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Order of Dionysus – Part 10 – The Private Collection

by | ood | 0 comments

There is a nondescript wooden door at the end of one of the long marble hallways of the Main Branch of the New York Public Library that you can only enter if you have the right knock and the right word and a particular pin on your lapel.

Knowledge of the “Private Collection” and how to use it is not available to all members of the Order. Still, those who know of its existence and are familiar with its procedures can utilize the facilities once per quarter if they are in good standing.

It was with that very door in mind that I packed my breifcase one sunny Tuesday morning and made my way to midtown.

Want to hear something ridiculous? When I was a child, I would skip school and go to the library. How absurd is that? I hated school, but loved books.

I grew up in Queens, and sometimes, early in my high school career, I would wake up extra early and take the bus out to Flushing and then get the 7 train into Manhattan, and get off at Bryant Park and then there it was, the most beautiful building I’d ever seen. With two lions out front and the most extensive collection of books in the country outside of the Library of Congress.

The libraries back in Queens were mostly small, squat, beige bricked single-story boxes that smelled like chemical cleaners and body odor. The collections were miniscule, and the librarians were cruel, and the interior design was horrible.

The big library on 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue, on the other hand, was like a church dedicated to information.

Now, unlike the other public libraries in the city, the big Main Branch was a research library, so although they had a vast collection (the third-largest in the world, to be exact), but you couldn’t check books out. You could only take them to a desk and do your research there.

At fifteen, I was amazed at the whole process. Walking up the massive stairs in front, you were greeted by the two lion statues. The lions’ names being Patience and Fortitude, a fact that I kept pinned to my heart. Back then, you would enter, walk through the lobby, go to the Catalog Room, and sit at an old green monochrome CRT monitor and look for your books in the catalog. Once you found the books you wanted, you wrote out their call numbers on a slip of paper and brought it to the desk.

There, a librarian would put your slip of paper in a brass pill-shaped box, and then, I kid you not, put that into a pneumatic tube where it would be sucked down into the depths of the stacks below. She would then give you a number on another piece of paper.

You would take your number into the main reading room, which has a huge ceiling mural of fluffy clouds and a heavenly sky. You would sit and wait for your number to light upon the wall of numbers. 

I spent many days in that place as a boy, taking out books on the occult or philosophy or sex. A few years later, in college, it was in the depths of the stacks that I would first encounter the tendrils of the Order I would one day become a member of.

Thus it was with a head full of memories that I walked around in the grand lobby of the great old library, preparing myself for a new endeavor. 

I took a little tour, enjoying my nostalgia, seeing how the repairs and updates to the building progressed. The main reading room’s vast ceiling had been cleaned and retouched, and it had even more of an air of being in Rome.

The rows and rows of dark wood tables were filled with laptops and serious-faced college students and academics. It was so impressive I nearly forgot the point of my visit.

I followed the route I had memorized, up to the third floor, past the special reading rooms, and the manuscript rooms that were by appointment only. To the rooms where archivists brought out ancient books for you to examine and an armed guard watched to make sure you didn’t touch the pages.

Finally, I found the door with the small brass plaque that read “The Aristippus Collection, by appointment only.”

I knocked, three times, then once, then two times, in a meter that had been taught to me by my mentor. In a moment, the door opened, and a severe-looking woman with her hair in a bun and silver-framed glasses opened the door and peered at me skeptically.


“I have an appointment. I made arrangements in advance through Mr. Belmonte,” I said, slowly reciting the careful wording I had been instructed to say.

She raised an eyebrow, and there was a moment where I wondered if I misspoke. Remembering myself, I turned the lapel of my suit jacket up and exposed my pin.

She looked me up and down, my oxblood leather boots, my charcoal pinstripe suit, my cornflower blue tie, and finally the small gold pin that was a tiny bunch of grapes.

She stepped aside and opened the door for me. I entered and watched as she closed and locked the door.

Her desk was large, looked like mahogany, with a leather blotter, and a sleek contemporary computer with a large monitor and wireless keyboard. She tapped out something on her computer and frowned.

“We only have one piece currently available for examination. I’m sure you were told a Tuesday morning is not ideal,” she said, not looking at me.

