by Cyan
Copyright 2007 by Cyan
All Rights Reserved; No Redistribution.
"Oh, Kate," Rich had said.
I saw it again, in my mind, that moment. As I lay in bed that night, needing to fall asleep, I recalled it, that very moment with Rich, ready to ask me--something. What was he going to ask me? Was I playing it over and over in my mind, this moment when Rich spoke to me? His words, followed by the unintelligible mumble that was my answer, and the way I immediately rushed off? Had he watched me as I left so quickly? I inwardly cringed, for about the fiftieth time. He certainly would have turned to watch as I hurried away. I wanted to die. I wanted to lay down and die, and never have to go back to work. Why had I done that? Why didn't I take a breath, take a moment to look him in the eye, then give him a normal response? It really wasn't that difficult. What was it that makes my heart pound so fast that my brain can't function and all I can do is make a fool of myself?
And what had he actually wanted? How many days had I hoped he'd say a word to me, and then when he does, I jump as if someone poked me with a pin, then run away like there is no tomorrow?
I recalled the moment again. "Oh, Kate..." He'd sounded, well, normal. His eyes--were they friendly? What had I seen? Had I risked more than a quick glance at his face? A normal conversation, that's certainly what he wanted, or what he expected. Simply two co-workers exchanging a word. Was there some work-related thing he needed to tell me? Or was he being friendly? Or interested?
God, I hated myself, the way I ran. What did that mean? What did he think of me? Would he ever bother to try to talk to me again? Would he even recall me, once he talked to some woman who could respond like a normal human being? The image of him that one moment when I actually glanced at him, it haunted me. Him, looking so normal. Me, unable to move, bound. Unable to speak, his eyes looking me over. Bound. Gagged.
I looked up at his eyes. Normal? As if this was all normal? Me, naked, bound, unable to move?
It was the dream. It had to be. It was the dream and I was realizing it, but this time, it was Rich looking down at me. Seeing me, unable to escape. How could he simply look, as if nothing strange were happening? But it's the dream.
It has to be the dream, but it was never Rich, not in these dreams. I never knew who it was, the man in the dream looking me over, but it was never Rich. Not before this. I tried to move my legs and curl my body to cover myself as much as I could. My body just wouldn't move. I needed to tell him that I had to have clothes. Or something to cover me. But I couldn't talk. "Why are you like this?" Rich said.
Couldn't he see I was gagged? Someone else was going to come, I knew it. And they would see me too. I wanted to try hard to wriggle out of the ropes, but I couldn't even move. It was like I needed to move through something invisible that resisted me. Magic. "Why are you like this? Can't you tell me?"
I needed to get the gag off. To explain. It was just--it wasn't my fault I was like this. Sometimes it simply was like this. Sometimes I was tied. Rich was seeing me like this, naked. "Here, let me undo that," he said.
He began to undo my gag. Were we still in the same room? The room in the dream? He was close to me now. This was Rich! It was never Rich. I never knew who it was, the man. The man who saw me, when I was like this. Rich had the gag off. I opened my mouth to speak.
But I couldn't open it. I still couldn't move or do anything. He undid the ropes. I lay there. "You need clothes," he said. He looked around. I couldn't move. "Where do you keep your robe?" he said. I heard him talking. Was he looking in my closet? I keep robes there. My robe--how many robes did I have? Were there robes I wasn't remembering? I watched his feet, my head down, one cheek pressed against the floor. On my knees.
Why was I like this? Why was I on my knees, but my head against the floor? "What do you want?" he said. I needed to turn over and cover myself. I was positioned as if I wanted sex. Like I wanted him to do me. "Do you want sex?" he said. "Do you want me to fuck you?" I was positioned like I wanted raw sex, impersonal. Like all I wanted was for someone--him--to do me, to feel him inside me. "I want to see you," he said. "Roll over on your back."
I couldn't move. I knew that being this way, I must want it hard and rough. Not sweet sex, facing him, in his arms. "She wants it this way," said a female voice. I saw feet. His feet, and a woman's. She wore heels. "Give it to her, she wants it." I felt him draw nearer. Closer. His hand, on my hip, then hands on both hips. Was he positioning me? Was he prepared, his cock out? I wanted him inside me, thrusting, hard. "She's desperate," said the woman. "See?" I wanted him right that moment, and felt myself push my butt back toward him. It was so lewd, so obvious. It was so obvious what I wanted, not loving, not sweetness, just hard sex. I heard her voice once again but not what she said. And his voice. Who was she? Was she from work? Someone he knew? His woman-friend? But why would she want him to do me? Because it was humiliating me? This humiliating need of mine that I couldn't control?
It was a dream. It had to be a dream. But Rich was never in this dream. And there was no woman in this dream. Was it a dream? I felt my own fingers on my sex. I was so ready, I wanted him so much. He needed to put it inside me. I needed to feel it there. I needed to be taken, cold, from behind. I wanted it so bad. I felt his cock, touching me. He was torturing me, making me wait. I didn't care. I didn't care if I was naked and she was watching and he was seeing me, wanting it, wanting hard sex so badly I didn't care, didn't care that my head was on the floor and my butt was in the air. Do it! I thought, but I couldn't speak. Do it, please!
* * *
He was down the hall. I needed to walk up, walk past him in the hall. There were plenty of ordinary reasons I could walk down there. I needed to walk by him so I could say, "Hi Rich." I'd be prepared to speak up. I'd say it, out loud, so he could hear. I'd be ready, not taken off guard. As I sneaked peeks, he stopped by an open door and began talking to someone.
I darted away, toward my own desk.
Cyan Stories
Erotic fiction, sex stories, for erotica lovers.