Booworm

'Carrie, wear your hair down tomorrow' said the slip of paper.

She read it again - it was beautifully written on a cigarette paper, and slipped into the first few pages of a copy of Roget's Thesaurus.

She was reclassifying all of the books based on a new national digital system - that meant that today she was changing the referencing system for the reference books section, which was the sort of job that only a librarian could take any pleasure in.

This was without doubt written for her, since it named her, and she couldn't help but look around furtively, as though whoever put it there might only just have done it. Why was she looking surreptitiously, and why had she already stashed it hurriedly but carefully in a pocket, she wondered. She certainly hadn't done anything wrong here. It was just a note about her hair, and a completely unsolicited one.

Carrie peered around the library wondering who it could have been, that had taken an interest in her mousey hair and how she wore it. And had chosen this curious method of communicating with her - the note itself was a bold and arrogant instruction, rather than a request. She pondered whether she shouldn't just have scrumpled it and thrown it on the floor. Or simply left it in the book, as though irrelevant to her (as though every other book in the place has a personal message in it for her). That made her wonder if perhaps they did - How many notes had she missed before this one? Were they all about her hair..? She felt a little flushed, and felt there were eyes on her, noticing.

All that day she fidgeted with the slip of paper in her pocket, and took it out to re-read on the toilet. To another woman it might have felt childish; reminiscent of school perhaps, this secret note. But her school experience hadn't featured notes from boys - what if it was from a girl?! - or any kind of sexual attention much either.

She wondered whether she would do as it said. Who would be checking if she complied or not? He'd have to, surely: Why write the note if you don't check? (she continued to think 'he' but the doubt remained). Would he feel glad if she complied? And then what? And what if she disobeyed it? (A curious term, she noticed.) Maybe there would be no more notes.

Why did she want more notes, and what did she want them to say, she wondered. Shouldn't she rather he introduce himself, and proceed in the normal way. No, that terrified her, and she realised that a note was special and private but from a distance. It was intrusive, in a way, but also optional. Or was it? A note was perfect. She would do what the stranger wanted, whatever his objective, and see where it led. What harm was there in letting her hair down once in while - literally?

This was the dialogue that played behind her stare at the bus window as it trundled her back towards her flat, and she traced the raindrops that spotted on it, then joined and ran away as a little stream. She still touched the slip in her pocket as the door to her flat clunked closed behind her, and when she stepped out of her clothes in the steam of the bathroom, she was bemused to find her knickers a wet mess. "Wow Carrie, you're extremely susceptible to strange requests about your hair, apparently," she chastised herself, letting her fingertips explore her lips.

In the shower, as the hot water drummed down on her all over, she came violently in shudders, biting her lip and calling herself names in her head. She had an immaculate vocabulary, and it only ever coarsened when she was about to come. That was her biggest secret, and fiercely guarded. She had invented a voice for the stranger, and it was his that she heard, giving her lewd instructions, while she quaked around her hand, the waves subsiding.

* * * *

She checked herself in the mirror for the twentieth time. Hair down was all it had said, and it wasn't like she didn't sometimes do that anyway (he must have seen her then, after all). It didn't say, obsess about every other item of clothing down to what knickers you wear. It definitely didn't say, put elaborate make-up on and then spend fifteen minutes removing all trace of it, deciding it was absurd. Or, forget to eat breakfast and then run around with a hasty piece of toast, hunting keys in a panic. The flat door clunked behind her, and by running she just made the bus. She struggled to catch her breath, sat next to an old man reading a tabloid, and resumed her watching of the ever-present raindrops.

Time seemed to be passing incredibly slowly, as Carrie was acutely aware of everyone she interacted with, and of her hair - she tucked it behind her ears for the twentieth time that morning. Had he seen yet, she wondered. She had done as he asked, what did that mean? Would there be more requests? (Commands?) He must fancy her, to care about how she looked in that way, and know her name. Perhaps he would be pleased she had followed the instruction. Perhaps it would get him hard. Carrie dwelt on that thought, and pictured the stranger pumping his cock madly with his hand, and firing thick ropes of cum over the pages of the book she was holding, onto her slender fingers and wrist. She pressed her thighs together, noticing how wet she was again, and put the book on the pile of others beside her.