“That’s fine, I’m sure whatever is available will be sufficient.”

She looked me over again and wrinkled her eyebrows a little.

“You’ll need to wear gloves,” she said, tapping out something else on the keyboard.

She opened a drawer in the desk and took out a black leather case.

“You’ll find all the equipment you’ll need in here. You can’t bring your briefcase into the viewing room.”

I nodded in agreement and put my briefcase down next to her desk, and picked up the case.

She pointed to a door behind her, and as I walked towards it, there was a low electric buzzer and the click of a lock. I opened the door and walked into a small, very well lit white room. The door closed and locked behind me.

The room was a sixteen-foot cube with a hospital-style examination table in the center and two small stainless steel tables on wheels next to it. The examination table was steel as well and topped with a thick layer of what looked like soft foam rubber. On the sides of the table were neatly rolled up straps, tucked under the table but easily accessible. In one corner there was an adjustable stainless steel stool.

The entire place was spotless and had no noticeable scent whatsoever.

I placed the leather case on the table and opened it. I found a small plastic bag of nitrile gloves, some padded cuffs, a few plastic tubes of something, an antique-looking set of magnifying glasses, as well as various wooden swabs, sticks, and metal pointers.

As I laid these out, the door buzzed again, and the lock clicked, and someone else entered.

She was short, I guessed barely five feet. She was college-aged, perhaps, though I found the older I got, the harder it was to tell. She was well dressed, with a pretty pleated gray skirt that was worn rather high on her waist, and a pearl-colored silk blouse, buttoned to the collar and tucked into the skirt neatly. At her collar, she wore a simple black ribbon in a bow.

Her hair was black, very short in a sort of pixie cut. She was petite, with a small frame and a small round face. She was white, I didn’t have any real clue what her ancestry was, but she had somewhat darker tan skin and freckles. She wore large round bronze framed glasses that looked huge on her, but fit her style.

She wore very little makeup that I noticed, other than small wings of eyeliner on the corner of each eye. Her legs were bare, and she wore new looking black patent leather Mary Janes.

She stood stock-still, hands clasped behind her, sucking on her bottom lip and looking down at the floor.

I felt a bit odd, standing there with an antique magnifying glass in my hand. I put it down and took off my jacket, placing it on a hook I found on the wall. I rolled up my sleeves and then set about putting on a pair of gloves.

She watched, not moving. Her black shoes pigeon-toed, and her cheeks seemed to grow a bit red.

I walked to her and looked her up and down. She was almost a foot shorter than me. I circled her. There were so many interesting details. I noted that her ears were unpierced. She had a small mole on her neck, just under her left ear. She wore a necklace, but it was under her blouse.

I stopped and opened the top button of her blouse. She took a deep breath, and her eyes widened. I untied her black bow, thinking of opening a present. I pulled the necklace out and saw it was a small golden cross. It looked very delicate and very old. I gently slipped it back under her blouse.

I paused there, the black gloves on the button of her white blouse. In the quiet of the room, I was very aware of my breathing and hers and how they were both becoming faster.

I opened the rest of the buttons of her blouse in a quick business-like manner. No need to waste time. Her bra was a small lacy affair, and her breasts proportional to her slight frame. I pulled the blouse from her skirt, and as gently as I could, removed the garment from her.

I hung her blouse on the hook next to my jacket.

In a bra and skirt, she looked even younger somehow. Her cheeks were redder, her face a bit blotchy and freckled, and her eyes were focused on her shoes.

As I walked behind her to unhook her bra, I realized I hadn’t said anything, and neither had she. It seemed almost strange to break that silence, so I didn’t. I removed her bra, noting she moved to aid me when necessary.

Her breasts were small, her areolas were just a touch darker than the rest of her skin. A soft rose color, like her lips. They were puffy, almost fat. I sighed when I saw them. They were lovely. She was lovely. It’s funny to think you have an idea of what someone’s nipples will look like and then can be very surprised when you actually see them. I pictured her darker and much smaller. 

I went back to the table and got one of the larger magnifying glasses. I came back and looked at her through it. I looked at her lips first. A rose color, no lipstick. They were well kept, not chapped at all, but I could see a slight impression where she bit her bottom lip.

