. Tonight. After close.” The command sliced through her weak protest—“I-I c-can’t—”—as your finger silenced her lips. “You can,” you corrected, voice dropping to a whisper that curled around her like smoke, “and you will.”
Her breath stopped, lips parting around unspoken arguments that died the moment your touch grazed her throat. The quiet magnified her every shaky exhale, every shift of fabric—her body betraying her long before she’d admit it.
Stepping back cautiously, you earnestly watched the war play out across her face—the bite of her lip, the dilation of her pupils swallowing every last pretense of resistance. The air between you crackled with anticipation, thick with everything she wouldn’t say.
You turned without another word, the echo of your demand lingering the stacks. Behind you, more books thudded to the floor—her trembling hands losing their grip—and you smiled. No need to look back. The panicky sounds of her skittishness told you everything. She’d come. Begging.
7. Late Fees (And Later Consequences)
The clock ticked 9:03 exactly when her silhouette appeared in your doorway, backlit by the streetlamp’s amber glow. Her fingers clutched her bag like a lifeline, knuckles bleached white with tension. You didn’t rise from your armchair, just swirled the whiskey in your glass, watching the liquid catch the light as you issued your first command: “Undress. Slowly.”
The weight of your words pressed down on her like a leaden bookplate, crushing. You savored the panic raging behind her expressionless stare. Stuttered breath, eyes dampened with unshed tears, lower lip trembling—that delicious hesitation before obedience. The first button slipped free with barely a whisper of fabric, revealing a crescent of pale skin spilling from black lace, exactly as you’d imagined while she shelved books just out of reach.
Each revealed inch was a victory—the tremble in her fingers as she pushed the dress from her shoulders and shimmied it over her hips, the way her breath hitched when cool air met damp skin. You drained your glass, the burn of liquor sharp against your tongue as the dress pooled around her ankles. “Bra and panties too.” When she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, you set the glass down with a decisive click. “Hands at your sides.”
Her whimper curled through the room as she obeyed, exposing the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her peaked nipples straining impotently in exasperation. The whiskey’s warmth was nothing compared to the heat coiling in your gut at the sight of her—your prim and proper librarian, humiliated, reduced to trembling skin and surrendered pride, standing at attention like a well-trained pet.
8. Open Shelving (And Open Thighs)
You stretched in the chair, re-pouring whiskey into your glass as she stood before you—exposed, vulnerable, deliciously undone, heat sparking off her skin. “Tell me your deepest fantasy.” The command was magnetic, an unbreakable force connecting her to you. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, a feeble attempt to hide the truth her body already betrayed. “I-I don’t have a-any—” you let the lie linger, watching her squirm under your gaze until it crumbled.
The silence stretched, broken only by the sharp tick of the clock and her ragged breathing. Then, barely audible—“…B-Being w-watched.” The confession escaped before she could stop it, her eyes darting away as if the walls might judge her. Your grin was a flash of teeth in the dim light. “At the library?” Her nod was almost imperceptible, the flush creeping down her chest answer enough.
The vision unfolded in your mind with perfect clarity—Aileen bent over the reference desk, stifling those pretty little whimpers as patrons browsed nearby. You set your glass down with deliberate slowness, the clink making her jump. “Good girl.” The praise dripped from your tongue, and her body answered before her mind could—shuddering, nipples straining even harder beneath your gaze.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, but you could see it anyway: the fantasy she’d replayed in secret—the risk of discovery, the thrill of exposure, dresses lifted, of her own fingers exploring as she struggled to stay quiet. Rising from the chair, you closed the distance between you in two strides, your breath hot against her ear. “We’ll start tomorrow. Between the stacks during the children’s reading hour where anyone could see.” Her choked swallow was your reward, her body already thrumming with anticipation.
9. The Erotic Catalog (Of Her Body)
The praise coiled around her like a binding spell—“Good girl”—wrapping around her as tight as your fingers soon would. “Listen carefully,” you continued, watching her pupils blow wide at the promise, “you’ll tease that pretty clit to the edge, and no farther—slow, deliberate strokes—but you won’t come until you arrive back here and I say so.”
Her gasp was knife-sharp, desperate, equal parts protest and plea, but obedient. “Y-you—you c-can’t mean—” she protested weakly, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her, the way her thighs clenched around where your hand should be, giving her away completely. You drank in every twitch, every stifled moan—her body already answering to you better than her words ever could.
“I absolutely do.” Your grip twisted in her hair, wrenching her head back until her throat arched in surrender like the spine of an open book. “You’ll love it,” you promised as she struggled to breathe. “Count every stroke, knowing the volunteers could discover you at any moment.” Her whimper was her body’s silent plea, pure music to your ears, as she pressed against you—not to escape, but to seek more.
