Force Me To Obey

Chapter One-2

That night, just before quitting time, I was aimlessly surfing for myself again, thinking I’d look up LL Bean for a sweater to buy my preppie sister for her birthday. But before I got anywhere near button-downshirtsandcorduroyskirts 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 p***s heads. My response was as automatic as Pavlov’s dog—mouth salivating, heart palpitating, p***y 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, t**s 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. 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 on Alt, 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 s****l 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 m**********n. 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 unlike any I've 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 v****a, as if it were a c**k. 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.

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 s*x 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 s*x 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 s****l 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 s****l 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.