Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Force Me to Obey!
by
Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN 13: 978-1-934349-09-0
ISBN 10: 1-934349-09-7
A Pink Flamingo Publications Ebook Publication
All rights reserved
Copyright ©2005 Lizbeth Dusseau
Chapter One
Roddy Morgan slipped his hand inside my skirt while I was at the water cooler. Warm on my tepid skin, his palm raised goose bumps on the flesh, and a quiver that ran from the nape of my neck to the groped cheek below. I was getting a drink. He was getting into my panties. I scooted away, while trying to fend off the curious glances of three power executives walking the corridor looking seriously glum, a little offended by what they thought they saw, but too busy to bother with Roddy’s mischief and my blushing face. As a rule, I make it a point to avoid the glances of self-important men, to stay on the sidelines, lost in the shuffle of the frantic office. I also took my life leisurely, remaining most of the time buried in a back corner of the research department, beyond rows and rows of rickety wooden file shelves eight feet high, where my cluttered desk sat like a tribute to an independent thinker. At the moment of the three men’s passing, I did catch a pair of dark and steamy eyes focused almost cruelly on me, but I don’t remember who they belonged to. Those eyes were as effective as Roddy’s hand on my derriere was for making me have sexual thoughts, but they were gone too soon for me to connect them with identifying details such as a face, or a tie, or a pressed suit, or a distinctive body shape.
Back at my desk, I turned on my ancient monitor—the pixel count was bad and the color fading—but it generally did the trick. There were precious few funds for the equipment I needed, given the job I was supposed to do, part of which was surfing the Internet for information the advertising agents needed for clients, for marketing strategies and for sales leads, for verbiage required to make the ‘Big’ sell. I was supposed to know it all, find anything anyone needed at a glance. And once the faceless souls had what they wanted and left my stuffy cubicle for the wider world of their fancy offices, I was ignored. That’s exactly how I liked it then; suited me to a tee. No one got into my private business and I didn’t care about anyone else’s. I was saved from the secretarial pool chatter in my corner behind the office files—they really didn’t plan on my position when they arranged offices and desks, but the isolation was my salvation.
My only real contact with humanity other than the string of assignments that justified my being here was with Roddy, a quirky computer technician, who was in my space the first few weeks, fixing my antiquated computer system more than I was using it. He ended up replacing just about everything from motherboard to video card, from power supply to printer cable. He doubled my speed, quadrupled the RAM, added a billion gig hard drive—or so it would seem—and hooked me to the T-line, so I didn’t have to connect to the Internet with the 28K modem that some ignorant exec decided was probably adequate for my job. Roddy had my revamped system souped up like a hotrod in two weeks, and then kept coming back for more fixes, almost daily.
How I was expected to do my job with an outdated computer, neither Roddy nor I could figure. “Idiots!” he rolled his eyes and scowled, ranting on about the stupidity of the computer illiterate, while poking his fingers and tools into my hardware. It was his way of seducing me, as if all the technical lingo was foreplay, and as he turned the last screw on the computer case, solving my latest dilemma, I’d be climbing his bones, unable to defend myself against his brilliance. I think he liked my hardware as much as the jerry-rigged computer that brought him to me. That opinion wouldn’t be completely groundless. I might be the kind of girl to watch—if a guy wasn’t looking for a runway model, with size zero tits and an emaciated body, or the beach girl with a bouncing set of artificial jugs and a mop of dyed blonde hair. I prided myself on a voluptuous, pre-Twiggy look, on being exotic with dark skin and hair the color of burnt toast. I have hips and breasts in generous proportions, curves, muscled thighs and a rolling kind of carriage that naturally drew the attention of men—when I wanted to draw their attention, and only then.
