The voice had not returned.
It had been months, and since your strange encounter in the restaurant, the voice had remained stubbornly silent, refusing to reveal itself again. At first, you waited eagerly for it, expecting more, almost delirious with desire, but as days became weeks and nothing happened, your memories of that magical night of lust began to dim, and you grew confused and angry. Doubt slithered through your thoughts, and you were no longer certain of your own memory. Life -- boring, mundane life -- dragged on, a progression of completely normal, rational, dull routines: work, meals, entertainment, sleep. It all now seemed colourless, somehow, and the dreary monochrome surrounding you invaded your thoughts, poisoning your recollection.
It had to be repressed sexual tension, you decide eventually; yes, that was it. You just needed to go out and get laid a bit more often. It had been quite some time, and you're a normal woman with absolutely normal desires, and you'd put them on the back burner for longer than you cared to remember; of course you'd start fantasizing. And that's all it was, you tell yourself firmly. A fantasy, nothing more. You tried to ignore the lacklustre state of the world about you, refusing to acknowledge its lifelessness in comparison with the wondrous, magical, lustful encounter that you insistently categorize as the mere result of sexual frustration; surely things will return to normal once your subconscious finally accepts the simple, comforting logic of that rationalization. And so, every night, you tell yourself, over and over, your reasoned explanation, wrestling with your own thoughts. And every night, something lurking deep in your heart whispers to you that something is missing, that something is horribly wrong; you feel incomplete and alone, desperately wondering why you feel this way.
You grow used to washing tearstains from your pillowslip.
Eventually, your friends begin to notice your melancholy, and attempt to cheer you; you smile, and try your best to find some enjoyment again, but every time they ask why you seem so down, all you can do is laugh and change the subject. After all, telling them that you miss an imaginary voice couldn't help but be taken the wrong way, and after all, it was just some sort of strange delusion anyway -- no point in making things worse.
It was the day you received the wedding invitation in the mail that you finally put your foot down and determined to move on with your sex life; everyone else seemed to be, why should you remain a slave to a voice inside your own head? You just need to get laid -- that's all there is to it. A wedding? Perfect -- time to go hunting.
The dress you settle on is one you rarely wear, mostly because it makes you feel only a step removed from a call girl -- tight and low-cut about your cleavage, it shows your breasts off to best advantage, and hugs every other curve of your body in soft, flowing lengths of blue silk that reach down to your ankle, but the slit up the side allows you to display your legs to entice the eye. Very little is left to the imagination when you wear that dress, but that tiny bit of concealment is what drives men wild; with makeup and your hair falling in soft curls, you've been known to literally stop traffic. You turn in the mirror and smile naughtily to yourself, pleased at how daring you look. It's past time to stop listening to imaginary voices, time to stop waiting to be told what to do by a figment of your own imagination.
The wedding is beautiful, the bride and groom smiling happily, but you barely notice, fidgeting in your seat, waiting for the real entertainment, the reception, to begin. Being surrounded by hundreds of strange men, most of whom can't help but glance at you as you move in your thin silk sheath, makes you want to simply grab one, any one, and beg him for sex. You've never been quite so turned on, and it's all you can do to keep your concentration on the ceremony, your hands nearly shaking with need. You try to calm yourself, try to reason with yourself -- why are you suddenly so desperate for sex? Why now? What's changed? You don't know, and suddenly the depth of your desire begins to frighten you -- you feel barely in control of your own body.
At the reception, you sip at your drink and survey the crowd, hungrily devouring the single men with your eyes, a frantic need burning in your belly. You only need one, and you're almost past caring which one.
"I'm so easily tossed aside? My, my, you are a wanton little slut, aren't you, girl? You can't even be bothered to wait for my return before spreading for any man with a pulse."
Your blood freezes. You drop your glass. No one notices.
