Force Me To Obey Read online

  Mine was a soft scream only I could hear. I was the only one who mattered.

  ***

  All illusions about myself were shattered that night. I couldn’t sleep. Four times later on I had to come, as if I were on a perpetual sex drug, lost in the land of my body. When I finally woke in the morning, I found I’d subliminally drafted the script for the rest of my life, and it looked nothing like the one I’d been working from since I was twenty-one. Now at thirty-two I was changing everything, dropping assumptions about myself as a conventional woman. All caution thrown to the wind, I leapt from there, purposefully and headlong into the realm of Internet porn—specifically sites that featured S&M and exposes of submissive women living lives as sex slaves, at the mercy of their men.

  I only screwed Roddy when I couldn’t stand the undeniable demands resulting from my own arousal. Sometimes I was driven to him, forced to take the little used backstairs to the computer lab, where I’d hopefully find him. Often he wasn’t there, but off repairing computers in the offices above. When I did find him alone, I came on to him ravenously. Certainly, this was not the way a submissive woman acted, but I didn’t quite understand that then. I only understood my driving physical need.

  ***

  After two weeks of self-discovery, gauging my feelings and taking note of the sexual desires surfacing right and left beside me like porpoises in the water, I found the personals site again and decided to place an ad—although I had no intention of answering any replies. I wanted the titillation, fuel added to the inferno already burning inside me. While sanity took a backseat, the obsession ruled. I wrote my ad… something simple.

  “Wannabe submissive woman looking for men who excite me… strong, patient, creative, determined men who won’t put up with my BS. I don’t know what I like, but I suspect that I’ll do anything you ask, as long as you’re the right man for the job. I’m not sure about pain, because I’ve never had the experience, so go softly to start and help me feel my way through. But, please, please, force me to obey!”

  I included a picture of myself taken by a former lover, a softly screened black and white nude shot, which was mostly of my back, from my neck down to my ass. My long dark hair almost completely covered the exposed side of my face. I imagine if you knew me well, you might recognize me from the pose, the attitude, the body type. It was very ‘me’ without revealing anything specific. I was taking a chance that no one I knew would find these personals, let alone find my ad. Although the fact that there was even a mere chance of being recognized made the whole experience even more exciting. One minute I wanted to take back the impulsive move and the next I was squirming in my chair, panties flooded with the pungent juices from within—as ripe and powerful as my desire.

  Days after the ad appeared, my personal email was flooded with replies. I had no idea so many men would think they had the balls, the guts, to tame me, to train me to submit and give me the pleasure I so desired. Some messages I immediately deleted—just horny guys with hard-ons and no imagination. Other replies I read more thoroughly, hearing the imagined sounds of their voices speaking in my head. Often the verbiage was the same, and soon almost predictable. I can take you into the darkness… I can make you tremble. I’m experienced, firm but caring, ruthless but wise. One night, I was about to answer the best ones. Why not? The anonymous game made me tingle all over in ways I never had before. Besides, it was only a game, safe, anonymous, without the risk of meeting someone for real… unless of course I really wanted to meet someone…

  Maybe, eventually, I’d be ready for that too…

  And, then, may not.

  I read through the selected ten replies one more time, seeing the words repeat… silly, trite, redundant words. The repetitious phrases sounded like these men were reading from the same script… and their impossible claims suddenly lost their ability to inspire me. I dismissed them all, along with the whole silly idea. I put my personal ad profile on hold and walked away from the computer, dismayed and confused… though maybe just afraid.

  An hour later, I changed my mind. Given the sexual roar inside my body and the demands it made on me, I should, at the very least, allow their fantasies collide with mine. Maybe one would rise above the others and be worth my time. I certainly needed something to assuage the unsatisfied roar within me.

  I’d go back. I’d look again. I’d answer some of the emails with brief remarks, see who was serious, who was just playing games—if it was possible to determine that from an email.

