Truenyfreak
truenyfreak@yahoo.com
Library Fun
libraryf.txt
BDSM/Spanking
Spanking/Ageplay/Public Play

I drive to our predetermined rendezvous location, the main branch of the DC
library. It is nestled amongst other impressively designed and historic
buildings, but largely forgotten by the masses in these advanced times of the
internet and the information superhighway.

But it still serves a laudable and worthwhile purpose to some. For those who can
appreciate and relish the tactile sensation large wooden tables and chairs
offer, to who the deep, earthy, paper smell that aged books offer, such
antiquated places are a refuge, distinct and apart from this modernistic,
hurried age.

While, even at this young age, I can appreciate such traits and notions, today,
I use this site for far less noble reasons. It is to enjoy a visceral pleasure,
seized privately within a public place.

As I arrive, park and stride towards the strangely gothic entrance doors, I
tingle in anticipation, awash in adrenaline, but, as usual, I am calm. I enter,
walk briskly towards the rear staircase and with long legs take two at a time
until I crest the top and proceed towards the rear, southeastern corner of the
floor, which is reserved for encyclopedias. Almost as forgotten as Beta VCR
tapes, volumes and volumes of leather bound editions sit gathering dust on
shelves, vestigial remains of a once computer-less society.

The once large area has now been relegated to a small corner, almost entirely
obscured from other patrons by large, wooden bookcases. In the middle of the
area sits a formidable oak table, advanced in years but seemingly unperturbed by
time, save for a few battle scars, earned in previous daily wars with bored
schoolchildren with sharp improvised carving devices. Around it are equally
substantial chairs, each broad and straight-backed, with wide, heavy legs and
lacking armrests, as if comfort was not only ignored by its designer, but
rather, considered undesirable.

It is here I find you, as instructed, sitting quietly within one of the
uncomfortable chairs, your small frame made smaller by its size, apparently
engrossed in one of the aforementioned editions. You are dressed as we
discussed, in complete schoolgirl regalia. My approving eyes begin to take you
all in, starting at the head, with your hair styled appropriately in two long,
symmetrical pigtails, adorned at the top of each with red and black bows. Your
blouse is white, crisply starched and buttoned tightly to your neck. Your skirt,
a red and black plaid mix, falls mid-thigh as you sit, and white knee-high socks
cover shapely calves. Black dress shoes cover your feet, each with a shiny
brass-looking buckle on top.

You look to all the world like an earnest young schoolgirl, entering into
womanhood, yet still, in her senior year of high school, saddled with a
restrictive dress code.

I approach from your right, in an apparent attempt to squeeze by tall frame
between your chair and a bookcase. Mid attempt I am surprised and shocked to
find your true reading material, a Playgirl magazine, secreted in the pages of
your Britannica A-B edition, opened to the centerfold. It appears almost
weathered, as if many repeated evacuations from under a mattress or other hiding
place had taken its toll.

You attempt to quickly prevent its observation by shutting the book, nervously
and hurriedly slamming it closed, the sound of which rises and joins the low
roar coming from the other diagonal northwest corner of the room, filled with
patrons enjoying periodicals.

"Shame on you, I saw that! Have you no decency! This is a place of learning,
knowledge and discovery, not a den of iniquity!" I saw sternly, brows furrowed.
You attempt to stammer a reply, but I continue.

"You should be ashamed! Stand up, what school are you from?" You go on to
stutter some nearby catholic school, but again, I cut you off as you rise to
your feet, trembling.

"Silence child! I must determine a fitting punishment! Shall I call your
school's dean? Or better yet, your parents? Perhaps both should be made aware of
your taste in reading materials!"

"Please Mr., I am sorry." you stammer, shaking your head.

I sit down, appearing to mull over possibilities, and to determine a course of
action. After gazing at you with peering, unemotional eyes, I tell you to come
to me. You do, hesitantly but worried of the ramifications refusal would bring.
In a swift, unexpected movement I bring you down over my knees, powerfully and
skillfully, and you gasp as you find yourself in such a position of
vulnerability.

You mind reels from your predicament. Discovered viewing a dirty magazine, you
are now as a result, straddling the knees of the stranger who caught you,
upstairs in a public library, obviously about to be spanked, or who knows what
else. But your fear mixes inextricably with excitement, arousal and
anticipation. Unable to gather your thoughts and emotions, and voice dissent,
you remain obedient, and wait for my next move.

As you wait I smile, and raise your skirt to your waist, revealing white
panties, that have ridden up into you during the brief commotion. I lower them
to your knees, in effect using them as a restraint device and thus keeping your
knees bond together.

I pause momentarily, relishing your state, nervously twitching, breath rate
elevated, teeth tightly clenched. I smack your shapely bare bottom, my darker
skinned hand forming a delicious contrast to your pale skin. The smack was a
moderate one, but stilled caused you to gasp out in an eclectic mix of surprise,
pain and...dare I say.enjoyment? Another such blow follows, then another, in
quick succession, causing your cheeks to ripple and redden seductively as a
result. You begin yelping in symphony with each blow, short, quick sharp sounds
that risk bringing undo attention to your discipline. Thus, I pause in the
smacks to grasp your panties, and over one leg at a time, remove them. The
momentary lapse in our escapade provides me an opportunity to enjoy your
breathing, which is heavier now, exaggerated against my thighs as you cope with
the events unfolding. Calmly, and with an even tone I inform you.

"Remain still. You have done well and are almost finished with your punishment."

With panties in hand, I twist them around until they resemble a perverted white
cloth version of the red Twizzler candy. I then reach around and insert between
your clenched teeth, unimpeded by your brief wordless protest. They serve their
purpose well, as when I resume spanking you, clenched teeth as opposed to
yelping utterances is the pleasing result. You feel my sex hardening in arousal
under your stomach, stretched along my thigh, encased within my slacks,
throbbing and heated.

Smack upon smack continues until your bottom is bright red, and a few
discernable handprints can be seen upon the tender, sore flesh. With care and
soothing tones, I ask you to rise, and pull down your skirt to its proper
height. I remove your underwear from your mouth, smiling as I see your teeth
marks have made visible indentations within the soft cotton fabric. I tell you,
again with soft, approving tones, to raise one leg. You do, steadying yourself
with one unsure, outstretched arm placed upon my shoulder. I ease your panties
on that leg, repeat on the other one, then rise.

"Sit for a moment, and rest. You have done well, and made up for
your.indiscretion. I will tell no one of what I have seen you reading today."

You sigh, nodding your head in understanding, still to overcome to speak, and
attempt to sit. When you do, your sore bottom sends racing waves of sensation
through you, and you stagger up, shaking your head weakly, a small tear trailing
down your pretty face from your left eye. You gather up your things, and go to
leave, but I move to bloack your egress.

"Aren't we forgetting something?" I say, as you stare up at me quizzically. I
motion to the magazine that is nestled among the things in your arms, and then
point towards a small cardboard box that has been appropriated by library staff
as a temporary trash receptacle, as evidenced by empty Styrofoam coffee cups.
You smile sheepishly, in spite of yourself, walk over and deposit the magazine
into the box, and bringing a smile to my face, half-heartedly attempt to conceal
it with the discard remains of the morning newspaper. My eyes fall to your
bottom as you bend in your efforts. You are always the consummate tease.

I ease up behind you and grasp your left buttock in a farewell squeeze.

"Good girl. Home you go." I state, appreciatively.

You close your eyes, grimacing from the touch to your sore cheek, steadying
yourself with one hand against the wall. When you open your eyes a moment later
I am gone. You smile to yourself, gather your things, and leave, donning a long
black coat hidden under the table.

The END

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