"Did you think I'd forgotten you, my dear? I never forget so willing a slut, you know, and you surrendered yourself so quickly to me that I nearly couldn't control myself. But I am patient, and I've been watching you, all along. As you slept, as you worked, as you masturbated and tried telling yourself you weren't thinking of me. But you were, and you knew it was wrong, because I hadn't given you permission to cum, had I?"
A storm of emotions passes through your mind, paralyzing you as surely as headlights paralyze a deer. You want to flee, to hide, to throw the voice's easy confidence back into his nonexistent teeth, to ask where he's been and why he abandoned you, and what makes him think you need permission from him for anything anyway? Anger, humiliation, fear and desire wrestle with each other in your heart, and you nearly blurt out a confused, enraged retort, heedless of the crowd surrounding you.
"Be quiet, slut."
Your jaw clicks shut, and you whimper in confusion -- you want to protest, to storm away, but it feels so good to do as you're told. It satisfies something within you, something deep and primal.
You want to be told what to do again.
It frightens you.
It exhilarates you.
"There's a coat closet in the hall. Go there. Now."
Your body no longer belongs to you, and you feel yourself turn, warmth flooding through your blood as you do as you are told, obediently, as if tugged by an invisible leash, though gently, for you suddenly crave, with all you soul, to obey, the very act of surrendering your volition exciting you beyond measure. You scarcely notice the intervening distance as you hurry out of the ballroom to the dark coat closet. Closing the door, you stand, rigid, shivering with excitement.
The slap is all the more vicious because you cannot see it coming -- pain simply bursts over your cheek, and you collapse in a pile of coats, shocked and hurt beyond the capacity for speech, unable to understand what has happened.
"I thought we had an understanding, slut. I give permission, you get to cum. You should have had more faith in me; you should have realized that I was watching. After all, if I could get you to cum all over yourself in the middle of a crowded restaurant, what else do you think I can do?"
There is a trace of anger in the voice, but it is the hurt and the disappointment that cut you down to your bare soul. You whimper, utterly ashamed of yourself, of your weakness and lack of fidelity. The memories of the past few weeks, of all the times you desperately tried to convince yourself that this strange presence, the presence of a man seen only once, in a photograph, on a website you furtively perused and never dared visit again, was merely a figment of your overactive imagination, rise to the front of your mind, and your shame deepens. You want to crawl on the ground and beg forgiveness for your transgressions and lack of discipline, but your jaw is still shut tightly in accordance with the voice's insistence on silence. And all the time, you are intimately, passionately aware that your pussy is dripping with lust, lust augmented by your shame.
"So, you masturbated without permission. You came without permission. And now I find you here, a cheap whore trying to get a quick fuck from any old bit of flesh with a cock attached. I think perhaps I made an error in judgment -- perhaps you aren't worth my time after all."
It sounds as if the voice is leaving, and your terror at that prospect, your need to be forgiven for your stupidity and absolved of your shame, and your desperate, pounding lust finally conspire to break through the command sealing your lips shut, and you cry out, "No, please, no! I'm sorry! Don't go! Please! I'll do anything, just don't leave me!"
The second blow addles you, tossing you against the other wall of the small, dark coat closet.
"I am quite certain I told you to be quiet; another in such a long list of your failures, I suppose."
The voice sighs, disappointment shading every sound.
"I'm not certain if I can salvage you into something usable, slut, and that makes me wonder if you're much more than a waste of carbon."
You burst into tears, the awful, wretched feeling of failure washing over you, but even now, in the depth of your despair, you find a small flicker of pride in the fact that your crying is silent, that you can, at least, obey that much, even as your breath comes in ragged, hurting gasps. Even as you sit in the pile of coats, weeping quietly, you feel yourself being examined, as you yourself might examine a new bit of clothing that hadn't quite lived up to your expectations and wonder if it can be altered to suit you, or needs to be tossed aside for something better. The moment seems to drag on for centuries, and though you want badly to beg for forgiveness, you manage to choke back all sound.
