The email, when it came, as you and I both knew it would, made its appearance in my in-box two days later. Strategically delivered a half-hour before lunch, so that I would have less time to be able to think of a reasonably watertight excuse for not going, no doubt. It sat there, resplendent in bold text, simply daring me to click on it and open it up. A virtual Pandora’s box for the information age. Should I click on it, and let loose on the world the ills contained therein, or do I have the fortitude to ignore it and simply delete it, consigning it to the trashcan frustrated?
Unfortunately the preview pane was turned on so I could see everything it said straightaway.
It said simply this:
Log into the instant chat messenger.
Not even signed. I knew it was from him of course, not least because his name appeared in the sender column, but it was also recognizable by his breathtaking arrogance. A male line trait in their family. For the first of what I guessed would probably be many, many times, I closed down all critical thinking faculties and simply logged in as bidden. He’d added me to his list of chat buddies, and the message came up more or less immediately accompanied by the little tinkling bell sound.
How are you?
I scrabbled around the monitor, looking for any control that might in any language be marked ‘volume’. Several hieroglyphs of possibly Martian origin seemed to indicate half an orange, the big bang, and the water slide at the leisure centre. The message sat expectantly on my screen, seemingly mocking my technical ineptitude. I may have a Masters’, but I can’t turn down the noise from the telly. Ignoring the problem for a moment I typed out a perfunctory reply.
Very well, thank you. How are you?
Nice and non-committal. No sins indulged with that reply.
Also very well, thank you for asking.
I felt like I ought to bring up the fact that I was spoken for nice and early this time, just to make sure that there were no blurred boundaries or grey areas.
It was nice to meet you the other day. Your father and I went out for a meal afterwards.
The reply came back very quickly. I could practically hear his chortling from here.
It must have been quite a surprise for you the other night.
Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that, and a host of other things besides. Before I could think of something to reply with, the bell tinkled again.
Did you have a good time the other afternoon?
How do you answer a question like that? ‘Well yes, I do enjoy a good rogering from a random stranger half my age who turns out to be my boyfriend’s son’. In fact I was about to start typing it, before thinking better. Plumping again for the non-committal, I typed
It’s a lovely bar, very trendy, and I hear the food is nice too.
Jeez, I could have shot myself. If that isn’t an open invitation to be taken out again then I simply don’t know what is. When the bell tinkled again a minute later I didn’t want to Alt-tab back and look at it. I did though, of course.
Do you like being tied up?
I wasn’t sure what the rules to this game were, so I plumped for the Englishman-in-Aya-Napa approach and simply went in headlong without thought of the consequences.
That was my first time, actually.
The reply was obvious.
Did you like it?
Recalling the scene, the obvious answer was yes. I absolutely bloody loved it, in fact, and just dwelling on it for two or three minutes led me to have to cross my legs. Tightly.
I did. Do you like tying people up?
The answer was again swift.
I like tying people up, but I like many things besides. Not keen on being tied up myself, mind.
You do surprise me. I get the feeling you like to be in control, in all things.
Should I have said that? There was a hiatus while he obviously composed an answer.
It’s a question of trust. If the right person were to come along then perhaps I would indulge them.
Again I could have shot myself when, firmly ensnared in the game, I rapped out
Is that an invitation?
Another pause whilst he composed an answer and I gnashed at my fist. Most unladylike, my mother would have said in between blows to my head.
You don’t have it in you. You’re happier being a submissive, I can tell that now.
Of course you can’t. You barely know me.
You logged in to this chat program immediately, did you not? You didn’t seem to put up much of an argument the other day, whatever it was that was being done to you.
He makes a good point. I can imagine myself as a dominatrix: ‘Is that okay? Shall I loosen those straps? Ooh, let me get some cream for those lashes, careful now this will sting…’
I take your point, but that doesn’t mean that you can do whatever you want to me you know.
Of course not. As I said, it’s a question of trust. You must trust me to do such things as will only cause you the right amount of pain.
The right amount of pain?
Of course. So much of life, and sex, is about pain.
Not all things in sex and life are about pain!
