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

Hesitantly I looked up and realized that I had kept my eyes tightly shut for the last couple of minutes, or hours, or however long time that had passed.

“That’s good,” I said lamely after a while, hoping that she hadn’t noticed that I had been ridiculously afraid. “What do we do now?”

We were back in London, having left A40 behind and she drove
–
to my vast relief!
–
in accordance to British driving regulations again. It felt almost surreal when she courteously stopped and with a polite smile let an old man with a cane a cross the street.

“Well,” she said, “To be honest, we need to go somewhere safe, so I would suggest we go to my place, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure,” I said without adding that I would be happy to go anywhere as long as it involved getting out of this vehicle and its clearly mad driver.

Eleanor continued to drive smoothly and
legally into the heart of London. I thought she was only going to drive straight through London, so when she suddenly turned and drove up to a private garage when we had crossed the Thames, I got a slightly confused.

“I thought you said we were going to your place?”

She reached for a small and sleek remote control from the front seat glove compartment. With a digital
ding
the garage doors started to open without a sound.

“Ah, well... we are, you know,” she said and nodded towards the two guards that were stationed behind the door. They seemed to recognize her, because they nodded back.

“You live here?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my surprise. No one I knew actually
lived
at the South Bank, an area that was noticeably reserved for the really rich.

“Yes,” she confirmed with a shrug. “My poor baby,” she added in a concerned voice after she had stepped out of the car after she had parked it neatly.

“Ah well, it isn’t that bad,” I said feeling a little bit touched over her concerned that she had noticed that I was limping as I got out of the car. “My ankle does hurt quite a bit, but I don’t think anything is broken...”

The first initial pain had diminished during the mad car chase, when I had been busy concentrating on surviving, but my ankle still throbbed with a dull pain.

I wouldn’t run any marathon the next following weeks, but then again I wasn’t really a runner anyway, although I had recently renewed my gym card. My lifestyle had started taking its toll I had come to realize lately and I although I was in somewhat in shape I couldn’t pretend that my body still looked like it had when I was twenty-one years old. Nevertheless, there was no reason to sit and vegetate in front of the telly while the decline continued, I had decided and the last couple of weeks I had dragged myself to the gym twice a week after my work regardless of how tired I felt and during the weekend I took my bike out for a ride.

“I wasn’t talking to you, silly,” Eleanor said and stroke the lacquered side of the car. I realized that she was talking about her car, and indeed, it did look rather beaten up, especially since she’d forced it to run through the median and well up on the shoulders where no cars were meant to be. In fact, the Porsche did look quite sad, covered in grass and mud like if someone had decided to drive it through one of the marshes at Dartmoor where I use to go camping with my grandpa when I was a kid.

If cars could get a hangover, this is what it would look like,
I concluded and patterned the car awkwardly in sympathy while I collected the rather manhandled roses and the shopping bag from the seat.

“I am sure that a mechanic can take care about it,” I said and limped after her.

“Yes, perhaps,” Eleanor agreed. “Oh, I can take that if you like.”

She took the roses and the bag and smiled.

“I like the colour,” she said with a curved smile.

Ha!
I thought.
I knew it!

We walked through the underground garage towards the elevator. The garage was an ordinary garage in painted concrete, but rather brightly lit. There were two guards standing on each side of the steel elevator. One of them looked at me stonily.

“ID,” he said, without moving his lips.

“Eh, sure,” I said and found my wallet. “Peter Thompson.”

The guards were heavily armoured, I noticed. They looked nothing like the normal security guards, but looked more like they belonged to a SWAT team from an American action movie or like the armoured car guards who collected money deposits from banks. Both of the guards were wearing bulky Kevlar armour and some sort of short half-automatic rifle that looked highly intimidating.

Does she really live here? And who on Earth is she?
I wondered and glanced over at Eleanor, who pretended that she didn’t notice my inquiring gaze.

“Could you step over here, sir,” the other guard said and interrupted my thoughts.

‘Librarian’
my arse,
I though somewhat sullenly as the guards
frisked me professionally and unemotional, but thoroughly.

“Please press your fingers at the scan.”

I looked at Eleanor confused, “Fingerprint scan?”

“Don’t worry, it’s only a routine,” she said reassuring.

Yes, but routine for what?
I wondered.

The questions were starting to build up. I had the growing suspicion that Eleanor wasn’t quite the person she had led me to believe she was. A creeping feeling that she hadn’t been completely surprised by the assault had started to form in my mind.

I also remembered how brutally and efficiently she had pinned me down on the floor the first time I met her, although she was nothing more than a short and curvy girl. Plus and that she had been carrying pepper spray last time I met her.

And, apparently she knows how to drive like a professional stunt-
man,
I concluded and started to wonder if I was dating a missing actor from the latest Mission Impossible.

After all I didn’t really know anything about her.

The guards were not satisfied until I had emptied my pockets and showed them my ID which they held under UV light. I was almost surprised when I finally was allowed to leave without giving a DNA test or without a full body search, the latter to my vast relief.

“Right,” I said when we entered the steel lift. “I think you owe me an explanation.
Or two.”

“Perhaps,” she answered evadingly while she swiped a card at the monitor and entered a long series of numbers before she presses her thumb at the display.

