The library was silent after closing, the way Claire liked it best. Rows of books stood like patient soldiers, the air smelled of paper and lavender from the little sachet she kept in her cardigan pocket, and the only sound was the soft rustle of her modest wool skirt as she knelt beside the box of donated books.
Claire was twenty eight, small breasted, narrow-hipped, the kind of woman people described as âsweetâ because they couldnât think of anything else to say. Her brown hair was twisted into a tight, no nonsense bun; thick glasses perpetually slid down her small nose. Tonight she wore a cream turtleneck and a calf-length plaid skirt, thick tights, and sensible flats. She looked like the human equivalent of chamomile tea.
She unpacked the last of the donated books, humming under her breath, until her fingers brushed something that felt⌠wrong. One book remained at the very bottom, bound in black leather that seemed to drink the light. No title. No author. Only a single raised sigil on the cover that looked like a serpent devouring its own tail.
Claire hesitated. Every polite instinct told her to leave it in the âreview laterâ pile. Instead her hand closed around it, and the moment skin met leather, a hot spark shot straight between her legs.
âOhâŚ!â She gasped, yanking her hand back, cheeks flaming. Just static, she told herself. Old building. Dry air.
But the book was warm. Pulsing. Almost⌠purring.
Claire glanced around the empty reading room, biting her lip. âThis is silly,â she whispered aloud, the way she always did when nervous.Â
âItâs just a book.â She said to herself.
She carried it to the circulation desk, sat in her creaky wooden chair, and opened it.
The pages were thick vellum, the text handwritten in crimson ink that looked wet. The first line made her breath catch.
âPower is not given. Power is taken with wet fingers and wicked smiles and dominance.â
Claire slammed the book shut, heart racing.Â
âNo. Absolutely not.â She said and stood up so fast her chair rolled back and hit the wall.Â
âThis belonged in the trash, orâŚorâŚâ
Her thighs pressed together all on their own. A slick throb had started low in her belly, shocking in its intensity. She had never felt anything like it. Not from the chaste kisses sheâd shared with Timothy on the Christmas party. Not from the romance novels she read with the covers turned inward.
Against every shred of good sense, Claire sat again. âJust one more pageâŚâ She bargained with herself. âThen Iâll put it away.â
âImagine how it feels to have a man on his knees, begging for the privilege of licking the sole of your shoe while you laughâŚâ the Book said.
Claireâs hand slid beneath her skirt before her mind caught up. The moment her fingers brushed the cotton panel of her panties she whimpered. She was soaked. Drenched like a harlot.Â
âYouâre tired of being invisible, Tired of blushing and apologizing and shushing noisy people with that trembling little voice. You want to make them tremble.â
âNo,â Claire whispered, even as two fingers slipped beneath damp cotton and found her clit. âIâm not⌠Iâm not like thatâŚâ
But her hips rolled greedily. The bookâs words crawled under her skin like hot smoke.
Claireâs breath hitched. She tried to pull her hand away. She truly did. Her wrist shook with the effort, but the book pulsed again, and her fingers plunged inside her instead, two at once, stretching her tight pussy with a wet squelch that echoed shamefully through the quiet library.
âPlease⌠stopâŚâ she whimpered, but her thumb kept circling, ruthless now. âIâm a good girl⌠IâmâŚâ
âGood girls die forgotten. Bad girls are worshiped forever.â The book said seductive.
Claireâs glasses fogged. Tears of shame pricked her eyes even as her pussy clenched greedily around her thrusting fingers.
âI donât wantâŚoh GoshâŚI donât want to be badâŚâ Claire said, trying hard to resist the temptation.
âLiar. Say it. Say what you want.â The book told her.
Her back arched. The chair creaked dangerously.
âI⌠I wantâŚâ The words tasted like sin. âI want to be powerful.â Claire said, starting to slip to the books wicked temptations.
âLouder.â The book purred.
âI want them on their knees!â she cried, voice cracking. âI want them to beg! I wantâŚoh fuckâŚI want to dominate  them and make them love me for it!â
The book flared crimson. Power surged into her like liquid fire.
Claire screamed as the orgasm took her, not the polite, fluttering release sheâd once given herself under the covers, but a violent, ripping climax that bowed her spine and tore the bun from her hair. Her glasses flew off and shattered against a shelf. Brown locks lightened before her eyes, strand by strand, turning platinum, lengthening, writhing like snakes until they whipped themselves into a high, cruel ponytail.
Her modest sweater shredded as her breasts ballooned outward, round, gravity defying, clearly fake and proud of it. The plaid skirt melted into glossy black latex that hugged new, dangerous curves. Her sensible flats stretched, split, and reshaped into gleaming thigh-high boots with seven-inch stiletto heels that could punch through a manâs ego.