The day was infuriatingly uneventful. Everything was slightly altered, the library looked different. She knew that nothing at all had changed, except her own demeanour - glancing at every sound and hunting for clues like a horny sleuth.

She looked searchingly at every person she interacted with, wondering if he would engage with her, now she had showed herself willing to follow commands, or just watch her from afar. And she couldn't actually decide which she would prefer.

It was approaching time to go home, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. She had all but written the day off, when she noticed that, slipped under the plastic box she kept her lunch in, which sat in the same place on the main desk at all times, was a new folded cigarette paper. Her heart began to race as she glanced around - either to see who might have put it there or to check if anyone else would see her reading her secret new instruction. Maybe it was just a thank you. She unfolded it in what she told herself was a nonchalant manner:

'Carrie, write the letters TBA on the back of your hand in black ink. Now.'

It was the same calligraphic writing, and the same imperious tone. Who was dreaming up these weird requests for her? The little joke involved in this one wasn't lost on her, and she registered that it was also a sort of test - it would be a tattooed declaration that she was open to this game; to being advised. She picked up the pen that was so conveniently nearby. Without dwelling on it too much that she was signing on the dotted line without having read the small print (or any print!) Carrie neatly initialled the back of her left hand as instructed. No-one was around.

As she rode the bus home she thought about the fact that anyone who glanced at the writing on her hand would assume it was just a reminder to herself, which in a way it was. It was to remind her that she was now following the instructions of a mysterious stranger. Throughout the evening she kept looking at it, distracted by it as she prepared some dinner, and again while she tried to read her book. She realised she felt a bit impatient about the note tasks - would they all be so small? And then she wondered what sort of task she was actually hoping for.

In bed, the hand with the letters on wandered between her legs and gently slid inside her knickers as she thought about being commanded to do it, and commanded to stop. And punished..

She denied herself and dozed off, frustrated and sticky.

As she got ready in the morning, she was conscious to try and avoid washing off the letters. She was careful when washing the plate she used for breakfast, and her shower was a particular challenge. She had to wash herself mainly with one hand. The note hadn't specified all this of course, and she wondered if she was just making it harder for herself. It only said write it there, nothing about keeping it there. But surely he would need to see it there today, she reasoned, and carried on trying to preserve it. Even at work she tried not to wash it off - careful to keep the back of her left hand dry when she washed her hands after peeing. It wasn't the hand she used to wipe her pussy with anyway (unreasonably wet again, she noticed).

Nevertheless, the effects combined to make her feel a little unclean as the day wore on, but there were no signs that her compliance so far had been appreciated. Whatever he was getting from this, there was no sign of him yet.

At lunch time, Carrie opened her sandwich box, the letters still visible but faded on her hand.

It was a public declaration about herself, he'd asked her to write, and she had done it. Ok, it was coded slightly. What might he have asked to daub on herself, what label might be have given her for all to see? Would she have done it? Would she have sat on the bus with 'wet' written there? It would have been accurate, and even more so now that she thought about that. How about 'slave'? She was blushing as she wondered why these tasks affected her like this, and why she seemed to want them to intensify darkly. She was a nice normal girl, she told herself - No, a horny and depraved slut in need of discipline, came her own retort.

Carrie glanced down at her lunchbox and saw a small envelope. Her heart skipped a beat. Perfect timing, she thought, as she opened it furtively. Another written note and a short length of parcel string:

'Tie this piece of string around your ankle. Keep it there for 24 hours.'

Carrie looked around. The note didn't say it had to be immediately in the break room, but something compelled her to get that little piece of string tied around her ankle straight away. He wanted to tie her? Or this was tagging her again - a symbol? She tied it slightly tighter than was going to be comfortable (again embellishing the task and turning it punitive, she noticed).