That depends on your point of view, but the truly memorable things certainly are. You feel most alive when you extend yourself, when you take a step further than you thought you could. That’s when you become most aware of yourself as a person.
You did all this in your psych class?
Waiting for a response, I watched and waved as some of the girls in the office left for lunch. The bell disturbed my reverie.
I imagine that was the first time you have ever cheated, am I right?
That’s right, casual sex – especially with a stranger – has never really been my sort of thing.
And yet you enjoyed it, did you not? You were the one who initiated the kiss. You were the one who suggested losing clothes. You had ample chance to walk away from the situation at any point. But you didn’t. The whole experience made you feel more heightened, fired-up, sexually, am I right?
Maybe.
I think I am. I also think that there is any number of things that you haven’t tried out before the other day. I know you haven’t had anal sex for example.
How can you know?
You were too tight!
I was not sure that I was happy with the way this was going. The conversation was slipping out of my control and yet, as he suggested, I was unable to help myself. I was submissive even unto the words he typed.
I wonder what else you have not done?
I did not want to answer this question, so I simply sat and waited until ‘B. Williams is typing a message’ appeared again at the bottom of the screen.
Ever been with another woman?
Typical male fantasy! How sad that you should slide down such a stereotypical route…
I assume that that means you have not. You wouldn’t, I think, be so averse if you knew what another woman could do for you.
I don’t think so…
Because you are not open to the idea at all. I think you may even be just a little uptight about your whole sexual identity, and unwilling to try new things.
I knew, I knew, I knew I should not let him be goading me into responses like my next, but the Irish in my rose to the surface at the wrong time!
I am perfectly willing to try anything once!
The response was lightning fast.
You have a webcam, I assume?
I do. We use it for net-meetings. Some idiot whiz-kid at head office had the idea, but the point was should I tell Ben that?
There’s no point denying it, I can see from your Properties dialogue box that you do. Turn it on.
Why?
Shut your office door and turn it on.
The door was closed anyway, but I stood and opened it slightly, peering through to see if anyone was about. I could hear voices from somewhere in the building, but most people would be at lunch by now. I closed the door firmly, listening for the decisive click. The next message was already on screen.
Good. I’m willing to bet that on some of my theories.
What theories are they?
Firstly, that you are a submissive by nature and will do as you are asked. My second theory that you are very strait-laced. These will combine to present considerable emotional turmoil, yet the former instinct will win out over the latter.
And no doubt you think you can prove this?
But of course. Will you indulge me? Again!
I didn’t know whether I should, but, wavering, I plumped for going with his experiment, at least to begin with. As curiosity’s cat stood with a knife at its own wrist, I realised that merely by acceding to his request I had proved him right. I prayed that he would not realise this.
See! Just by typing in you have proved me right!
Lord, help me.
However, I too am interested in proving my theory in a more empirical manner, so we shall proceed with the experiment. Is that a pair of dice that I see behind you?
The two oversized wooden dice, each roughly the size of a plum and painted white, were a left-over from an ad campaign we’d done, one of the props in the posters. I don’t know why I’d kept them, but I was sure that I was now about to regret it. I reached over and threw them on the desk in front of me, not intentionally rolling them. The bell sounded quickly.
Could you adjust the angle of the webcam just very slightly down please?
I realised that he wanted to see where the dice would land, which was fair enough. I wanted to make the point that I didn’t consider this one-way visual interaction particularly fair, but decided to leave it, for the moment at least. My curiosity was following my pussy and becoming aroused. Like this though, I was in control. At any time, I could turn off the webcam and log out of the instant chat program. For now, we could play, and I would deal with the conscience, sorry consequence, later.
I see that the dice show seven, which is very apt. We’re going to play a game based on a popular TV game, except I think they use cards on TV. The cards show seven. I want you to decide whether the next roll will show a higher or lower number than seven. When you have announced your decision to me, you can roll the dice.
Then what happens.
If you get it wrong, then you have to pay a forfeit of my choosing. I may ask you to do something, or I may ask you a question.
That’s not fair! What about if I get it right?