  I was nearly out of the office, in the downstairs lobby heading for him, when I finally settled on my plan. I almost turned back. As though a tractor beam had attached itself to my crotch, I could feel the tug, its unrelenting determination to have me. The grip of sensibility and sanity had loosened and I stopped. I started back, and then I stopped again and turned toward the outside door … . Waiting for my insides to give me another order.

  Yes! Yes! I’d give it another try! But not today. I needed to be sensible, sleep with my decision. After all, it was almost midnight again and the cleaning lady would be leaving the building. I’d have to leave too.

  Chapter Two

  Email… from an unknown party.

  My eyes were hardly open enough to focus. It had been a long night. I dragged myself to the office, slurping coffee, hoping it would wake me up.

  Skye Sinclair… if you want the real thing, you can have it safely, without stupidly risking your life. You’re looking for a sexual master; you have one right here in the building…

  I frantically looked around as if someone would be popping out of the woodwork. Everything was normal.

  Answer this email and we can begin today. Refuse me and I’ll insist you cease your clandestine activities on company time.

  My face flushed beet red, as my heart seemed to leap to my throat. Then my stomach turned suddenly sour and I thought for a minute I’d lose the coffee I’d been gulping. I put my head on the table, on my crossed arms and tried to breathe, to calm. Someone knew. How would they know? Was my computer tapped, my email searched? No, there was no email from the computer ISP… just my Hotmail account with dozens of replies.

  Good God! He must have seen my picture and recognized my body… or that small the sliver of my face.

  But who? I stared toward the tall stacks of file, the boxes, the cabinets, the wall between me and the outside world, the world of the advertising firm and its network of fasting talking executives and efficient secretaries, running self-importantly with files locked under their arms or in clutched front of them as if they needed protection.

  Was this blackmail? My first shocked thoughts went naturally down that slippery slope.

  I raised my head, hit “reply” and sent off the question.

  Are you blackmailing me?

  Ten minutes later, ten minutes of sweating, stewing, and crazed waiting passed.

  [email protected] replied…

  No. No blackmail. You want this master, the offer stands. You don’t, then keep your private activities to private time outside this office.

  He had clout it would seem. But apparently, I interested him, which made me interested in return.

  Who are you? was my next message, to which I received the prompt response…

  An admirer of your physicality, your sexuality, and now, it seems, your sexual tastes. You have my email, no need to reply until you’re certain what you want. What’s said between us remains private, forever.

  No! I couldn’t let the offer rest just yet.

  Am I going to know who you are? I typed right back.

  Maybe in time. That’s for me to decide.

  You’re not the kid in the mailroom, are you?

  No, and I’m not the computer techie you’ve been fucking at lunch. (I could hear the sarcastic frustration teaming from his dispassionate reply) Enough with the questions, don’t reply until you can give me a firm answer, yes or no.

  I paused the panic button for several minutes, closed out
of Hotmail—someone was approaching my desk. For nearly two hours, I went about company business because that’s what I had to do. A sudden glut of research projects landed on my desk and my focus changed. Even so, residing side by side with my efficient and productive use of company time was a burning in my belly that seemed to swell it far beyond the boundaries of my body. Hysteria. Arousal. Sex. Panic. Reckless anxiety.

  What would I do?

  The day wore on, sometimes speeding by in a frenzy. I was glad that I was working; it kept my mind off other things. Sometimes the minutes ticked by slowly, like molasses falling unhurriedly from a jar. Every dull website I searched reminded me of the rage and the wildness inside. Finally, at five o’clock I hastily typed an answer, the only thing I could think of to say…

  What would you have me do?

  Ten minutes later:

  If you’re wearing panties, take them off now and sit with your bare ass on your chair. Leave the panties in your top desk drawer… the one you WON’T lock tonight. If you’re wearing pantyhose, cut out the crotch so at the very least your pussy is naked.