With the rough but totally ordinary bit of string in place against her skin, Carrie ate her sandwich, tucking the note away in her pocket.

She was starting to realise that he wasn't going to emerge and thank her for her participation, and that the day continuing as normal was part of the game (or whatever this was). The reward for completing one task was that she would get another.

She did regard them as rewards, since in any case they made things more interesting. It was like a personalised advent calendar or treasure hunt, Carrie thought. Except that a mysterious stranger was asking her to do things with her body - and her pulse quickened again.

By the time she got home, she could see a red line where the string had bit into her and indented her pale skin. She lay in the bath that evening, gazing at the string with her fingertips idly stroking her pussy. Why was she still denying herself? Her belly seemed to ache for her to bring herself off - what was she saving it for? But she made herself leave her clit alone even though it throbbed, and she could see in the mirror as she dried herself that her pussy was swollen and displaying itself lewdly, begging for her attention.

The next day's note was under her tea mug, at the start of the day this time, and again accompanied by something - it looked like dental floss.

'Turn this floss into two tiny slipknot nooses. Fasten them around your nipples. Wear them until four thirty today then leave them in the back of the Anais Nin Anthology.'

Now she was undeniably excited. To exacerbate her sticky and frustrated situation, this was the first overtly sexual task. He was demanding she did things with her nipples! And leave the floss afterwards, that had been on them. She suppressed a smile that he asked her to leave it in the back of erotic fiction - or at least, the kind deemed sufficiently literary that it made it into the library's collection. It was playful, she thought, since she took it as a self-effacing joke not a pretentious gesture. Switching gear, she thought about him retrieving the little mementos - did he masturbate about her?

She made her way quickly to the toilets and once she was locked in the little room under an unflattering strip light, she tugged her top off over her head and unhooked her bra, stopping when she caught sight of her feverish excitement in the mirror. She saw hunger in her eyes, and her nipples stood up hard and dark. How did he know it would be possible to tie anything around her nipples - not everyone would be able to do that? As it was, her nipples had always been highly sensitive and prone to standing to attention - she felt they were a little long for her average sized breasts. Did he know?? Or was he just taking a risk?

She carefully created two little nooses with a slipknot out of the floss, and, struggling to keep her hand from trembling, she tightened one around each of her nipples. They swelled further in response to the pinching, and she very briefly pulled both floss lassoos at the same time, tugging her blushing tits by their new attachments. She watched her mouth open slightly in a gasp and her pupils dilate.

There was a knock.

Carrie blushed a deep red as she hurried to get her bra and top back on, and hoped very hard that the elderly woman waiting outside wouldn't guess that she had been in there tugging on her tits with some homemade nipple clamps, on the instructions of an unseen stranger (and suppressing a long-overdue orgasm as she did so).

Back at her desk all she could think about was the tight little loops and how aroused she was.

She was trying to place an order for some reference books with a supplier. There was some tedious reason why their two systems wouldn't integrate with the upshot that Carrie needed to key in 10 digit codes accurately into a spreadsheet. It was very hard to concentrate on that and not on her hypersensitive and slightly suffering nipples, and on how much her pussy was leaking. 'Nasty Carrie, your messy cunt is ruining your pretty clothes'. The phrase came unbidden into her head and stayed there for a while, not helping the situation it referred to.

She ate her lunch aware of every mouthful - it somehow felt wrong to eat when she was so sexually charged and she didn't have much appetite. Recalling the day before, she cut free the string from her ankle and put the piece in her pocket. The red line was there as a reminder and she thought about a bath that evening and how tender her nipples would be, and whether she would give in tonight and let her fingers fuck her as she needed them to.

After lunch the minutes flicked by, each one bringing Carrie closer to release, but sadly only in the literal sense - unclamping her secretly trussed up nipples and ending their delightful throbbing.