Quid pro quo. Okay, you can’t see me, but you may ask me anything you want.
What do I get out of it?
You called me a stranger a moment ago, so now’s your chance to get to know me.
And if I don’t want to play?
Log off and go to lunch.
His answer sat there, brooding and silent, the electronic equivalent of Mr. Darcy. There was no follow-up, so it was simply down to me to decide whether to continue. I didn’t want to, but inexplicably the memory of the other night flew into my head unbidden. Not only had Richard been late, but the restaurant we went to was rubbish, he’d forgotten to book a table so we had to wait, then he went home straight afterwards. My hands went to the keyboard with a mafia-like lust for revenge that even surprised me.
Go on then. Let’s have a go at this.
Why did you decide to continue?
I have my reasons.
Pause. A virtual awkward silence. I rapped out another message.
Shall we begin?
Let’s. It’s your move, actually. The dice show seven. Do you think the next roll will be higher than seven, or lower?
Surprisingly, the question generated a great deal more tension in the room than I would have anticipated. I stared at the dice, as though they would reveal something of their intentions to me. The nature of these forfeits played on my mind and I shook my head, as though in some way this were impairing my concentration. Two or three times I raised my hands to type, but stopped. There was a marked lack of prompting from my co-player. Reasoning that this was taking a stupidly long time to do, I went with the odds.
Higher.
Higher it is. Please, roll.
The dice felt heavy in my hand, laden with the feeling that some rubicon was being stepped over in doing so. The first encounter I could, in my mind at least, pin partly on being drunk and flattered by his attentions. That distinction was important to me. It didn’t absolve me of blame, far from it, but there were extenuating factors. This was different. At every point I had get-outs, a chance to leave the game. Before Ben was a complete stranger, but now I knew better. That was the thought that kept spinning around in my head: I know who he is now.
I shook the dice two or three times and let them loose. They bounced about the surface of my desk as though we were on the moon, seemingly in slow motion, and bouncing absurdly high. Of course, in reality they did none of these things; my senses sharpened by the stakes of the game only made it seem thus. One came to rest before the other, showing four dots in the corner and one in the centre, a pattern that I recognized but could attach no numeric value to. The other seemed to rest and then take off again, like litter in the wind. When it did stop, there were sufficient dots for company, but not the crowd of them I needed for victory.
The realisation came to me that the game was tied. I looked at the monitor, anticipating guidance, which was when I realised that I had already rendered control to Ben. The dice provided no further clue. Their work was done, so they simply sat there.
Unforeseen.
What do we do?
What do you mean, what do we do? Roll them again.
Obviously! I couldn’t explain my thought processes at that point, it was simpler to admit to not having them. I rolled the dice again, and this time rolled double five. There was none of the mystical significance that accompanied the first roll. Now we were simply playing a game.
This means I get to ask you something!
As per the rules. What do you want to know?
Of course, it was one of those questions that very little seems to hang upon, and therefore is impossibly difficult to make a decision about. At once I was filled with the desire to ask if he was going to tell his father about us, but the fact that the question had occurred held enormous ramifications for me. Firstly, it implied that I had done something shameful (which, possibly, I had, except of course there were two of us in the toilet that afternoon), but, much worse, it said quite clearly that I considered there was an ‘about us’ of which to speak. I did not wish to consider this issue any further. Instead I plumped for what I think was a rather sanitised question, and one that with hindsight looks as though it were rather more to do with consoling the mythical fragile female ego. Truth is, I just didn’t know what else to ask.
Did you enjoy the other afternoon?
The message took thirty of forty seconds to come back, during which I imagined thirty of forty different responses, none of which portrayed me in a flattering light.
You do that a lot.
What?
Beat around the bush, for want of a better phrase. ‘Did you enjoy the other afternoon?’ We both know what you mean, why do you not write it? Was the sex good? Did you enjoy fucking me? Even ‘was it good for you?’ is better! But yes, I did enjoy it. I like to fuck at lunchtime, it means I can go the whole afternoon without becoming pre-occupied! But you played your part and were a very good fuck, so you should give yourself a little treat on my behalf.
