Force Me To Obey

Chapter Two-1

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 s****l 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.

akol@imcarefullyhidingfromyou.com 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 s****l 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 f*****g 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. s*x. 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 p***y 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 s****l 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 p***y 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 know 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. “Thank 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 s****l 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.

“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 p***y 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 p***y. Looking down, I could see my breasts pushing against the fabric of my blouse, and my n*****s 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, p***y spilling wet stuff on my hand, “Acccccccchhhhhhhhh, 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.