Library resource

The hum of the library’s fluorescent lights was a high-pitched whine in John’s skull, a sterile counterpoint to the raw, throbbing memories etched into his body. Every movement was a reminder. The ache in his jaw from a dozen silicone cocks. The deeper, bruised feeling inside him from the relentless fucking. The chafe of the cheap pink dress Lily had let him change back into, now hidden under his own hoodie and jeans.

She’d texted him an hour ago. A library room number. No other instruction.

He stood outside the door, his hand trembling before he could grip the handle. The video from the basement had been uploaded. He hadn’t watched it, but he’d seen the thumbnail—his own blindfolded face, mouth distended—on a site he now checked with a addict’s dread. The view count was climbing. Comments speculated about what he’d do next. A toy, they called him.

He pushed the door open.

Lily was alone, sitting at a study table, textbooks spread in a convincing display of normalcy. She looked up, a small, hard smile on her face. “Close the door.”

He did. The lock clicked with a sound of finality.

“You look like shit,” she observed, leaning back in her chair. “Sore?”

He nodded, unable to speak.

“Good. Means you’re learning.” She kicked a metal chair out from under the opposite side of the table. “Sit.”

He sat. The room was claustrophobic, silent except for the distant, muffled sounds of students in the stacks. The drawn blinds turned the afternoon light into a dull, yellow haze.

“I’ve been thinking about boundaries,” Lily said conversationally, twirling a pen. “You crossed a huge one. Spying on me. So mine are gone. For you. But society has boundaries, too. Public spaces. Social contracts.” Her eyes gleamed. “I find the violation of those… interesting.”

From her backpack, she produced two items: a pair of heavy-duty police-style handcuffs, and a small, sinister-looking metal contraption. John recognized it from a late-night, shameful internet dive—a medical speculum, its cold, stainless steel blades designed to spread and hold.

His breath hitched. “Lily, no. Not here. Please.”

“Yes, here.” Her voice lost its playful edge. “The library is all about access to information. To resources. Today, you’re a resource.” She stood and walked around the table. “Get on the floor. Underneath.”

He stared, frozen.

“Now.”

The command, sharp as a slap, got his body moving. He slid off the chair and crawled into the knee-well space beneath the large, heavy study table. The floor was cold, gritty with dust. It smelled of old wood and forgotten neglect.

Lily crouched down. “On your back. Head here, by the edge.” She positioned him, his head just protruding slightly into the footwell of the other side. She snapped one cuff around his right wrist, fed the chain through a sturdy, central leg of the table, and locked the other cuff on his left. He was anchored, spread-eagled on his back, staring up at the underside of the laminated wood.

“Open your mouth, John.”

He opened his mouth.

The cold metal of the speculum slid over his tongue. It wasn't gentle. She worked the mechanism, and with a series of precise, clinical clicks, the blades inside his mouth expanded, forcing his jaws painfully wide open, locking them in a permanent, gaping oval. He made a choked, gagging sound. He couldn’t close his mouth. He couldn't speak. Saliva immediately began to pool in his throat.

“Perfect,” Lily whispered, her face a beautiful, ruthless mask above him. She taped the handle of the speculum to his cheek with heavy-duty duct tape, securing the device in place. From his angle, he could only see the edge of the table and the blank wall beyond his feet.

She slid something across the floor towards the door—a small, handwritten sign on cardboard. He couldn’t read it from his position. Then, he heard the rip of more tape. She was taping something to the wall directly above his imprisoned head. A plastic tip jar, the kind for countertop coffee shops, empty and clear.

“I’ll be back to check the till,” she said, her voice businesslike. “Try to be a good investment.”

He heard her footsteps, the door open, then the sound of the sign being slid under the door into the public hallway. The door closed. The lock snicked shut from the outside. She was gone.

Silence. The awful, exposed silence of his own ragged breathing through his ****-open mouth. The hum of the lights. The distant echo of a laugh somewhere in the library. He was trapped. Cuffed. Gagged by science. Utterly, utterly helpless.

Panic came in a cold flood. He yanked at the cuffs. The table leg didn’t budge. The metal bit into his wrists. He tried to scream, but it emerged as a weak, muffled groan around the invasive steel. The tears fell freely, hot tracks into his ears and hair.

Five minutes passed. Ten. The initial panic subsided into a trembling, hyper-aware dread. Every sound from the hallway was a potential approach. He heard footsteps pause outside the door. A murmured conversation. They moved on. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Then, a new sound. The handle jiggled. The door pushed open.

Footsteps entered, hesitant. A slow, curious walk around the table. From his limited vista, he saw a pair of scuffed Converse sneakers stop directly in front of his face, between his splayed legs. The person crouched.