Claireâs last coherent thought was a terrified squeak. âNO!, I didnât mean toâŚ.â
Then the woman sitting in the ruins of the chair opened her newly emerald eyes and smiled with blood-red lips.
She stretched luxuriously, admiring long black latex gloves that now sheathed her arms to the elbow. She cupped her new tits and laughed, a low, wicked sound that promised ruin.
âPoor little Claire.â she purred, voice velvet and venom. âSo weak. So pathetic. Time for Mistress Corvina to have some naughty, delishous fun.â She purred with pure arrogance.
She rose, heels clicking like gunshots across the hardwood, and surveyed her new queendom. With a lazy flick of her wrist, bookshelves twisted into St. Andrewâs crosses and spanking benches. Card catalogs became cages. The circulation desk morphed into a gleaming throne of black leather and steel. Chains dangled from the ceiling like perverse wind chimes.
Corvina inhaled the scent of sex and power and moaned. âPerfect. My own little empire of suffering.â
Corvinaâs smile sharpened to a blade. âAnd my first toy arrives right on schedule.â
Michael, Claireâs boss, stepped inside, keys still in hand, expecting to find mousy Claire working late again. Instead he froze, briefcase hitting the floor with a thud.
The woman lounging on the throne was a wet dream carved from nightmaresâplatinum ponytail slicing down a river of latex, tits heaving like sin made flesh, legs crossed with arrogant grace.
âClaire?â he croaked.
Corvina laughed, the sound dripping disdain. âClaire? Oh honey, that little worm is gone. Iâm what crawled out of her corpse when she finally admitted what she wanted.â She uncrossed her legs, letting him glimpse the glistening heat between her thighs. âKneel, Michael.â She said in a arrogant and dominate voice.
He tried to back away. âThis is insane. Iâm what happend to you and whatâŚâ He tried to say.
Corvina snapped her fingers. Michaelâs knees buckled as if invisible hands had kicked them out from under him. He hit the floor hard, gasping.
âGood boy,â she cooed, rising from the throne. Each click of her heels was a countdown to his destruction. She circled him like a shark. âLook at you. Still thinking that sharp suit makes you somebody. You bullied sweet little Claire because it was the only way you could feel big, didnât you?â
Michaelâs mouth worked soundlessly.
Corvina stopped in front of him, lifted one razor heeled boot, and pressed the sole against his forehead, forcing his head to the ground.
âSay it, worm!â she whispered. âSay youâre pathetic!â
âClaire, what has gotten into youâŚâ
âSAY IT!â She commanded.
âIâŚIâm pathetic,â he choked out, face crimson.
âLouder. Like you mean it.â
âIâm pathetic!â he shouted, voice breaking.
âBetter.â She ground the heel just enough to make him whimper. âFrom now on you are Scumworm. You donât have a name, a job, or a cock that gets to decide anything ever again.â
She reached down, ripped his belt open with one tug, and yanked his pants to his knees. His cock already shamefully hard sprang free. Corvina laughed again.
âOf course youâre hard. Disgusting.â She said mockingly.
She produced a gleaming steel chastity cage from thin air and snapped it around him before he could blink. The click of the lock was deafening.
Scumworm sobbed, forehead still pressed to the floor.
âShh.â Corvina straddled his back, facing his feet, and lowered herself until the latex covering her pussy pressed against the nape of his neck. âYouâre going to crawl, Scumworm. And while you crawl, Iâm going to fuck the last of your pride right out of you.â
From nowhere, a thick black strap-on appeared around her hips, ridged, obscene, easily ten inches. She spat on it once, lazily, then lined up with his untouched ass.
âPlease, Mistress Corvina,â he broke instantly, tears and drool pooling beneath him. âPlease use me. Break me. Iâm nothing. Iâm your slave.â
She thrust in without mercy. Scumworm screamed, then moaned, then babbled incoherent gratitude as she pegged him raw right there on the library carpet. Each brutal stroke drove the cage against his denied cock until he was humping the air, desperate and broken.
Corvina pulled out, stood, and nudged the trembling wreck with her toe. âCrawl to your cage, Scumworm. Youâll greet every new visitor on your knees from now on.â She purred with areogance.
He obeyed instantly, manic devotion shining in his eyes as he kissed the floor she walked on.
Mistress Corvina returned to her throne, legs spread wide, latex gleaming under the new crimson lights. She stroked the thick strap-on still slick from breaking her first slave and smiled at the door.
âCome in, darlings,â she called to the empty library, voice dripping honey and acid. âMy new dungeon is open⌠and Mistress is very, very hungry.â
Somewhere in the ether, what remained of gentle Claire whimpered once, then dissolved forever into delighted, wicked laughter.