  For the future, don’t wear panties or pantyhose again. Buy a garterbelt and stockings if you have to. And obviously, no jeans, no pants of any kind. Take care of these things for now, and I’ll write more later.

  Later, when? I’m about to leave for the day! I pounded the keys impatiently.

  You’ll stay until six. So, do as I say. You want to argue or specify, let’s quit now before you completely disappoint me.

  A day of speculation, anxiety and the raging hothouse of my crotch put me in another panic with this comment. I gulped. My lips were parched and my crotch ached. I couldn’t stop now.

  No, no no! I typed right back. I want this. Yes. I really do.

  After rifling off the message with lightning speed, I looked around for voyeurs, and finding none, I fished under the desk, under my skirt for my panties. It was a warm day, just the beginning of summer; so thankfully, I wore no hose. Before I could get the panties down, however, my email account pinged again.

  Good. Was his reply. Now that’s a decent answer. Feeling the steady deliberateness of his reply, I breathed relieved. Yes, he was giving me exactly what I asked for… I think… strong, patient, creative, determined… as in my ad. Now calm yourself and do as I say. Do it carefully, thinking of me.

  My sensible self thought this sounded silly, especially since I didn’t have any clue who the guy was. But surprisingly, there was a funny power behind the message, and I did as I was told, it seemed he was watching me. Some vague face appeared in my thoughts, looking down on every movement, as I again reached under my skirt and hooked the side of my panties with my finger. A simple, slow tug, a subtle squirming in my seat and the panties were down to my knees. With another glance around and a brief check of my feelings—my thoughts of the master who commanded me had my arousal getting more intense by leaps and bounds—I pulled the panties over my legs and briskly stuffed them into my desk drawer.

  Done.

  Good girl. Leave at six, no sooner. We’ll meet tomorrow—online.

  Yes, of course, he was exiting the building before me… a cover-up so I wouldn’t know who he was. I was pleased, relieved, scared, but damn curious. After savoring the sweet relief, the triumph and my own impatience for nearly ten minutes, I searched my desk for adequate cover, and found several files I could personally return to the outer offices, while seeing who was still there. Of course, my cyber master might have left by then, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me sit in my seat a moment longer. Besides, if I wiggled much more on the damp, sticky surface of my desk chair, I might have come. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  At five-thirty there were still a dozen people in the office, agents and secretaries, even the mail room clerk, who I was promised wasn’t my secret master. I did look at him deliberately, just to make sure he wasn’t giving me a fast line to put me off his tail. Nope. The guy was dull and certainly unimaginative… couldn’t have been more unlikely if he tried. If he had been the man, it would have been painfully obvious, which made this guy innocent. I still considered that Roddy was the guilty party, but in six weeks, there wasn’t one significant hint that he had any fascination for the sexual dark world I was after. I focused my attentions instead on the men I’d been ignoring since I started working at Lloyd & Lockhart Advertising—the agents and the higher echelon of executives whose business bored me and whose lifestyles I loathed for their inexcusable self-indulgence. I couldn’t think of one reason to want, approach or lust after any one of them, and yet, it seemed likely that one in their midst was on the other end of my frantic, furtive seesaw email conversation.

  T J Niven… the comptroller—I knew this only because I had delivered reports to him in the past. He was curiously like the man with whom he shared the famous surname, David Niven: tall with a ramrod straight back and a poised polished look he carefully kept. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t English at all, I always thought I’d hear that distinctive accent come from his mouth, and was surprised when he revealed that he was just good old American. I thought him a bit of a wimp, actually, but he could be a closet pervert—maybe.

  “Miss Sinclair,” he nodded as I passed him by. He’d never done that before, never said anything to me before. Sure, I’d delivered reports, but we’d never, ever connected. Suddenly my tummy was tingling, my pussy a little hotter than it already was in its wildly aroused state. I moved on. There were other possibilities to consider.