Her eyes were a light brown, gold-flecked, brilliantly vivid when magnified. The almost conch-like curve of her ear, to the slope of her neck, the little v-shape her hair grew in at her nape.

That mole on her neck, magnified, a very dark brown, tiny but quite visible against her smooth and evenly tanned skin. The freckles that peppered her shoulders, an astrological map in dark amber on tan.

I felt very calm and serenely happy examining her. I remembered so many moments with lovers when my curiosity was brushed away by their insecurities or impatience. Finally, my interest was given full reign.

I raised her arms and examined her underarms, which were shaved bare. I imagined they were shaved that morning because of their smoothness.

The swell of her small breasts were such lovely curves. Slopes that were tipped in dusky rose. I was especially delighted by the slight line of color shift between the soft of her breast and her large areola.

There were small patterns of light dots and bumps around her nipple. My black-gloved fingers traced the circles of her. As I pushed and pulled her breasts, studying the shape of them and how they kept their perfect form, I was delighted to see that her nipples had transformed. They hardened, the areolas tightened, and they resembled more of what I imagined originally.

I knelt and examined her small belly button. Though she was somewhat thin, she had a marvelously little pouch of a belly that I was giddy to touch with my gloved hands.

She shifted a little at my touch, and I looked at her with annoyance. She bit her lip again in shame.

I found the buttons of her skirt and undid them, catching the garment before it fell to the floor. I folded it on one of the metal trays.

Her panties were boy cut. They matched the bra, a soft purple-gray lace. I walked around her again, looking at the shape of her. Her little belly started just above her panties, and I adored it for some reason.

She didn’t have much for hips, but her bottom did jut out a little. A round bottom that seemed just a little large for her frame. I found it adorable. In fact, it was hard not to grab it, though I supposed I could.

I leaned forward, my mouth very close to her right shoulder, and she grew very still. I sniffed her, take a few deep breaths.

There was a perfume, light, floral, familiar. I didn’t recall the name, but it was a scent my younger cousins wore, I remembered. There was a smell to her hair I wasn’t familiar with. Hints of wax, maybe? Some product. It smelled expensive, with layers of subtle perfume as well.

There was a soap smell as well. I moved closer, my nose almost touching her collar bone. Some lavender soap scent, but nearly gone.

I moved my hand down her side, and she shivered a bit at my touch. I could feel the heat of her skin through the gloves.

My black-gloved pointer finger hooked under her light purple panties, and I tugged them gently down. Her body tensed. As the lace fell to her feet, I got my magnifying glass ready.

A new scent was noticeable. A light musky perfume.

Between her legs was the natural triangle of her pubic hair. It was trimmed short. I knelt again and examined it with my magnifying glass. 

Slightly glossy sparse black hair. I was fascinated by the pattern, how the hair came together into a little sort of fauxhawk. Then there was a sort of dimple before the split of her lips.

Standing, her pussy was nothing more than a neat slit. It felt decadent to follow the line of that slit with my eyes, with the magnifying glass.

When I stood, I saw that the girl’s face was a brighter red. Her eyes looked a bit glazed. She swayed a bit as she stood.

I took her by the arm and led her to the examination table. 

She held my hand as she hopped up, and it was a strangely tender moment. I held her hand for another moment as she took a deep breath, then I guided her to lay down on the table with her legs hanging off the edge.

I took her skinny leg in my hand and bent her knee, placing her foot on the table. I repeated this with the other. Her legs were then spread for me perfectly.

I retrieved the stool and lowered it a bit, and sat in front of her spread legs.

Oh, what a luxury. 

She was spread out in front of me, knees up, her thighs noticeably trembling. I looked forward, over the horizon of her body, with the small swell of her breasts in the distance. I thought, “this was what I’ve wanted, to look at every inch of a woman without constraint, without a timetable or another goal. Not sex, not love, not flirtation, just curiosity. To be given time to revel in my curiosity and see if it could be sated.”

Her pussy was open for me, looking flowerlike despite my mind’s reluctance to think in such cliche terms.

There was an elaborate geography of pigment variations. Her outer lips seemed open to form a long teardrop shape, with her inner lips peeking out only slightly, the skin turning from shades of soft sand to wet sand to bruise.