“Welcome,”
a digital female voice said which was disturbingly similar to the kind of movie voices that told informed the hero or the villain that “This unit will self destruct in 10 seconds”. I was nearly surprised when it didn’t started to count down or told us to evacuate, but instead the same voice said after a short digital pause
“14th floor”
after Eleanor pressed one of the buttons.

“You aren’t really a librarian at all, are you?” I asked, trying to sound neutral, but it came out slightly accusingly nonetheless.

She gave me a sideway glance, but didn’t answer at first.

“Who are you, really?” I continued.

She sighed.

“Well, my name hasn’t always been Eleanor Marston, to be perfectly honest,” she said at last. “Before I changed it and broke all contact with my family my name was Eleanor Wyndham.”

She gave me a quick glance. “Walter Wyndham is my father.”

I was speechless.
Walter Wyndham!
My mind tried to make sense of this new information. It was like she had told me that her father was Bill Gates or her mother was in fact Madonna. Everyone knew who Walter Wyndham was and the Wyndham family was one of the most powerful and richest families in the United Kingdom, next after the royal family.

“Wow,” I managed to say at last at the same time as the clinical voice from the lift informed us that we had arrived.

No wonder she can afford an expensive car in that case,
I thought to myself.

The doors to the lift opened without a sound and Eleanor step out. I trailed behind her, trying desperately
–and failing utterly–not to stare. Somehow I had imagine that we would enter the tiniest flat, so small that it probably would only be able to contain a bed and a wardrobe filled with tweed jackets and skirts.

I had never, ever expected to step into the penthouse apartment of the building.

The apartment was huge. It had an open solution with no walls separating the rooms. The ceiling was at least 20 foot up and large spacious windows with a spectacular view of the Tower Bridge so close if felt like I could almost jump from the decked balcony outside.

But what really caught my attention were all the books. Everywhere along all the walls stood bookcase after bookcase filled with books. The walls weren’t enough, so some of the
bookcases and been placed apparently randomly around the apartment, so that it almost resembled a maze. All of the bookcases and shelves were completely filled and it looked like they had over flown into stacked piles of books on the floor.

Even one of the large walls in the middle of the apparent that was clearly meant to be used to display a huge modern painting had instead been decorated with floating shelves all the way to the ceiling, packed with books. About half of the books seemed to be old and leather-bound, but the rest was a mismatch of hardback and pocket books, both new and second-hand.

Although the apartment in itself was ultramodern in off-white colours and steel, only to be broken off by hardwood details, such as the expensive looking parquet, the furniture that filled the room looked quite out of place. Instead of uncomfortable sleek designer sofas and glass tables, it was filled with mismatched old leather sofas and small worn tables. I even recognized a couple of IKEA bookcases that tried to blend in.

“And as a matter of fact,” Eleanor said amused, clearly enjoying watching me not falling backwards from surprise, “I happen to actually be a librarian.”

And a serious book collector,
I added mentally and tried to guess the numbers of titles that surrounded us.
And you are filthy rich or you’re a kept mistress to someone belonging to the unheard branch of the British Mafia. And in that case, I’m bloody doomed.

“Do... do you really live here?” I couldn’t help to ask as I followed her to an open kitchen designed in steel and dark coffee brown colours where she localized a crystal vase and put the flowers in after she had filled it with water.

Two cats had come to great us and she bent down and stroke one of them behind the ears. They looked like purebred Siamese cat to me, with white bodies and slim darker legs and tails. They purred and stroke themselves against Eleanor’s ankles, but looked at me with large, sceptical eyes.
The cats had the same ice-blue-coloured eyes as Eleanor, I realized.
It was however, quite clear they didn’t approve of their owner’s taste in guest.

“Well... yes,” she said. “I share it with Cadbury and Twix.”

“Hey, kitty-kitty,” I tried lamely to pet one of them and was rewarded by a swift, sharp claw that efficiently embedded itself into the back of my hand.

More like Hannibal and Dexter!
I thought with a frown. Dexter looked at me, like he speculated if I would be stupid enough to pet him too. I declined and withdrew my hand.

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said. “They don’t like visitors and I usually don’t have people here.”

“Why not?”

It most certainly looked like the kind of apartment you owned just so that you could throw lavish parties and show of your wealth.

“I don’t ... socialize that much,” she said after a pause, still petting the cats lovingly. “And to be honest, I wouldn’t have brought you here unless I knew that I could trust you.”

“Of course you can trust me,” I said, slightly offended. I silently told the voice that reminded me that I had planned to ask Dave to dig around for information about her. “And how do you know that you can trust me now?” I added.

“Well, the guards would never have let you pass otherwise,” she said nonchalantly and then she looked up at me and tilted her head at one side, inspecting me. “And besides, you pushed me out the way from that car. You probably save my life in fact.”

“Ah, well...”

She reached up and placed a soft kiss on my cheek.

“Thank you for that, by the way,” she whispered.

“It was nothing,” I said casually, like I save human life more or less on a daily basis. “But don’t try to change the subject. Who are you? Who were those guys in the car that tried to kill you?”

Now when I had started, I didn’t seem to be able to stop the questions from pouring out of my mouth.

She smiled at me.

“It... it’s complicated, all right?”

“Then explain it to me,” I said.

“Later, perhaps.”
She stood up and stretched, looking oddly similar to the two cats around her ankles. “But right now, I need a shower.”

“But...”