“Then you’ll transcribe every failure in that little black notebook—” your thumb pressed against her parted lips “—and relive each second when you should be re-shelving biographies.” When you released her, she sank to her knees without command. Her notebook would bear witness tomorrow. The transformation was complete: where the prim and proper librarian had stood now knelt your masterpiece—thighs glistening with want, utterly ruined, radiant, and so irrevocably yours.
10. Due Date (And Overdue Pleasure)
You cupped her chin, tilting her face up to meet your gaze. The first pinch of your fingers on her nipples drew a broken moan from her lips, her spine arching off the bed like a snapped tree limb. “You were made for this, you know” you snarled, rolling the stiffened peak until her breath came in sharp gasps. “Made to take whatever I give you.”
Her skin burned under your hands, every inch of her trembling with need, her thighs glistening with proof of how thoroughly she’d broken. “Let me show you. You’ll do it like this.” You dragged her to the edge with merciless precision—fingers working her clit in tight circles, teeth marking the pale column of her throat—only to pull away each time her body tensed for release. “P-Please—” she sobbed, her fingers twisting in the sheets like she might tear them apart.
“Please what?” you demanded, your thumb grinding down on her swollen clit. The words tore from her throat like a confession: “R-Ruin m-me.” And so you did. The first thrust buried you to the hilt, her tight heat fluttering around you like a panicked bird. She came with a scream that shook the windows, her body convulsing like a woman possessed. You didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t soften.
You didn’t let her catch her breath, just fucked her through wave after wave until her cries turned hoarse and her limbs went limp. Afterward, you traced the bruises darkening on her hips, the marks on her breasts, the sticky evidence between her thighs. “Mine,” you declared against her sweat-salted skin, and she nodded weakly, boneless and wrecked. Her whimper of agreement was the last page torn from a well-worn novel. The prim and proper librarian facade was in ashes, trembling. All that remained was this: a creature of pure need.
11. Circulation Desk (And Circulating Fluids)
She returned the next evening. And the next. By the third night, she arrived at your doorstep with trembling hands and damp cotton clinging to her thighs, whispering confessions between ragged breaths—“A-A patron in C-Classics… s-st-stared down my b-blouse when I dropped my p-pen…. I-I had to b-bite my cheek to k-keep from m-moaning.” Your fingers traced the soaked fabric, dragging a whimper from her throat.
“Did you like it?” you murmured, “When they look at you like some rare manuscript they want to defile?” Her nod came too fast, hips canting forward against your hand. “Tomorrow,” you promised, sealing the threat with a kiss, tasting her shame and arousal, “you’ll edge yourself in the newspaper archives until your thighs shake. Until you forget how to be quiet.”
Her moan vibrated against your lips—not in protest, but relief. The transformation was complete, even at the library—your once-timid librarian now trembled with every glance, every interaction now conjuring sexual pleasure, gasps now spilling out freely, unable to be contained. Her body had become a living contradiction: torn between pleasure and punishment.
You watched her unravel, lips swollen, pupils blown black with need. When you demanded “Answer me,” her "Y-Yes, s-sir" came without hesitation. The praise that followed, “Good girl,” sent a tremor through her and she shuddered violently, already addicted to the way your words penetrated her. Somewhere across town, the library stood silent in the moonlight, its shelves holding their breath. Waiting.
12. Permanent Collection (Of Your New Pet)
You sculpted her with equal parts punishment and praise—bruising her until tears streaked her flushed cheeks, then your kisses wiping away every sting until she forgot her own name. Her body became your most studied text, every twitch and gasp a footnote to be annotated. The little black notebook she carried documented each transgression in smudged ink.
You’d peel back the pages, reminding her of each, your voice slow and deliberate as her breathing turned ragged: /Tuesday, 3:17 PM—Rubbed circles through my skirt in Biography, nearly came when someone walked by./ “Twenty-seven violations this week,” you’d muse, snapping the book shut to watch her flinch. “What do good girls deserve?”
Her answer always came between whimpers—“P-Please”— but you gave her better than forgiveness. A new command hissed against her throat: “Tomorrow you’ll edge in the periodicals reading lounge during the faculty tour.” Her moan shook with equal parts terror and want.
This was the true reward—not absolution, but another chance to fracture. Another test where her body would betray her long before her mind surrendered. The notebook’s pages would write themselves.
13. Final Edition (Of Her Old Self)
The faculty tour became her final undoing. Pressed between the periodicals and her insistent relentless fingers, not able to contain the rising floodwaters, she shattered with a scream that echoed through the stacks—her notebook tumbling to the floor, pages splayed open to damning evidence of every transgression. You were watching. As was everybody else.