You can’t go a full day without sex?
I prefer not to, that’s a better way of putting it. But it doesn’t have to be full sex. Masturbation is fine.
As someone that can complete months without masturbating, or sparing it much thought, I found it difficult to empathise.
Anyway, you have my answer, so I think it’s time to roll again.
The third time round, with the tension broken somewhat, the dice seemed to fall much quicker. Double three.
Also, as a prelude to rolling, you were supposed to decide whether the outcome would be higher or lower.
That was a good point. After going with ‘lower’ and fancying the odds, I rolled for the fourth time. A couple of seconds later, a pair of sixes mocked me.
I think that finally the advantage is mine!
Okay. What do you want to know?
It’s a nice simple one, actually. I’d like to know what colour panties you have on today.
That was it? That wasn’t so hard, but by the time I was halfway through typing ‘white’ I felt a certain nervous suspicion starting to grow. I finished typing and hit enter, waiting for I did not know what.
I didn’t want you to tell me…
Grinning, I knew now that I was starting to understand his game. I thought he was trying to bring my prudery to the fore, so, toying with him, I tapped out my response.
Whatever do you mean!
You know quite well, I think, what I mean.
I was quite certain that I did, and determined not to appear prudish before him. Rocking the webcam back just a fraction, I pushed my chair backwards a pace. Without looking up at the camera, I raised my bum off the chair and slowly, slowly, inched my skirt upwards. I had no stockings or tights on today, and at the point I judged he would just not quite be able to see the white V of my panties, I stopped. The bell sounded immediately and, glancing up, I saw an exhortation to continue pop up. Now, this was my game! Rather than continue to pull my whole skirt up, I merely pulled up that section between my legs, slowly again, until my nails were grazing bare flesh over the waistline of my knickers. I could feel a definite raising of the temperature between my legs and prayed that, if there were a damp patch coming, it would not show on the camera. Saucily, I even spread my legs and flashed my gusset for him before quickly slamming them shut. I left my skirt were it was, my underwear still on view for him.
Thank you! That was definitely worth the wait. I like them, very pretty. Shall we play again?
With twelve on the board I couldn’t really go wrong, although the five that came up as a result was one that could go either way next turn.
Your turn again. What is it this time?
I wanted to ask something much more, well, useful, for want of a better way to put it, but my natural inhibition against using crude language prevented me from typing out any of the possibilities that occurred to me. It was somehow as though I didn’t want to sully cyberspace with crude language and indecent images. The problem was, with my interest piqued, I had lots of tings I wanted to ask.
Let’s just say that, for the purposes of this game only, I were to let you do anything to me that you wanted. Absolutely anything at all with a guarantee that I would not say no. What would that thing be?
Caitlin, that’s an excellent question. Do you mind if I have a moment to consider it?
Not at all.
Feeling rather pleased that I had stumped him, even momentarily, I leant back in my seat, pushing so far back that the seat itself reclined. Forgetting, of course, that I was simply raising my crotch closer to the camera. Hastily I realised what I was doing, but slightly less hastily did I lean back forwards. The power that came with knowing that I was making him think about me was intoxicating. His reply flashed up moments later.
I know you’ve labelled it a stereotype once already, but I think that I would want you to be with another woman. In your usual submissive role, of course, so that you received most, but not all, of the pleasure, but also so that an expert could lead you along that particular path. Maybe someone who was gifted in this respect might break down some of your inhibitions.
This answer came as something of a surprise. Given license to do anything to me, hypothetically albeit, he had chosen to watch me with someone else. Maybe that was how he got off, I mean certainly the younger lads in the office would talk and joke about lesbians, particularly when they thought I was out of earshot. Perhaps I had underestimated the power that that particular fantasy held over the male imagination. Maybe then I should indulge him? Was that a dangerous route to go down? To make him watch, of course, unable to touch – maybe even tied up out of harms’ way, now wouldn’t that be an irony – and watch with fascination the look on his face as I pandered to his fantasy. His absolute, cast iron, confirmed number one fantasy. I raised my hands to type but fate interrupted me, because his next message came up first.
