“Miss Sinclair?” He looked up from the papers in front of his nose.
“Yes,” I answered politely.
“Your first name?” he asked like this was an interview.
“Syke,” I replied.
“You make that up?” He questioned me with an air of suspicion.
“No, I didn’t make that up,” I sounded offended.
He raised his eyebrows critically, and I got the chills.
“You wanted these,” I shoved my last file of papers toward him. I wanted out of there fast, becoming instantly impatient. I’d been quickly reminded of why I didn’t like these people, and had stayed clear of them all this time.
He poured over the documents about copyrights and trade names. Probably important stuff to him, although it was boring to me.
“You’re not finished,” he curtly observed.
“No, but I thought you might want this to start.”
“No, I want the whole thing when it’s done tomorrow,” he handed the file back to me.
“Tomorrow, when?” I asked.
“By ten.”
“Ten?”
“Yes, ten. Get here early for a change and get some work done… you waste enough hours as it is, Skye Sinclair.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning,” he dismissed me without offering any further explanation. I guess he didn’t have to. My cold chills went on for hours afterwards and I had no explanation why. I added him to the list, I had to after that remark, You waste enough hours as it is, Syke Sinclair. Might be innocent. Might be incriminating. Might be a fairly logical comment for an efficiency expert.
***
By the time I left, just after six o’clock, I’d had mixed messages from four office icons, all of which might have pointed to my mystery man. Confusion reigned. The only solution I had for this critical situation was between my thighs. My bare pussy pressed against the seat of my car, dampened the fabric just as it had dampened the fabric of my desk chair. As I drove home, I thought of my panties stuffed inside my desk drawer, easily visible to anyone who opened it. Anyone could stumble on them… anyone looking for a pencil pull could open the drawer and wonder why the research assistant had left a pair slightly soiled black panties in her desk. Sure, the possibility that someone would discover them was probably remote. More likely, whoever was behind the email messages would have an easy way to know if I was following his orders. If it was a test, I suppose I passed.
Riding home, the reminder of my lust throbbed between my legs. The ache hurt. As I pulled into the parking garage of the apartment building, I pressed my fingers to my crotch and began to play with myself. I couldn’t wait. Stopping the car in my assigned stall, I leaned back and continued to play with my wet pussy. Looking down, I could see my breasts pushing against the fabric of my blouse, and my nipples hard and poking through the silk. A few efficient strokes of my fingers against my clit, a few more… “Gawd yeesssssss,” I quietly murmured, panting, groaning, hoping I wouldn’t be seen as I came. Because of my long day of frustrated arousal, my need was great and I came hard, belly grinding in powerful spasms, pussy spilling wet stuff on my hand, “Acccccccccchhhhhhhhh, yessssssssss.”
I collapsed into the seat, breathing heavily for some seconds, then I stumbled from my car and stumbled up the stairs and into my apartment. Closing the door behind me, I locked it, bolted it and attached the connecting chain—as if any of that would keep the lusty demons off my back and out of my crotch.
Chapter Three
I had my dream dates everyday with [email protected].
Masturbate at your desk, just as you’re finishing lunch. Email when you’re about to come.
By ten the next day, I was desperate for this message, about to email him demanding he pay attention to me. And then, this little missal arrived to insist I do exactly what I knew I had to. So titillated by the assignment, I barely gazed about to see if it was safe before my fingers dove for the pulsing wetness between my thighs. I was little more than a blatant whore, churning my groin against my hand, which zeroed in on all the right places. Naughty me, I didn’t want to come too soon… I wanted the sensations to linger, to gain intensity before it spilled free. The fact of my vulnerable position only increased my excitement. Of course, I’d stop if someone suddenly appeared from between the files, or along the back corridor. But no one did. Fifteen minutes of beautiful sensation brought me to the perfect peak, and just as I was about to let the explosion rip, I remembered the whole of the master’s message. Email when you’re about to come.
Damn him! I said to myself as I pulled my hand away.
