Dinner For One

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.

"So you do know how to obey, if you're slapped hard enough. There may be some hope for you yet."

The voice is deliberate, measured, the voice of someone carefully weighing and judging. You hold your breath, tears still rolling down your cheeks, fearful that any movement at all could cause this strange ghostly presence to leave and never return.

"Challenges always did excite me more than doormats; after that scene in the restaurant, I had wondered if you were going to be too easy to be much fun, but you are obviously such a horny slut that controlling and training you is going to take more effort than I'd thought."

The wicked smile in the voice's tone is clear.

"Good. It may be more difficult, but I always derive more satisfaction from sculpting the difficult ones into serviceable property."

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the thought flashes, Property?, but there is no time for you to examine it closely, as the voice fills your awareness unbearably, forcing out all other perceptions.

You hunger to obey.

"We'll have to start right at the beginning, I see, and that means ensuring that you know your proper place; you are property, and property needs no clothing. Remove that dress, and your panties as well. Now."

The voice's tone does not brook argument. You shiver, a flush of embarrassment colouring your skin -- there are hundreds of people not ten yards from where you sit, after all, and if one of them should walk in on you, nude and alone... But your mind clamps down on its own protests, visions of your own weakness and shame crushing out any notion of further disobedience; you want, you need, to obey, to make restitution for your sins.

It took you nearly an hour to get dressed just so; it takes perhaps fifteen seconds before you're nude in the dark coat closet.

You shiver again, the cold air caressing your skin, and you feel your sensitive nipples harden, standing to attention. But between your legs, your pussy is a wet, raging furnace, boiling with lust and shame and need.

"Kneel."

You nearly bruise both knees, so quick do you fall on them. You bow your head, turning it to one side, revealing your throat in an animalistic gesture of utter, total submission and vulnerability, though you couldn't begin to say how you know to do this. There is a pause, one that seems to last forever, and then a hand strokes your hair; you whimper and try to rub your face in its warmth, relieved that you haven't been abandoned.

"Don't be too confident, little slut -- you're still on probation. And now we're going to see if you have enough potential as a cock worshipper to warrant even that much."

The ghostly hand curls in your hair, and suddenly pulls you forward, roughly; you cry out, and as your lips part, you feel something thick and throbbing push at your teeth. It has been a long time, far too long, but you know, instantly, what this is, and you moan with delight as the cock shoves its way brutally into your mouth.

"This is your one chance, slut -- make me believe you're worth my time."

The taste, the smell, the feel...! You bob your head eagerly, tongue swirling, desperate to prove your worth, but even more desperate for cock; you cannot imagine how you'd forgotten how good it was, to have one in your mouth. It's almost too much for you to bear, and you begin crying again, but this time from joy. Let someone walk in on you now! You don't care -- you'd spread yourself nude in front of all of them, show them all what a real cockslut can do, just to keep this wonderful, spectral cock deep in your mouth.

You can hear moans of pleasure, but you can't separate yours from those of your ghostly lover, so eager and happy are you to have a cock between your lips. You nibble at the head, teasingly, and then plunge your head forward, taking the whole length of it into your hungry mouth, gliding it over the top of your palate, willing yourself not to choke, to take the whole length of it, all the way down deep into your throat, holding your breath so that you can swallow around its bulging girth, tongue swirling. Your lungs scream for air, but you want more -- you want to swallow this wonderful cock forever, the taste of precum coating you tongue, a delightful harbinger of the flood to come.

You can hear the voice groaning with pleasure, and you can't help but feel a thrill at how wonderful it is to please like this. A breath, and then the cock fills your throat again, a hand at the back of your head twitching and convulsing, pulling roughly on your hair. You feel the cock begin to thrust between your lips, its owner fucking your face with desperate enthusiasm now, and you pride yourself in taking all of it, the whole length, swallowing and swallowing, clenching your throat around the head. Never before have you done this, for any man, but the instinct to do so rises from somewhere deep in you, and you become nearly frantic for more.

You want so badly to taste cum.

There is an almost feral growl from your spectral lover as you worship his cock with all of your soul, and then, without warning, cum gushes across your tongue and down your throat, what seems like buckets of it, the taste better than the finest wine. You gulp and swallow and choke, eager to devour it all, but some dribbles down your chin and onto your breasts. You smear it across yourself in an animalistic gesture of love and pride and wanton lust, still sucking on the erupting cock as you do so.

Finally, the flood of cum abates, and you begin licking at the cock before you, lovingly cleaning it in your drool. The ghostly hand strokes your hair, and you moan and coo with utter delight even as your tongue caresses your still-stiff treat.

"My, you love cock more than any slut I've ever come across; I'm pleased. I think I will keep you after all, slut."

Your eyes shut, and tears of gratitude streak down your face.

"Make no mistake -- there will be consequences for your foolish behaviour. But for now, you've earned the privilege of lying back and enjoying your meal of cum. You'll hear from me again. Until then, no masturbating. No cumming. No other cocks. You belong to me now, and I decide when you receive pleasure. No more, until I give permission. Do you understand my dear little cumrag?"

You nod your head frantically, still mewling with pleasure as you suck.

"Good. Now, go."

And then the voice and his wonderful cock are gone, and you are left alone again. You want to weep once more, wanting to feel it between your lips again, and you desperately suck the last drops off your fingers, marvelling at how delicious they taste.

After several minutes, you recover enough to put your clothing back on, but it seems almost unnatural to be clothed now. The dress fits as it always has, but you no longer see it as enhancing your beauty, but rather wrongly concealing your body, hampering anyone from using you properly. You pause at that last thought, but is seems so utterly natural that you let it slip through your mind without further comment. Sliding your shoes back on, you move out of the coat closet and duck into the washroom quickly, checking your appearance. A little mussed, and your makeup is nearly ruined, but a few moments' work restores you nearly to the point where you're hard-pressed to discern that you were just throat-fucked.

Dinner is being served in the ballroom as you return. You can't help but laugh as a plate of appetizers is passed your way.

"No thanks," you manage to chortle finally, "I'm full."