Strangely, I did like Roddy. He wasn’t as geeky as most computer junkies—no pocket protector, no fisheye glasses, no scraggly hair and unpressed clothes. Maybe his brown hair was disheveled and falling into his face, and his blue jeans were worn, but the hair was almost sexy, and he neatly tucked his bleached white cotton t-shirts into a low-slung waistline. His smile was quick and easy, his dark eyes deep and soulful. His look was almost movie idol perfect, except for teeth that needed a little fixing.
I soon looked forward to his visits, and even the sexy glimmer in his eye as he subtly came on to me. Maybe it was simply loneliness. Eight hours a day lost in my solitary island, little contact with the world outside—sometimes I even ate lunch sitting in my desk chair—a friendly face, someone else removed from the constant power, money grubbing consciousness of the outer office made Roddy Morgan interesting, even fascinating. And, then too, there was a sexy swagger to his tight round buns.
Exactly when he decided that he’d fuck me in the computer lab, I don’t know. One of those accidents that just happens, I suppose, like stumbling over your own foot. I think we knew that my cubicle was out of the question for anything sexual. Yes, it was off the beaten path of the regular office, but there was no door, no lock and key, no way to be sure that we wouldn’t be found by some unsuspecting party looking for research—not the sight of Roddy’s tongue down my throat, or worse yet, me on my knees, tonguing his cock.
Occasionally at lunchtime, I ventured to the lab at Roddy’s invitation. Different scenery. Different people. The break was refreshing, I’d tell myself, even if it did give Roddy the idea that I was interested in him. I never expected that after sharing tuna sandwiches and Coke we’d suddenly be locked in a passionate embrace, with his mouth opened on mine. He was wearing some delicious scent of aftershave that riled my crotch, and made me grovel helplessly into his body, where I discovered a firm set of muscles, powerful ones that could only be the result of regular workouts in a gym. My discovery fanned the flames of my desire, so that before I returned to my desk for the afternoon, I was laid out on a table in the computer lab—memory, modems, video cards and tools shoved aside—as Roddy pulled out a first rate cock from inside his jeans and shoved it into my wet slit. He got started and my breasts were bouncing, my hair flying, my mouth trying to swallow the natural sounds of sex—though I really didn’t succeed. Thankfully, he was quick—time was running out on our privacy, I would soon discover; his boss walked in on us not a minute after we were finished and presentable. But quick made sense. We’d been getting ready for this moment for weeks, and the explosive force of our locked groins was only natural. Roddy Morgan rammed his fat prick into my love cave with such expertise that I immediately put him into another category of men, one reserved for the ‘keepers’—definition obvious. No longer the computer wizard geek, he’d become a smoldering stud with an attitude. I loved it! Even if I could never love him, I could sure fuck the hell out of him. Seemed like a simple cure for my loneliness on the job.
After the first time, we generally fucked every other day, even though Roddy’s trips to my cubicle were curtailed somewhat. He had a shitload of computers that needed fixing and since mine was running like a Swiss watch, we both figured it
would be easier to conduct our fling in the more remote subterranean computer lab. His boss always ate out, he assured me, and hardly anyone in the company even knew where the place was. That was by design, Roddy told me. He liked his anonymity and seclusion as much as I did.
Thus, some three weeks later, it wasn’t completely unexpected to find Roddy playfully, and hopefully surreptitiously, fondling my privates by the water cooler. Little did I know how much that brief hand-in-my-pants encounter drew the attention of that small audience of execs, their attention aptly focused on me.
***
When I wasn’t interacting officially or sexually with Roddy Morgan, which was most of the time, I searched for facts, figures and information requested of me. I delved into books, research reports, and often made phone calls for the answers I needed. Mostly, though, I surfed the net, which seemed to provide information the quickest easiest way. And when I wasn’t surfing the net for work-related information, which could be long periods of time, as the need for my research skills seemed to go in streaks, I surfed the net for myself.
Until I landed this job, I’d had very little Internet experience. My friends were chatting nightly in groups, playing kinky games in porn sites and generally talking a language I didn’t understand. I replied that chat rooms were a waste of time, and that Net porn was garbage designed solely to take your money. They said I didn’t know what I was missing. I found out all too quickly that they were right.
