Stan Parks parked his battered pickup in the parking lot at the back of the two-story library building in the town of White Oak, Missouri. He had driven that evening the thirty miles from the campground where he stayed in a miniscule 14-foot camping trailer. He had started work the previous week for a construction company in the area, helping to frame houses in a new subdivision – the job should last several months, allowing him plenty of time to explore the library's genealogical section. One set of his grandparents had grown up in White Oak, and he hoped to learn more about his heritage in the free time he had each evening and on Saturday.
He entered the marble building and approached the front desk, asking for the genealogical section. The librarian was tall, at least 5'8", with waist-length brown hair, green eyes, beautifully plain features and a well-proportioned figure. She indicated a small room in a far corner of the main floor marked History/Genealogy and Stan moved off to begin the search for his heritage.
He had been browsing through a book listing marriages and divorces over the past 50 years when he let his mind wander back to his own divorce.
Stan had been a construction foreman for a road-building company in central Florida which required him to be away from home most of the week, home only on weekends. He and Jill had two children, 2 and 4 years of age. One week, when he was feeling especially lonely, he worked late on Thursday, turned everything over to his assistant, and headed for home 100 miles away. He arrived at the house shortly after midnight, letting himself in quietly, though he saw the light come on in the master bedroom down the hall as he closed the door.
He walked quickly past the children's rooms and stepped into the doorway of his own bedroom just in time to see Jill wrap a terrycloth robe around her naked body. A slightly disheveled man was sitting up in the bed, looking sleepily at Stan, and then back at Jill. The man looked to be a salesman type, maybe real estate, Stan mused as he looked him over. Jill had her eyes locked on Stan's and he saw they were defensive, as if to ward off the coming accusation.
"How long?" he asked, watching her closely to see if she was going to lie to him. The look of defense turned to one of misery before she looked down at her hands.
"Three or four months," she said softly, unwilling to look back at him. He looked at the stranger in his bed again and saw the man was becoming aware of his vulnerability.
"Don't tell me you haven't slept around also," Jill said, interrupting the pregnant silence, and challenging him with her eyes.
"Never," Stan replied, letting her see the hurt that he felt from the betrayal. He turned then to leave but stopped at the doorway. "I'm going back to work, you see the lawyer and get the divorce papers ready. Call me when they're done. I want the pickup and camping trailer and no child support payments. You can have the house, kids and credit card bills."
"Stan, can't we . . ." her voice trailed off as he raised his hand to her.
"The only other way is for me to shoot that sorry little wimp over there in my bed, and that wouldn't help any of us – especially not the kids." With that he turned and left the house, driving through the night back to his work site.
At the divorce signing he kissed and hugged the two children. "Daddy has to go away now," he told them. "But Mommy has a new Daddy for you to take my place." They both nodded and moved to their mother, each taking a hand. Stan stood up and looked at the woman he had loved and married, and was surprised he felt nothing – no sorrow, no anger, no pain . . . just numbness. Then he was gone.
Stan broke from his reverie to see the attractive librarian looking nervously in his direction every few seconds as she knelt, placing books back into the right place on the shelf across the room. He looked around and saw there was no one else in the library. The clock showed it was five till nine, almost closing time. The woman looked up at him again, almost fearfully, and he realized he must have been staring in her direction as he replayed the divorce scene in his mind.
The next time she looked up he smiled, and she gave a brief smile in return and went back to work. Stan gathered his papers and was stuffing them in his briefcase when the woman walked past him. He should ask what their Saturday hours were for tomorrow.
"Wait," he said, and the woman froze almost in mid-stride. She turned slowly and he saw something in her eyes that he could not quite identify, something that bothered him. "Can you tell me what your hours are tomorrow?" he asked.
"Nine to six," she answered, and stood quietly looking at him as if waiting to be dismissed. That was it! She had the same look in her eyes as a dog he once saw get kicked by its owner. The animal had no idea what the owner wanted so it just stood there with that obedient look, and got another kick. Submission. The woman was being totally submissive.
"Thank you," he said, and she turned toward the books on a nearby table, stacking them on a rolling cart. Submission. Stan had talked about dominance and submission once with a co-worker who was into BDSM with his wife and some others. "It is like a permanent state of hypnotism," the man had explained. "A truly submissive person will obey any command given them, regardless the person giving it." Stan looked at the librarian thoughtfully. He couldn't picture her into BDSM; maybe she was one of those people who developed a submissive personality in their childhood.
"Come over here, please, and get these books," he said calmly, meeting her eyes with his own as she looked up questioningly. She glanced at the books, back at him, shrugged and pushed the cart to the table he had been using. When she was only an arm's length from him, he spoke again. "Stop right there." And she did, watching him curiously as if in an out-of-body experience.
"Unbutton your blouse," Stan said softly, almost in a whisper. He saw fear shoot across her face, replaced quickly by a resigned look of compliance as her hands slid to the top button while he continued to hold her eyes. She paused after the third button and he looked down to see a good deal of cleavage showing over a fashionable black lace bra.
"All the way," he said, watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath. She resumed unbuttoning the blouse until it fell away from her chest, leaving him with an unhindered view of her bra-covered breasts. He looked into her eyes and the fear was gone, replaced by a puzzled, yet curious, expression.
"Now drop your bra straps." She did so, hooking first one and then another finger under a strap and sliding it off her shoulder. As the second strap fell, her breasts dropped about an inch, no more. What a set of boobs, he thought. They were full and hanging, but were not sagging. The woman was in good shape.
"Now pull your bra off your breasts," he said breathlessly, and gulped as she revealed two very beautiful breasts, full and resting on her chest. The nipples were erect, probably from nervousness and the air conditioning. Stan reached out and stroked each breast and nipple in turn and the woman made no move to stop him, but just watched his hand on her body.
"How many men have seen and touched you naked?" he asked, watching her for any hint of deceit.
"None since college," she replied.
"How many in college?"
"Just a couple of times, I spent most of my time working because I didn't have a scholarship."
Stan watched the woman as she talked. He loved the sweet sing-song lilt of her voice, and the way she blushed as she told her story.
"Did you go all the way with them?"
She shook her head.
"Neither of them?"
"No, but I did give one guy a blow job once . . . all the way."