Carrie realised that from about quarter past four she had done no work at all and had simply been watching the minutes change on the time at the top right of her screen as her mind wandered around back and forth between her chafing bra fabric and her thoroughly sodden gusset.

The biggest challenge had been keeping those thoughts from causing her to blush when she occasionally had to interact with someone returning a book or asking a question. 'Surely they can sense that I'm on the edge of coming behind this desk. That each shuffle of paper and keyboard strike has me tingling all over'. Carrie's heightened senses and paranoia meant she was certain she could smell her own arousal and that others would too. "That horny librarian is dripping wet" she heard them comment in her head.

It was time. In the toilet, Carrie carefully took her top and bra off, as everything was now very sensitive. She watched her ragged breathing and bit her lip, gazing at her engorged dark nipples as she loosened the floss, trembling. She cupped her breasts gently in the mirror - she looked so desperate to be fucked right now, she thought. Or whipped. 'Woah, Carrie, that's a development!' She had surprised herself, thinking about a belt cracking sharply across her bare arse suddenly, and making her pussy quake and glisten.

She would hold her breasts carefully so they didn't move (it would hurt if they shook with them in this state) as the blows landed, each marking her cheeks with a hot, angry line...

Carrie remembered the morning's interruption so she quickly put her clothes back on and pocketed the floss.

She walked swiftly and with purpose to the corner of the library where the relatively provocative content was kept, and left the two little nooses, still the size of her swollen nipples, in the back of the Anais Nin anthology as instructed. She smiled on her way back to her desk, hoping he would be pleased with her obedience. Hoping also slightly, she registered, that he would not be, and that she would be punished. (She debated with herself about failing at a task to see what would happen, and felt a frisson of fear).

It was another hour before Carrie could leave and she knew that she was being greedy, but she was already wondering what the next task would be and when and where she would get her little note.

As it was, she boarded the steamed up bus that jostled her home without any note, and felt every vibration of it in her clit.

Carrie massaged her nipples and breasts in the bath later, soaping them in circles, and found that she was thinking again about being bent over while the sound of a belt being removed made her pulse race. Yet again, she did not give in to the demands of her cunt, although she did as a result have to change her knickers during the night - she could not get to sleep in ones that wet.

Her note for the following day was not easy to spot - it was rolled tightly and slotted in between the keys of her keyboard:

'Beside your desk is a two litre bottle of mineral water. Drink all of it by 2pm. You may only pee when you get home, in the shower, clothed and standing.'

Carrie re-read the note several times. He wanted her to be struggling not to wet herself at her place of work. Well, she had been more or less hoping that the tasks would intensify, and now they certainly had. After ordering her to sit with her nipples pinched for an afternoon, she would now have to squirm at her desk forbidden from peeing, and only finally be allowed to in accordance with his rules. That or face the humiliation of pissing herself in public. It didn't occur to Carrie for one second that she wouldn't follow the instruction though, and she found that there was indeed a large water bottle beside her desk. It looked huge. She was nervous but also curious about how the afternoon would play out.

She knew that the later she drank it all, the less time she would have to hold it in for, so it wasn't until after lunch that she began to drink from the bottle, and she had made good progress as two o'clock approached. With a few minutes to go, she emptied the last of it down her throat. There. That was the easy part finished.

Everything was fine at first and she was trying to concentrate on her work. A very old fashioned supplier needed purchase order forms filled in by hand and then faxed over and Carrie knew she was drawing it out slightly, trying to write very neatly inside the boxes, and not think about the growing urge to pee.

She began to fidget - it had now been a couple of hours since she drank the water, and she still had another hour and then a bus ride home to get through. Why was he doing this? Was he just taking control of her bodily functions? Did her want her to give in, and fail the task? Maybe it was a test to see how far he could push her. She thought again about spanking, but this time about the sweet release of letting go as it happened. A trickle would become a hot torrent down her thighs as a cane sliced the air and struck her arse with a crack, until she pissed a puddle beneath herself and blushed with shame as the stranger with the cane told her off.