  Ellington Lloyd… the President with a capital P. He had swaggering good looks, charm and elegance, though he took great pains to look casual for the troops: loosening his tie by midday, throwing his suit coat over his shoulder as he left for the evening, patting the secretaries on the back, all standard procedure. He was cheerleader, creator, the dynamo behind the advertising firm, and no doubt titillated any woman who passed through the door. I knew of three secretaries who thought he was ‘cute’; though cute was not the word I’d call him—not a man who’s nearly fifty years old. Still, if I bothered to get beyond the elements of his life I found crass and tedious, I could actually find him sexy. Could he pull off the ruse? Without a doubt. But would he have the time? The inclination? Not likely. Still, I could hardly scratch him off the list of possibilities. You never knew what was inside a man where he kept his secrets hidden.

  “The report you asked for,” I said handing him one of the files I held to my chest. I hadn’t bothered to knock on his door; this was just a delivery.

  “Yes, thank you,” he looked up and nodded at the same time answering the phone. He stared at me, I’m sure of it, deliberately stared. I didn’t now whether to go or stay. He seemed to make a waving motion that suggested I remain. Then as he talked, he thumbed through my research, appearing as interested in what I’d found as he was in the phone conversation. Finally, his face turned grim, “One second,” he said to the caller. He covered the mouthpiece; “I’ll catch you later.” He smiled and seemed to wave me on, so I left. See me later? About what? Our paths almost never crossed and he wanted something from me now? My hackles were up, my suspicions raised.

  Joel McNary… advertising agent, the cream of the crop, a less influential version of Ellington Lloyd. He was still a forceful personality and in this younger version was seriously good-looking, even cute. His perfectly groomed dark hair and sculptured features were straight from the pages of a gentleman’s magazine. And though he was at risk of looking too much like a cliché, I could appreciate the package and its impact on most females. It certainly wouldn’t upset me if he were my mystery man. As I looked him straight in the face while handing him the finished project he’d tossed on my desk earlier that day, he looked me straight in the eye. I almost stepped back in surprise and I definitely lost my powers of speech. Suddenly remembering that my crotch was totally bare underneath my fairly short skirt, I worried that somehow the whole office could see through my beige skirt, and my private parts were there to critique. “Tha
nk you, Miss… hum,” he’d forgotten my name.

  “Just call me Skye.”

  “Skye?”

  “Yes, Skye.” I must have sounded like a fool.

  “Well, Skye, thank you so much.” He acted like he’d never seen me before, which was hardly the case. Maybe he was really seeing me for the first time. In the wake of that brief meeting I felt a wave of familiarity, of interest pass from him to me. Could he possibly be the one? My entire body tittered at the thought. No. Never. I’d never be that lucky. But what if I was? Impulse made me smile at him like schoolgirl with a crush. Then I tossed my head, and moved away, shaking my ass as I went.

  Toward the far side of the office, as far from my corner and cubicle as possible, I found Preston Lockhart still in his office. Lockhart—heir to half the company assets but actually a bit player in the company, considering the disparity in the weight of his name and the job he chose. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fill his deceased daddy’s shoes as an advertising magnet, he simply had other talents more important to the agency. Preston Lockhart—I always thought his name must be a nightmare to live with; and it only added to his aloof and stuffy attitude. He was too impeccable, too perfectly manicured, too seemingly uptight for me to be attracted to him—now that I was suddenly evaluating every man I saw in the office. In his youth, he’d have been the soccer, maybe hockey player… no, on second thought, he probably crewed… for Yale, I think. Yes. It was a Yale diploma hanging on his wall.

  If Joel McNary stepped from the pages of GQ, this man stepped out of the past, out of the twenties, out of F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, with the panache of bygone days—maybe why he chose to remain the official company watchdog, the efficiency expert everyone wanted to shoo away. That fact obviously didn’t bother him. He was cold enough to chill ice cubes in May. A sexual master? A sadistic animal? Humph, I shrugged, he was as likely and unlikely as the others I been evaluating since I made my bold excursion into the office.