The first time I stumbled on a porn site—www.bigbabesinbathingsuits.com—and it was truly an accident, I swear, I almost creamed my pants when I saw in flashing, 3-D color a pair of breasts that looked exactly like mine—exact clones. The aureoles were large and dark like mine, and the nipples in the centers small perfectly formed knots in perfect duplication of the ones I looked at daily in the mirror. Of course, the face that belonged to them was nothing like mine, but that didn’t matter. For nearly sixty seconds, my eyes were glued to the two perfectly rounded, very naturally stunning orbs. I can remember rubbing my tits almost protectively as I gazed at the image, while feeling a strange sensation of lust swimming through me. Eventually, I shook off the feeling and retreated with the back button to safer websites, breathing a little easier, and finally deciding that there were just not that many body styles, shapes and types, and perhaps mine was particularly pleasing for internet viewers. Naturally I’d find ones similar to mine amidst the raunchy layouts that so garishly populate the Internet. I almost smiled with satisfaction at that conclusion, but when I tried to find the site again, it seemed to be lost in the big-breasted oblivion of a hundred websites exactly like it, a hundred almost exactly like it. None of the websites I followed through a maze of linking pages had my clone on the front page, or any page I found beyond the entry button. I didn’t yet realize that there was a detailed history of my Internet travels, robotically recorded inside my computer. By the time I did find out about this convenient feature, www.bigbabesinbathingsuits.com, or whatever the site name was, had dropped out of my files.
I spent a good week deliberately avoiding porn sites. In fact, I stayed away from Internet research for days, thinking that I could do a better job with traditional methods. Unfortunately, it took hours—and sometimes days—to find through conventional channels what I could locate in minutes on the net. I finally ventured back cautiously, but was careful to avoid anything sexual.
I was successful in my plan for several days. But then my determination to remain professional and untainted by the seamier site of the Net took a drastic turn in the opposite direction. That day it was late. Except for a few over-achievers still diligently working on their accounts, a stray secretary and me, the offices of Lloyd & Lockhart Advertising were vacant. Even Roddy had gone home for the day. Oddly, I’d shrugged off his last sexual advances. I hadn’t been in the mood since my eyes fixated on my body-twin’s twin boobs—this was just after he’d been caught with his hand up my skirt. I certainly wasn’t going to explain to Roddy why I wasn’t uninterested. I suspect he thought it had something to do with the incident, but it really didn’t.
That night, just before quitting time, I was aimlessly surfing for myself again, thinking I’d look up L L Bean for a sweater to buy my preppie sister for her birthday. But before I got anywhere near www.button-downshirtsandcorduroyskirts.com I was buffeted back into the web of bare-chested women and shaved pubic mounds, thrust toward the steamy opened-mouthed expressions of women about to go down on penis heads. My response was as automatic as Pavlov’s dog—mouth salivating, heart palpitating, pussy heating and squirming in my chair, long before my conscious mind realized what I was really feeling. Where was Roddy when I needed him? Of course, he was on his way home, lost in that other modern transit maze, the city bus system, heading toward whatever seedy rooms comforted him at night. Maybe, he was on his way to the girlfriend I didn’t know about. We had a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy regarding other relationships, which pretty much assured that ours remained a temporary fling.
In lieu of any direct relief, I kept up my desperate journey deeper and deeper inside the gigantic rift that was this strange erotic world. There were no rules on what could be shown before the naked eye, and mine were wide open, not browsing as much as devouring the images. I surfed on feeling crazed and miserable, body aching, tits aching, cunt aching, head aching. Where would this end?