Now, please! I quickly typed and sent my message.
Yes. Right. Waiting for permission was part of the game. I backed off a dozen times… spending nearly twenty minutes teetering on the edge of oblivion before the man finally emailed back.
Stop now. You’ll get to come when you’ve earned the right.
No, no, please! I shot right back.
His reply seemed almost instantaneous. Maybe the game’s up before it’s even started, Miss Skye Sinclair. Follow the rules, or quit.
Sorry… but can’t I please come?
Sorry, Sir, he corrected me by return mail, apparently having decided that I needed to address him more formally, and no you can’t come now. You’ll have to wait. In the meantime, no coming without permission. I own your body, your mind, your soul. That’s the first rule of submission. You get this one, you might make yourself worthy of a master.
I hated him for denying me… but it was as I asked. It was as I had imagined. Exactly. Denial, creating a pulse of sexual excitement I could hardly contain. Men—a man—who won’t put up with my BS… who forced me to obey. That was the gist of my personal ad.
Be careful what you pray about, what you dream, what you imagine, what you dare to think. From somewhere beyond my memory the warning flew in as a reminder. I had to decide, was this what I really wanted?
***
The messages that followed my lunchtime masturbation got more specific, more intrusive, more pointed.
End the affair with the computer tech. End all your affairs.
The order was short and precise.
Yes, absolutely, it was time to end my fling with Roddy—although it wasn’t easy pushing him away.
Tell him you have another man. What? Was he in my brain, reading my mind?
Focus all your thoughts on me.
Yes yes… I was doing that, thinking of him every hour, every minute.
Dress for me, walk for me, live for my commands.
Yes, I was doing that too, getting sluttier, more provocative, unbuttoning my blouses to expose my breasts, letting peeks of flesh appear for the casual eye, wearing a garterbelt and stockings in lieu of pantyhose, wondering if anyone noticed, wondering if my master witnessed my transformation.
Look the men in the office in the eyes as if you’re looking into mine. Let them see your lust and understand you are a sexual woman…
The dressing was easy, but eye contact was hard with men I’d sworn to hate. I still wanted to dismiss them, cut through their façades with my critical knife, but I was turning into putty instead. Every day there was a new incarnation of myself to wonder about. Why was I making these changes so easily?
Ellington Lloyd, Joel McNary, T J Niven, Preston Lockhart… and the others soon knew exactly who I was: Skye Sinclair, the woman at the far end of the building, the head of research, the slut in sheep’s clothing who’d been hiding all this time.
At the end of my day, however, I was still no closer to knowing my mystery man than when this charade began. Every night I went to bed with one of the primary players in my mind, with [email protected] hanging over my head like a Sword of Damocles. He evolved from night to night, but he was never flesh and blood, anything more than an apparition, the phantom prince of my kinky nightmares.
Why can’t you tell me who you are? I typed the desperate me
ssage, hoping for an honest answer.
Keep looking them in the eye. Eventually you’ll connect with me and you’ll know then who I am.
***
The messages were always brief, sometimes incisive, and growing increasing sexual, increasingly graphic.
Find a sizeable, but comfortable dildo to wear in your pussy. Insert it in the morning, fasten it in tight and wear it to the office tomorrow.
No! No, absolutely not! Was my immediate reply.
But then my resolve crumbled like so much dust. How could I not? How could I dismiss the rumbling in my tummy, the wetness between my thighs, the aroma of sex emitted from my pores as the brilliance of this next assignment seized my imagination?
My body shuddered in advance, then shuddered more as I combed the nearest sex shop for the right equipment for the task. I found a five-inch dildo and a smooth silk rope, and dwelling on the lure of this assignment, I even tried on a black lace corset in the dressing room, becoming so aroused I wanted to masturbate. But my master’s orders stopped me. I left the shop with bag in hand, dildo and rope inside, leaving the corset lying on the dressing room floor.
