Ghostly Chains

You watch as your friend stands up from the small restaurant booth and walks towards the washroom, then lean back against the soft leather bench, already bored with this place. What is taking the kitchen staff so long? You ordered nearly fifteen minutes ago, but there hasn't been a sign of your waiter since. You toy with your napkin idly, observing the other patrons of the restaurant disinterestedly. A family of five here, a couple on a romantic date there… the lights are too dim to really make out too many details, and the people around you fail to hold your attention for long.

…little girl…

You start, looking around sharply. Where did that whisper come from? Why did it seem so familiar? The voice had been so soft, almost on the edge of your awareness, but you shiver, involuntarily, not knowing why your skin is suddenly alive with goose bumps. There is no one near, certainly no one close enough to whisper and be heard over the muffled conversation and clinking plates of the restaurant. You sit for a few moments, puzzled, then laugh quietly at yourself and settle back into your seat, convinced that your mind is playing games with itself in its idleness.

No, little girl. I am very real, and I am here…

Your eyes widen, and you feel a whimper of surprise rise in your throat, your muscles seizing with the shock of recognition. You know this voice! But from where? How? It seems so desperately familiar, a sweet aural honey that envelops your mind, exciting you for reasons you can't explain, but you know, in your heart of hearts, that you've never heard it before in your life. Sudden fears of insanity rise in your chest – this must be how it begins, with sudden, unexplained voices in one's mind…

No, little girl, you aren't insane. Sshhh…

Unbidden, the image of a gentle hand stroking your hair rises in your thoughts, and without your volition, you feel your body relax, tension oozing out of your muscles even as your mind races. The voice laughs softly.

Don't you recognize me, little one?

A face flashes through your memory, a face gleaned from a single photograph, and you feel your breath catch in your throat as you realize the identity of the voice in your mind. You feel yourself reel back in shock, because the voice cannot exist – it's impossible! You've never heard it before; you

can't

know what this man sounds like! And yet you can feel the voice softly stroking your mind, calming and exciting you simultaneously.

Do you recognize me, little one?

"…y…y…yes…" you stammer, almost inaudibly. Instinct tells you to rise, to flee the restaurant, to ask people nearby for help, but your attention is focused on the voice and you cannot seem to break its hypnotic hold on you, as you feel your heart flutter and your breath catch. Once again you feel a ghostly hand stroke your face, and instinctively you turn into its gentle warmth and coo as it comforts you.

Good girl. You are a good girl. Don't worry. I am here. Be quiet, and listen to my voice.

All thoughts of crying out fade from your thoughts as the voice swirls through your mind. You find your body relaxing further, even as you begin to shake as adrenalin pumps into your blood, excitement rising deep within you. You listen, enthralled.

Put your hands on the table.

Your hands move to the table in front of you, as if of their own volition, your palms warming the cold wood beneath them. Your sudden, instinctive obedience to this strange yet thrillingly familiar ghostly voice simultaneously frightens and excites you, and you begin to feel a twinge of heat in your belly, a harbinger of excitement to come.

Now, little one, I want you to stay still, and just listen to me

.

The voice is soothing, but you swear you can feel a hint of hot, moist breath on your ear, and the sensation makes you shudder and moan, ever so slightly.

I'm going to make you orgasm for me, right here, right now.

A storm of contradictory emotions washes over you: fear, embarrassment, arousal, excitement. You feel the heat in your stomach move down, slowly, almost teasingly, until it fills your sex. Your breath begins to become shallow and quick, and you long to move, to writhe, to twitch as your arousal begins to take hold, but you feel gentle, unbreakable chains binding your mind, chains of obedience and suggestion, your need to please freezing your limbs and tongue. No one seems to notice as you squirm inwardly, feeling yourself becoming wet and hot.

Good girl. It pleases me greatly when you obey. And I do like to reward you when you please me…

There is no warning, but suddenly you feel the tip of an intangible finger softly stroke your sensitive bud, just once, tantalizingly. A shock of pleasure jolts through you, from your scalp to your feet. You feel your toes curl, and your hands shake, and another tiny, almost inaudible moan escapes your lips. The noise of the restaurant falls away, leaving your consciousness altogether; only the voice and the sensations remain. You can feel your wetness soaking your panties, and dimly you wonder why you feel no shame at this, but you simply don't care. You only want more, and find yourself waiting breathlessly for the voice, needing it, craving it.

