Skye Sinclair has no idea what she’s asking for when she places a personal ad on an Internet B&D website. All she understands is her obsession… the naïve innocent knows nothing of the real S&M underworld she’s discovered. She thinks the game is just a tease—until a man from her office recognizes her picture and replies. His thinly veiled threat to expose her only intensifies her need to live out her darkest sexual fantasies.
From the novel Force Me To Obey
“Wannabe submissive woman looking a man who excites me… a strong, patient, creative, determined man 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. Go softly to start and help me feel my way through. But, please, please, force me to obey!”
That’s how the ad read, and that’s what I got…a man from my office, no less. And me? I’m foolish enough to accept this Cyber Master, having no idea who he is.
I have my dream dates everyday with the master I know only as: firstname.lastname@example.org.
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… ho’d 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 all your other affairs.
The order was short and precise.
Yes, absolutely, no problem. It was time to end my fling with the computer techie, 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, that was something else…but I followed the order. Soon all of them knew 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@example.com 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 message, 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.
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 a bite of 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.
I let my imagination drift away…the bondage 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.
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 fingers caressed my face and my body trembled scared.
His voice was low and muffled as it had been on the phone. “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. For days I hadn’t come, so it only took a minute of frantic play to have me at the edge.
His hand moved to my throat. “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 me, 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.