Suddenly my alternative world took a drastic shift. Images from the dark lair of S&M appeared before me and another fanatical nosedive followed… leather, latex, lace, black screens with beckoning fingers in the form of bondage, whips and cruel looking women turned the erotic into a hellish landscape. I have no idea how I navigated through that bottomless muck, but I knew that I didn’t want to stop before I’d seen it all. Yes, that would have taken days, a fact that dawned on me about ten o’clock that night when I saw the cleaning lady wheeling her cart toward my cubicle.
I came up for air just long enough to tell her that I was too busy to have her clean my tiny workspace.
“They sure work you hard around here,” the big black lady sighed, as if she understood my predicament.
I nodded and smiled.
She smiled back and left me to the private disaster I was making of my time.
Ten o’clock. What was I doing in the building at this hour?
‘But just another hour,’ the internal voice in me chimed in like a desperate child.
No! I was about to close out of the six browsers open on my monitor.
‘Ten minutes, please?’ the voice again.
No! I closed all but the very last window.
‘Five minutes. Til ten fifteen, tops,’ the inner voice kept pleading.
I gazed at the clock on the desk, 10:07. Okay. So, what was the matter with another few minutes? my rational mind continued persuasively.
I hit another link and the machine was flying again as though I’d just brought it back from the dead. Quick as I could, I moved from link to link searching for something I didn’t understand, seeking something I know I didn’t trust, pushed by forces I could not name, but none of that mattered. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to have the satisfaction, now, in big bold renditions.
This must be the nature of addictions. They grab for a tiny piece of your attention, and once they have it, they command it all.
Submissive, dominant, D/s, masters, slaves, power exchange were meaningful words with great mysteries behind them. Before the clock struck midnight, I was at www.alt.com, hyped up on the immediacy of it and poised to place a personal ad of my own.
“I have to lock up, miss,” the big black gal was gently knocking on my cubicle, trying not to destroy my perfect concentration, and yet for the express purpose of doing just that. She couldn’t leave the floor with me still there.
“No one else around?” I asked, looking up in a fog.
“No, miss.”
“Sorry. I must’ve lost track of time.”
My computer whirred to a halt, leaving me wondering if
I’d find these pages again, and if I did, would I find them as addictive as they’d been all night.
***
I went home to masturbate to the theme that kept reverberating through my head. Men, strange, mysterious, dark, visionary, purposeful, strong-willed, unbendable men telling me what to do. I opened my thighs while lying back on my bed and fingering the throbbing sliver of skin that makes up my love bud—the sweet little thing was angrily cawing at me because I couldn’t rub myself off fast enough. But I want to savor the experience, I internally screamed. Feel the voices, the words inside my brain. I made up the images when my memory of the websites failed me but the scenes depicted didn’t go far enough. I created dialogue between imaginary people, fashioned a sensuous aura in my mind, drew in the smells of leather, the sounds of leather striking flesh, the pictures incessant and fully fleshed out, all coming from an unknown continent of desire found unexplored in my sexual psyche. How could this be? I would spend days asking myself that question.
I didn’t have any answers to my quandary the first time the questions crossed my mind, while reveling in my masturbation. But at the time, I really didn’t care. I had sensation, drama, the image of myself in bondage, dreams of being held captive by unknown forces and men like I’d never met before—real men. (Roddy obviously wasn’t part of the picture)
My body climbed to the top of an enormous crescendo where I straddled the sensation for minutes, until I couldn’t hold myself back any longer and the bottom fell out of my control. I rocked on my fingers, on my hand, gyrating spastically. Then I shoved my hand inside of my vagina, as if it were a cock. The wanting was imperious, driven, cruel, bossy. At the end of it, there was one hellava crushing, crunching spasm that jerked my groin off the bed… endless more merciful spasms followed. I know I screamed softly, and moaned thereafter. If I’d had a partner to share this with, I would have wailed loudly for the glory of it and to brag about my ecstasy. But being alone, I still nurtured some sense of propriety; it must have been ingrained. Why scream if there is no one to hear? Sensible thought.
Force Me To Obey Page 1