I got up and saw that her eyes were closed and she was once more biting her bottom lip. Her eyes open with a flash, and she looked up at me with some new long, some longing replacing the fear.

I went to the case of equipment once more and rummaged through the collection. I took out a higher-powered magnifying glass and some long smooth metal pointers the size of chopsticks. Then, on the bottom of the case, I saw something I wasn’t expecting but perhaps should have. A rather archaic looking speculum. I rolled the whole little tray over to where I sat in front of her.

Using the thin pointer, I very gently spread the lips of her vulva a little more, marveling at how those lips had noticeably changed shape in the few minutes I had viewed them. Everything seemed to puff out a little, become slightly swollen from my attention, and there was noticeable wetness and a stronger smell.

The pheromones seemed to immediately go to work on my brain and body. Where I had been light-heartedly excited to explore, suddenly, my cock seemed to awaken and demand attention.

Still, that wasn’t what I was there for. I continued to examine her pussy. While I did, I also took out the speculum and held the bill of his in my hand tightly, warming it.

My metal pointer brushed the growing nub that was her clitoral hood, and she jumped suddenly, before attempting to stay put.

I put the speculum and pointer down for a moment and stood, going to the side of the table and finding the straps I had seen earlier.

I unrolled the strap and brought one across her chest, just above her breasts. It attached on the other side, and I tightened it good and tight. I brought another strap across her chest just under her breasts and tightened that one, then still another at her waist.

Looking through the case, I found two sets of adjustable padded cuffs. I attached each pair from her wrist to her ankle, which made sure she would stay exactly where I wanted.

When I returned to my seat, I went to the leather case and found the tubes I had seen. As I imagined, one was a lubricant. I put a dab of some on my gloved fingers and rubbed my fingers together.

When I brought my wet fingers to the entrance of her pussy, she let out a loud intake of breath and strained against her bonds. I smiled.

She felt so marvelously hot. One finger sank into her, and she braced herself. I couldn’t help but imagine my cock slipping into the fiery wet tightness of her. How I could easily fuck her helpless bound form.

The images of me doing so flashed across my mind as I got the speculum. I dabbed some lube onto it as well and then put the cool metal against her hot skin.

I hadn’t used a speculum, but I had seen videos. It was a simple thing, though it took a little maneuvering to get it inside of her. Lord, she was tight.

I opened the speculum gently, using my thumb, turning the screw slightly. What I saw was glorious pink, deep, wet, swollen depths. It was truly spectacular.

I sat back and looked at her whole body again. Her cheeks and neck were flushed, her nipples hard, and her areolas slightly distended. Her eyes were open, but glazed with need. Her breathing was faster, shallow. Finally, her pussy had become even more swollen and wet. Her clit was now nudging out of its little hood slightly.

Using one of the pointers, I pushed against the hood of her clit slightly, exposing it more. She winced and let out a little gasp.

I circled her clit with the instrument, and she moaned weakly. 

I opened the speculum a little more and then started rubbing her clit with the instrument in slow circles, using more pressure.

I was very curious to see how her sexual cycle went on. I tested different amounts of pressure, different points, pressing my fingers just above her clitoris, and making small hard circles elicit the strongest response.

She seemed to be trying desperately to raise her hips as I rubbed. Her face grew tense, panting, and whimpering for more.

Thinking she needed somewhat more stimulation, I closed the speculum a bit and slipped it out of her. The process seemed to almost bring her over the edge.

I inserted two fingers into her and continued manipulating her, and she bucked her hips rhythmically, letting out little sharp gasps and mumbling words I couldn’t make out, though certainly “fuck” was repeated a few times.

When I started really fucking her with my fingers, she finally climaxed.

A strange calm came over me as I watched her writhe and moan and mewl like a little animal. It was so wild and wonderful to watch from my detached vantage. How her mouth was frozen in an O as her legs shook and her vagina spasmed around my fingers almost painfully.

When it was done, I extracted my fingers and watched her paint and relax.

I gave her a moment and then reached for the straps.

“No,” she said. The first word spoken, sounding almost alien in the room’s sterile silence.