That night, you made her pay in aching script, forcing confession after confession until the pen slipped from her cramping fingers. Your bed creaked beneath her during her proper punishment, each thrust carving the lesson deeper than ink ever could. Yet when her trembling form curled against you afterward, it wasn’t pleasure that shaped her whispered “Th-Thank y-you”—but gratitude for seeing that feral thing lurking below her demure dresses, for feeding it into a frenzy, and then setting it free.
Your kiss sealed the punishment on her damp skin. Where once stood a young woman who once flinched at eye contact, now lay your creation—a broken mess of mental anguish and bruises, her old life overdue and forgotten.
Somewhere between the library and your bed, the old Aileen had been checked out permanently—her due date long expired. Your collection of library stamps glowed red hot on her soul:
OWNERSHIP SURRENDERED. CLAIMED PROPERTY. HELD IN PERPETUITY.
14. Unrestricted Access (To Her Submission)
She had become your most devoted patron, arriving each evening with the overdue volume clutched to her chest—its gutted pages cradling the proof of her devotion— or rather, obsession. The crimson flush creeping over her body when you discover them fuels your rewards: vicious praise whispered like an overdue notice, your palm stamping PAYMENT DUE across her backside in sharp, stinging blows.
You exacted payment. You make her pay for each late return with a sudden surge of cruelty, each one memorializing how she touched herself, replaying your last command.
Initially, patrons see only what they expect—the mousy librarian with trembling fingers as she re-shelves texts, the way she startles when brushed past in the narrow aisles. They miss what you’ve cataloged in intimate detail—where once were cross-references now live only your instructions, where due dates once mattered now exists only your perpetual loan.
You’ve reclassified her entire existence. Every interaction across the reference desk thrums with this shared knowledge. The irony isn’t lost on you—the library’s most fastidious keeper of secrets, now its most deliciously compromised. After all… what good is a librarian who can’t keep her voice down?
15. Happy Endings (And Hungry Beginnings)
No one suspects the library’s most unassuming employee now glides through the stacks with calculated motive. Where once she moved with mousy hesitation, now there’s a deliberate sway to her hips, intentionally lingering far too long when she senses watching eyes, the neckline of her blouse gaping open when she bends forward.
Patrons rub their necks and look away awkwardly at first; the bold ones get treated to an eyeful of bra and panty when she “accidentally” drops her book cart tags. You observe your creation as she performs this ballet of temptation. You see her fingers brush along that shelf, the exact spot where you first broke her—that fateful shelf now permanently marked with her fingerprints.
To any casual observer, nothing is amiss. Just a diligent librarian at work, albeit one who bites her lip and stutters with peculiar frequency when helping male patrons. But you know her every tell: how fingertips brush absently over her breast in the stacks where you first made her come, how clasped hands lock between her thighs when she recalls your hand on her throat. Every gesture, every hesitation, is a silent plea—one only you are meant to hear.
The library’s pristine silence has become her stage, every whispered “C-Can I help you f-find s-something?” dripping with double entendre. Let the others see only the cardigan and pencil skirts—you alone appreciate the masterpiece you’ve created: a woman who catalogs by day and comes apart screaming by night.
16. Archival Evidence (Of New Arrivals)
The black notebook sat perfectly centered on the reference desk, its edges worn soft from months of clandestine use. Emily—the new archivist fresh from her graduate program—hesitated before flipping it open, freezing as she read her first random entry in elegant, feverish script: /Thursday, 6:47 PM, Special Collections—Sooo horny, being watched, I lifted my dress and rubbed my clit raw. Thought about his hands the whole time./
Aileen watched from the circulation desk, her pencil hovering above donation logs as Emily’s fingers trembled across the pages. Her throat worked visibly into a difficult swallow when she reached that next passage—the one detailing how Aileen had once come apart in the rare books room, leaving her stains on rare nineteenth-century leather bindings.
By the time Emily snapped the journal shut with trembling hands, her chest rose and fell too quickly beneath her prim blouse. Aileen tracked the girl’s frantic gaze as it darted across the crowded library—searching for the phantom man who’d turned their most proper colleague into this sinful creature.
Aileen bit her lip to stifle a moan as the girl looked around—searching for concealment. Emily hurriedly retreated into the stacks, the notebook clutched to her chest like a shameful prize, the unconscious way her free hand kept nervously smoothing her skirt every few steps. Somewhere in the shadows, you watched too. And you always collected what was yours.
The new archivist didn’t know about you yet. But she would.