“Whoa,” a young male voice, breathy with disbelief. “The fuck?”

John squeezed his eyes shut. He heard the rustle of denim, a zipper. The smell of stale cigarettes and cheap body spray filled the air. Then, the warm, soft-soft press of a bare cock against his stretched lower lip.

“Five bucks, right?” the guy muttered, more to himself. He fumbled, and a crumpled five-dollar bill was shoved into the tip jar above John’s head, floating down to land on his chest.

There was no ceremony. The guy gripped the table edge for leverage and pushed his cock into the wet, open channel of John’s mouth. It wasn’t about pleasure. It was about use. The guy fucked into the helpless orifice with rough, shallow strokes, his balls slapping against John’s taped chin. John gagged, his throat convulsing, but the speculum held him wide, preventing any resistance. He was a sleeve. A living, warm hole.

“Fuck yeah,” the guy grunted, his rhythm growing jerky. “Just like the video.” The mention of it was a fresh lance of horror. He came a minute later, a bitter, salty jet hitting the back of John’s throat. John had **** but to swallow, the act triggering another round of choked gags. The guy pulled out, tucked himself away, and left without another word. The door closed.

John lay there, trembling, the taste of a stranger fouling his mouth. He couldn’t even wipe it away.

The door opened again sooner than he thought possible. This time, two sets of footsteps. A whispered conference.

“No way.”

“Told you. It’s that slut from the site. The post said they'd be here.”

“Holy shit.”

Two of them. They took turns. One, thicker, used his mouth with a brutish, grunting focus, gripping John’s hair through the table leg to piston deeper. The other watched, then swapped places. This one was thinner, his thrusts quicker, more frantic. He came with a whimper, his spend dripping from John’s stretched lips. They shoved crumpled cash into the jar, their laughter fading as they left.

The next was a girl. Her fingers, smelling of ink and oranges, explored his face first, tracing the speculum, pinching his nostrils shut until he bucked for air. Then she spat into his mouth. “Disgusting,” she whispered, but her voice was excited. She didn’t use her fingers or a toy. She sat on his face, grinding her denim-clad cunt against his nose and mouth, muffling his already stifled cries, before leaving.

The parade continued. A blur of shapes, sizes, smells. A cock ring. A piercing that scratched his palate. One man, older, smelling of leather and bourbon, simply stood over him and pissed into his open mouth, the warm, acrid flood **** him, overflowing down his cheeks and neck, pooling in his ears and hair. The bill that followed was a soaked twenty.

John disconnected. His mind fled to a small, dark corner while his body was used as public plumbing. The jar above him filled: fives, tens, a few ones, now damp and reeking. His throat was raw. His jaw screamed in agony. His entire world was the underside of a table, the scrape of zippers, the gasp of strangers, and the cold, unyielding metal keeping him open.

The door opened once more. He flinched, anticipating another violation.

It was Lily. He knew her shoes. She crouched, her expression clinical. She looked at the overflowing tip jar, at his face, slick with spit, piss, and semen. She didn’t speak. She emptied the jar, counting the money quickly. “Not bad,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. She stuffed the cash into her pocket.

Then she looked towards the door. He heard the murmur of voices in the hall, a small queue forming. A look of annoyance crossed her face. “Line’s getting long. We need to speed up the service.”

From her bag, she pulled out a large, black vibrator, its surface ribbed and menacing. She uncuffed one of his ankles from the table leg—he hadn’t even realized she’d secured them—and pushed his knees roughly towards his chest.

“No,” he tried to beg, the word a wet, incomprehensible gurgle.

She didn’t bother with lube. She spit onto the vibrator and pressed it against his hole, still tender and loosened from the night before. With a firm, relentless push, she worked the thick head inside him. The stretch was brutal, dry, tearing. He screamed silently around the speculum, his body bowing against the cuffs.

Once it was fully seated, she turned it on. The vibration was instant and overwhelming, a deep, buzzing invasion that lit up his shattered nerves. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a violent overstimulation, making his legs quiver and his stomach clench.

“There,” she said, recuffing his ankle. “That should keep you… responsive.” She patted his cheek, her hand coming away wet. “Efficient. You’re earning your keep.”

She left again.

The vibrations turned his ass into a center of frantic, unwanted sensation. When the next person entered—a heavyset man who smelled of sweat and fryer grease—the relentless buzz made John’s entire body tense and jump. The man used his mouth with a slow, grinding relentlessness, and the combined violation, the vibration echoing up his spine, pushed John towards a sharp, shameful precipice. He came again, untouched, into his jeans, a sobbing, shuddering release that left him emptier than before.

The door didn’t close. Another person entered immediately after. And another.

The vibration never stopped. The line, it seemed, was endless.