“You-um-don’t have to. Maybe leave it for a moment. It feels good to be held down.”

I nodded, unsure if I should respond. I put my hand on her chest, just between her breasts, and she took a deep breath, and then she seemed to tremble with satisfaction.

The silence that was once the norm suddenly became awkward.

She bit her lip, eyeing me.

“Do you want to get off too?” She said, looking embarrassed at the question.

“You can use me to get off if you want,” she added.

My cock was painfully hard, but it seemed outside the scope of the scene to take it out.

“I’m not sure that’s how this is supposed to go-”

She looked at me with such incredulity that for a moment, I was taken out of the room and the fact that she was strapped there for my amusement.

“We are in a secret room in a library used to check people out like books. We can do whatever we want. So, like, can you fuck me or something? Please?” She asked, her voice starting strong and then growing smaller and whinier.

I fished around in the case and found a condom. She caught my eye.

“Don’t use that,” she said simply.

I stood at the end of the table, looking down at her swollen wet pussy.

The rest of it felt wild and fantastical, but as I took my cock out, it felt different, almost wrong, actually bad.

I held my hard cock in my hand, my pants just unzipped, as I looked at her flushed naked body.

“You’d better not tell anyone,” I whispered. I wasn’t sure where the words came from, but it seemed right.

“Will you hurt me if I tell?” She asked, her voice suddenly very different, breathy, scared, desperate.

“I’ll kill you.” Her eyes met mine, hunting for the truth of my words.

I spat on my hand and rubbed my cock. My own touch felt familiar and comforting. Then I pressed the head of my cock against her soaked cunt, and heard her breathing speed up, watching her body stiffened.

“You’re really going to fuck me like this? Strapped to a table? You’re going to use me? Without a condom?” She whispered.

I rubbed my cock up and down against her, the head pressing against her clit.

“Don’t let them hear,” I whispered back. I wondered if we were both deep in our own fantasies.

It didn’t feel exactly like sex. It felt better. I was just using her body to come.

As my cock slipped into her, hot and wet and inviting. I felt myself make a sound that I don’t think I could repeat. Her body was just so feverishly hot, and she was so ridiculously wet her pussy seemed to pull me right in.

Skin on skin. No glove, no condom, no safety net, just warm went fucking.

There was also no care for her pleasure. She was just an object. It was just for me.

I pushed my cock deep into her, grabbing her hips and fucking her hard and fast and frantically. 

When I came, it hit me hard. My knees started to buckle. It was difficult to keep moving.

I slipped out, one small jet of come across her pussy, onto her belly, then I pushed my cock right back in and groaned as I was returned to the heat of her.

We were panting as I found a cloth in the case and cleaned her up. I undid the straps and numbly watched her dress. My limbs felt rubbery.

When we were both cleaned up and clothed, there was an awkward moment. We looked at each other, and there was a strange, alien feeling. Seeing each other for the first time as people, almost.

She turned and went to the door and knocked three times. In a moment, the door was opened, and the woman with the silver-framed glasses eyed me, cooly, once more.

We left the white room and entered the small, well-furnished waiting room.

“You’ll both have to sign out,” she said formally, directing us to a huge leather-bound book and opening it for us.

There was a line for the date, which had already been filled out and a scribbled signature for the “proctor.” Then there were two lines for “examiner” and “exhibit.”

I signed, curious about the exhibit’s name, but I couldn’t make out anything more than an M before the proctor shut the book.

“You can leave first. It’s better if we don’t have both of you go at once,” the proctor said, raising an eyebrow and pointing to the door.

“Good day,” she added.

My throat was dry, I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just left.

The hall felt ten degrees cooler, and a small group of tourists passed, pointing out a map on the wall.

I dizzily made my way down the huge marble stairs and out of the building, into the sun, finally leaning on the platform one of the lions sat on.

A few deep breaths as the memories flooded my mind.

I wondered if that adventure would overtake my childhood memories of the big library, or would they melt together and form some strange journey in my head.

I walked to the subway and then passed it, deciding to take a long walk uptown to process all that had happened. As I did, I considered my next trip to the “Private Collection” or perhaps the other collection I had heard about in Brooklyn.

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