I couldn’t imagine wearing the weighty piece inside me all day, but I would. For him, if not for me.
***
It had been three days since my last orgasm. My body was raw, exploding every hour in reminder of the pleasure denied me. But I was true to my word, too hooked on my master’s game to disobey an order.
I left my apartment the next morning, attired in a denim skirt, a bright yellow t-shirt and a pair of summer sandals. Standing in front of the mirror, I made certain no one would ever know the secret beneath the skirt, as the heavy weight of the fabric covered any evidence of the ropes and dildo underneath. Afraid the dildo would slip out, I’d bound my groin so tightly that the ropes cut and every move was a reminder of this gross absurdity. Sitting became a dicey situation: some positions were excruciatingly painful, while others, I could hardly tell there was something lodged inside me. Regardless, I never forgot the strain of the ropes wrapping my waist, bisecting my crotch and tied off behind me. I wouldn’t bend over, I wouldn’t brush up against anyone, and if I could safely hide in my cubicle all day, I would.
For a time I ignored the effect the bondage was having on me. It was an annoyance, not a pleasure. But all that changed during lunch, as I was taking bite of a salad, sitting primly as if the dildo was an anchor keeping me in place when my computer pinged, alerting me to a newly received message.
Think about what you’re doing, Skye. And think about why.
More orders, these were simple ones, and I let my mind drift to thoughts of him… Niven, Lockhart, McNary, and Lloyd, the strange composite of the four gentlemen in the office and everything else I imagined the man to be. Of course, I could be way off base and my email master was none of these men, perhaps someone much less attractive, much more mundane, much more approachable, much less exciting than I hoped for. I let my imagination drift away, and soon the effect of the dildo and ropes became more than an annoyance, more than irritation, more than just another assignment. It worked on me like the fingers of a lover, tempting, taunting, revealing the truth about myself. My belly swelled with desire, as my thoughts were captured, poised on the unknown man who demanded this of me. I was at his feet, naked but for this simple gear, waiting for his touch, waiting for the revelation.
The phone suddenly jangled, knocking me out of my dreams.
“Research Department,” I answered.
“Face the window, Skye, and pull down the blind. Close your eyes and wait for me. Do it now.”
Now? Here? Inside this half hidden cubicle? But what if…? I tried to blurt out, but it was too late. The phone clicked and the dial tone buzzed in my ear like a buzz saw.
I swiveled my chair, reached for the mini-blind ropes and tugged until the slats dropped down. Afraid to move from there, I closed my eyes and waited, feeling him near, feeling the ropes, the gnawing dildo in my pussy and my arousal soar far beyond its previous bounds. My body ached for his physical touch.
In minutes, my obedience was rewarded as I heard the crisp sound of shoes in the corridor and then the shuffling of feet behind me. Feeling the presence of a body hovering over me, I mentally sifted through the images, the men, the possibilities, and the ones I’d already dismissed. The cuff of his shirt brushed my cheek, while the scent of his cologne wafted toward my nostrils. He rested a palm on my shoulder and squeezed firmly.
His voice was low and muffled as it had been on the phone, so unlike the four men I knew about… or so I believed.
“The demands become serious from here on, Skye.” His fingers caressed my face and my body trembled scared. “Play with yourself for me. Eyes closed, hand inside your crotch.”
“Here? Now?” I croaked that old refrain.
“Here. Now,” he softly confirmed.
I lifted my skirt and parted my thighs, while the energy of sex burst from me in a raging torrent. For days I hadn’t come, so it only took a minute of frantic play to have me at the edge.
His hand gripped my throat hard. I was sure I’d suffocate. “Come!” he ordered, bending down to whisper in my ear. My body seemed to rip apart, with the end crashing in around me. My ass lifted off the seat, then my bound groin rocked back and forth as it settled down, making the chair squeak with each jarring movement, certainly telegraphing my state of being to the whole goddam world. I forgot myself, the place, the time, the company, and groaned because I could do no less.
