"Just a kiss though? Nothing more?"
"We're going slow, remember? That was your rule, your boundary. I'm respecting it."
He's right. I did say that. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl. Now, go get ready for bed. Text me when you're actually in bed, not just in the bedroom procrastinating."
He leaves and I stand there in my apartment, aching and desperate and somehow more satisfied than I've been in years. Just from talking. From negotiating. From rules and expectations and being called "good girl" like it actually means something.
I get ready for bed, shower, put on my coziest pajamas. Text him as ordered.
Me: In bed, Sir.
Marshall: Good girl. What are you wearing?
Me: Pajamas. Pink flannel with little books printed on them.
Marshall: Describe them in more detail.
Me: Button-up top, long pants, very soft and comfortable.
Marshall: Adorable. Perfect for my little librarian. Now, I want you to touch yourself, Charlie.
Me: Sir?
Marshall: Touch yourself. But don't come. Edge yourself twice, then stop completely.
Me: That's mean! That's torture!
Marshall: That's control. This is what you asked for, what you said you wanted. Edge twice, then stop, then sleep. You'll sleep better, I promise.
He's probably right. I do exactly as ordered, touch myself while thinking about his voice and his hands and the way he called me baby girl. Edge myself twice, getting right to the brink before stopping. By the second time I'm desperate and aching and nearly crying with frustration, but I stop like he told me to.
I fall asleep frustrated but somehow settled, feeling owned and cared for in a way I've never experienced before. For the first time in my life.
five
Marshall
She’sbeenagoodgirl. No, Charlie’s been absolutely perfect, following every single rule without complaint. Texting me exactly when asked. Eating real meals instead of just pastries and coffee. Going to bed on time. Wearing what I pick out for her.
Tonight's the night. I'm done waiting, done being patient. She's ready. I'm ready. We're doing this.
The library is closed, dark except for the back room where Charlie's supposedly "working late" on returns. She's wearing the outfit I chose for today - that black skirt that hugs every curve perfectly, white blouse, hair in that bun with a pencil stuck through it.
"Sir," she greets me, already breathless before I've even touched her.
I don't answer with words. Just walk straight to her with deliberate purpose, spin her around, press her against thecirculation desk. My hand goes to her throat, holding her in place. Owning her.
"You know what's going to happen."
"Yes, Sir."
"Tell me. Say it out loud."
"You're going to fuck me. Here. Where I work."
"Where everyone checks out their books. Where you'll have to smile tomorrow and pretend you weren't getting railed against this desk like a good little slut."
