Sir Summons Me to the Library

A story between consenting adults. All characters are over 18 years old.

Sir summons me to the library for 8pm, the house quiet. When I arrive the doors are shut so I knock timidly.

"Enter," sir says. His voice is formidable, stiff.

I enter quietly and shut the door after me, eyes down, unsure why I'm here. We are never normally alone like this.

"Ah, miss," sir says, "I've been expecting you." Handsome as always, sipping from a small glass of brandy.

"Sir," I say and bob a little curtsy.

"I'm afraid," sir says, "that we are not here under pleasant circumstances tonight."

His tone is grave. I know he is disappointed in me. It sends a shiver down my spine, my stomach flips and my pussy tightens.

"This has been found, miss," sir goes on to say, "in your possession. Hidden in your room, disguised in a more respectable tome."

He is holding up a slim volume of poetry, radical romantic poetry whose authors have been recently denounced and the book itself banned. My legs weaken.

"As head of the household I cannot allow a moral stain to spread within my walls. I took the liberty of doing a thorough inspection of your quarters following the initial discovery and I am sad to say that that is not all that was found."

My heart is beating wildly in my chest. I cannot look at him so I turn to look at the flames flickering about the fireplace.

"Sir. Please, I beg you," I start to deny all liability and knowledge.

"Now, now, now, miss, don't add perjury to your list of misdemeanours," sir says. "Remove your skirts and stretch yourself out across the writing bureau."

I loosen my skirts and step out of them.

"Lay them across the back of the armchair," sir says.

I blush, ashamed. I have not been in a state of undress like this in front of a man before. I walk over to the writing bureau and bend myself across it, waiting.

"Before we begin," sir says, "would you do me the honour of reading aloud from your journal. Or the dishonour, I might rather say."

I blush. My journal is full of sin, carnal want. Things that I've imagined him and I doing together. How I've imagined him kissing me and even laying hands on my bosom.

"This passage is particularly interesting," sir says.

My voice is shaking as I begin to read aloud. Sir takes over the reading of it in a mocking tone as he lands a smack on my prone behind. It jolts up through me. His hand now lands as a means of punctuating each and every sentence. The slaps sting my cheeks beneath my shift. I bite my lip. I cry out, it stings so terribly.

"Shall we assess," sir says, "if miss wets on receiving correction?"

He pulls the string on my bloomers and unsheathes my behind. As he caresses the mound between my legs my moist pussy squirms.

"The final thing that remains to be exposed," sir continues as he spreads my legs a little further apart, "is the name of the person the filth in this diary is written about."

Surprise floods my body. He doesn't know. He doesn't know it's him and I will never tell him.

"A name, please, miss," he says as he commences a vigorous hard spanking.

I yelp and shake but I don't tell him.

"Perhaps miss has a touch of hysteria in her womb that is clouding her judgment," sir says as he hooks his fingers into my wet, wet pussy.

No man has ever touched me here before and I gasp. It feels so good. He moves his fingers in and out, first one, then two, then more in a rhythmical motion, the other hand caressing my breasts. I cry out.

"That's it, good girl," he says. "Let the badness out. Let go."

My pussy contracts around his fingers. I shudder and collapse beside the bureau.

"Miss will present to the library at 8pm each night for an hour of correction," sir says. "She will remove her skirts and hang them on the armchair. She will remove her undergarments and I will inspect them for signs of arousal throughout the day, by sight and by smell. Then, until she has disclosed the name of the paramour referenced in her journals, she shall stretch herself across the writing bureau and I will select a tool for use in loosening her tongue. Should she wet during her correction, I will manipulate the vapours from her womb mechanically by hand. Is that understood?"

I nod, cheeks flushed.

"For while miss is not quite a lady, she is not a kitchen slattern or a maid, and she will not bring disrepute or dishonour to my house."

Sir coughs. I look up adoringly at him from the floor. What is that straining against his trousers?

"Before we end the session here tonight," sir concludes, "perhaps we should inspect that miss remains intact."