You are getting very wet, my dear; I like that. Let's see how wet I can make you before you can't stand it any longer.

A whimper of longing builds at the back of your throat, but you manage to choke it back, the pleasure of your submission nearly equalling the pleasure you feel as ghostly hands begin to stimulate you, parting the lips of your sex, seeking out your most sensitive areas without difficulty, as if from long and intimate experience, gently but insistently coaxing you ever closer to climax. You nearly swoon from pleasure, the loss of control over your most private sensations enhancing your excitement, as if you were in a car sliding on ice, or a roller coaster cresting its climb; you are completely at the mercy of outside forces, completely under the control of another, and your submission multiplies your physical pleasure tenfold.

Very good, my dear – you are doing exactly what I wish. But remember – you aren't allowed to climax until I give you permission to do so

.

With that, the strange unseen hands begin to slowly increase their tempo, building your excitement torturously slowly. You find yourself wanting to move, to moan, to tear off your clothes and use your own fingers to speed yourself to orgasm, almost unable to bear the slow, wonderful, pleasurable tension that begins to make your muscles jerk and twitch. You feel the wetness that soaks you now beginning to seep through your pants, and far from being upset, you can't help but smile proudly, excited by how naughty and sexy you feel.

You are being very obedient. Do you like it when I do this? Do you like to lose control of yourself?

You feel a tongue graze the outside of your ear, and it takes all your self-control to keep from crying out in the affirmative, but instead you manage to nod frantically, uncaring now if someone sees. The hands begin to thrust in and out of your sex, and you cannot help but gasp, wanting,

needing

to thrust against them, but restrained by the chains of submission that bind your will. You want to crawl, to kneel, to fawn and beg for the miracle of orgasmic release from the torture of your slowly building climax. It is agony; it is wondrous. You breath comes in strained gasps now, as every muscle in your body tenses, straining desperately towards orgasm.

Now, now, little one – I haven't given you permission yet. You will have to wait…

The voice is teasing, and you want so very much to plead with it for mercy, to be allowed to feel sweet release from the anguish of your sexual bliss. You struggle and strain against yourself, fighting to keep from climax though your soul longs for it, clinging to your need to submit, your exertions and your obedience taking you higher, past the usual plateau of pleasure, to heights you never before dreamt of or even dared dream. The fingers within your sex thrust ever quicker, their passage lubricated by your wetness, their heat complimenting the furnace of sexual desire that now rages between your legs. It takes every shred of control you have ever summoned to remain on this side of orgasm, but, every limb shaking, you manage, barely.

That's my good girl. You have done so well for me, and you are so wet and ready. You may climax now; you may orgasm for me.

With those words, your control dissolves as surely as a sandcastle in a flood. Unable to move, your limbs still restrained, you twitch and jerk, eyes rolling back, your orgasm exploding within your mind, separating you completely from yourself, enfolding you in wave after wave of pleasure so intense, you cannot conceive of ever being without it. Dimly you feel a hot rush of fluid gush from your sex, dousing your clothes and pooling on the seat beneath you, but it seems impossible to care – all you are capable of is craving more.

It seems to take hours for your orgasm to recede, leaving you exhausted and weak and half-drowned on the shore of sexual completion, eyes closed, hands still firmly on the table in front of you. You feel an ethereal hand stroke your hair gently, and you rub against it affectionately.

That's what I wanted to see. You did very, very well, my dear, and I'm so very proud of you. Rest now, and be free. You will hear from me again.

And, just like that, the voice and the hand is gone, and you snap to yourself again, aware of your surroundings, and glance around, still dizzy from your massive climax. No one stares, no one even seems to have noticed; the clinking of plates and low murmured conversation go on uninterrupted. Was it all a dream? You glance down, and bite your lip as you spy the slowly-expanding pool of wetness seeping from your soaked pants. You can't help but giggle softly – no one has noticed you!

Down the hall, you see the washroom door swing open, and your friend emerges, drying her hands. Quickly, you cover your lap with your jacket, and affect an air of nonchalance, trying not to laugh aloud in delight at your secret, wondering if it was all merely a result of your imagination, or if the man in the photo really did reach out across the world to bring you such unutterable pleasure. You smile.