“Hush!” I heard his imperative firmly remind me where I was. Then as the spasms ceased to shake my groin, he released his grip. He backed away, saying, “No one’s going to bother you. Pull yourself together and get back to work.”
The sensations lingered with me long into the afternoon, along with the memory of his scent, the feel of his hand, the warmth of his skin, the gentle firmness of his voice. If only I had turned around and opened my eyes, I’d have seen his face. But he remained, instead, my mystery, the man without a face, without a name.
The ropes remained in place and the dildo in my pussy until the end of my workday. There was not another word from my master in that time; I suppose he believed he’d said enough. At home that night, I washed the dildo and rope and placed them in a silk bag in the bottom of my lingerie drawer, there to wait for other orders, another time. There to haunt me, I suppose.
***
Three days passed, and as the busy world of Lloyd & Lockhart exploded with work for me to do, I had no time for email conversations… even if I was driven to check my messages hourly. Curiously, my master was silent. On the second day, without a familiar message in my inbox, I took off to investigate… see who was out of the office. To my disappointment, all four of my prime suspects along with the other less likely possibilities were in the building, intact, sticking to the office as if they’d been pasted there, cut-out paper doll caricatures working diligently, just as I was. Deprived of clues to my master’s identity, I headed back to my cubicle and my steadily rising mountain of work.
For a time, the silence in my email was some relief, but soon the satiation of that one long ago climax dwindled. My body asked for more. No! I denied it firmly. It asked again, as often as I would think of the mysterious man in charge and his continuing effect on me. I denied it myself repeatedly, realizing that I could masturbate, if I really got that horny. But it was the principle of the matter… sure, I could fudge on the rules and get myself off—in seconds likely—but then I’d have to lie to him, and to myself. I’d feel the guilt like an accusing parent wagging its finger at my weakness.
Third day waiting… I went home feeling limp as a rag, my body crawling with the pressing need. Any touch, any slight touch, and my crotch was likely to explode. I slumped in my easy chair, took a long drink of ice water and wished for something to deliver me from this disaster. I wanted the man, but I wanted him closer. Email was not enough when email was cold. My fantasies were not enough when they could
vanish with the breeze. I needed his warmth, the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand to take this crushed desire and make it mean something.
Impatient me… I should have known he’d read my mind and my impatience and understand my plight—after all, he’d created it; but it took nearly half my evening before I rather accidentally discovered a package wedged in my mailbox. One minute I was drowning in my physical denial, the next, I was suddenly reminded by a TV commercial that I hadn’t collected my daily mail.
***
“Read first” the envelope said in a scratchy masculine script. Pen and ink on a bright white note. “Begin no later than ten pm. Finish your preparations in twenty minutes and wait.”
My body answered with alarm. A glance at the clock, it was already ten to ten… I read on with my eyes growing wider as one command followed the next, as the master explained the items in the box—which I tore apart until the tissue paper was in shreds and lying before me was a blindfold, rope and handcuffs.
If you forget the first instruction, I was warned, you may wait a long time for your rescue.
That first instruction… Put your house key under the mat outside your front door.
I finally moved, forced by my resolve, and the white-hot feel of my crotch. My thighs rubbed together and I groaned aloud. This was crazy, utterly crazy! But wonderful!
With my house key safely nudged under the doormat, I continued the long and detailed list, first placing a straight-backed dining room chair in the center of my living room. Then I stripped away my clothes, rubbed my body with scented lotion—that was by my inspiration—then I proceeded to sit in the chair and bind my ankles to chair legs and my knees, spread wide, to either side of the seat. He’d provided just enough rope to complete each task; he was an efficient man. Once my lower limbs were secure, I continued with the instructions, placing one handcuff around my left wrist, then covering my eyes with the blindfold so I couldn’t see anything but a tiny sliver of light below, where the soft illumination of the living room lamp seeped inside. Should I turn out the light? I wondered to myself.
Force Me To Obey Page 3