Twelve Gates

Grey hurried into her computer chair and booted her laptop. Ten minutes late! And tonight of all nights! Her chat window loaded automatically. As she signed in, she prayed that he had waited. She felt a wash of relief when she saw 'North200' was still online. He was always on time. Always there for her. In the two weeks since she'd seen his profile and messaged him, he hadn't been a moment late for their nightly chats. Almost immediately his first message arrived.

Greetings, kitten

. He used blue 14-point font. The text was easy to read; the author much less so.

Greetings, Sir.

She capitalized the 'S' out of habit now.

I'm SO sorry I was late!

Grandmother was running a little behind again this evening?

Yes Sir. I got here as soon as I could.

Grandmother had been impossible the last few nights; getting her to bed by nine without making her feel rushed posed a challenge.

But you're all mine now?

She loved how early in the chat he set the mood, and how gently. His dominance was easy and comfortable, something warm she could wrap herself in.

Yes Sir -- ALL yours.

Did you miss me?

Oh yes Sir. So much. I wish we could start our chats earlier. It's torture to have to wait for 9.

I'm glad you're so eager. I want you as hungry for me as I am for you.

She felt a surge of warmth. It felt so good to finally be the object of a man's hunger. Even if they were words on a laptop screen, the tingle they produced was authentic.

I am Sir. I've been craving you all day.

Was 'craving' even the right word? The thought of him had shadowed her from the moment she woke. His presence rode with her on the bus and buoyed her as she fetched and filed for her employers at Stern, Franken and Fitch. The mindlessness of the work freed her thoughts and she would cast her mind back to previous chats, weighing and measuring his words. Maybe 'craving' was the right word after all - she craved him like a smoker craved the next puff.

What are you wearing for me this evening, kitten?

My black yoga pants, a pink top and pink socks, Sir.

Is that all, kitten?

She winced at her own screw-up and her cheeks coloured slightly. Even after two weeks, she still hadn't gotten it right. Modesty had been the rule for all of her 29 years; learning a new way was taking time.

No Sir. Also pink panties and a white bra with pink trim.

Even typing the words made her feel exposed.

So your first answer wasn't entirely complete, was it?

He was teasing her, chiding her for her lapse.

No Sir. It wasn't.

What did I say I would do if you broke the rule again?

Her blush deepened, her breathing quickened as she recalled his words from the previous night.

You said you would discipline me, Sir.

Typing the words thrilled her, and even scared her a little. How had he taken so much control from her in two short weeks? It was so unlike her...so CRAZY...to have ceded so much power so someone whose name she didn't even know.

Stand up, kitten.

Her heart pounded, her nipples stiffened. She briefly considered disobeying and writing the words he wanted to see while she remained seated. That was always her option -- he couldn't see her, couldn't hear her, wouldn't know one way or the other if she obeyed. But the thought vanished even as it formed. His gentle command heated her. No one else made her feel like this. She stood.

I'm standing Sir.

Remove your yoga pants.

Yes Sir.

She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of the pants and peeled them down her legs and off. The air on her bare legs made her feel sexy and uninhibited. She set the pants on her bed -- she would need to dress quickly if Grandmother called.

They're off, Sir.

And how do you feel, kitten, standing before me in your pink panties?

Exposed, Sir. Embarrassed. Nervous. Excited.

Wet?

The bold question flushed her cheeks. She never imagined she could share such intimate details with a man -- a virtual stranger. Her hands trembled as she typed.

I think so, Sir.

Check and see.

Yes Sir.

Her body felt hot, her breathing was deep and fast. She slipped her right hand under the elastic waistband of her panties, sliding her fingers through the downy black curls to her swollen slit. Her clit was engorged and delivered a shock of pure pleasure as her fingertips grazed it on their way past. She widened her stance slightly and slowly curled her middle finger up between the swollen lips of her pussy, gasping as it slid through her hot folds with no resistance. Her sex was quick to respond to his control. She scented her arousal in the still air of her bedroom as she dried the slick digit on the outside of her panties.

Yes Sir, I am.

You are what, kitten?

Her face burned. Her nipples throbbed, imprisoned under her bra. Her clit cried out for attention.

Wet.

Do you mean you're a little damp, or you're soaked?

Soaked, Sir.

Mmmmm. That sounds delicious, kitten. But business before pleasure. You were late today, and you broke a rule.

Grey felt a pang of contrition followed by a brief twinge of nervousness that he might be truly displeased. The thought quickly passed quickly -- he had never shown anger, only patience at the delays her Grandmother caused. But breaking his rule might be another matter.

Yes Sir.

What is the rule, kitten?

Complete Truth, Sir. When you ask a question, I must answer with the Complete Truth.

That's an important rule, kitten. And this is the third time you've broken it since Monday. Perhaps you're not taking me seriously?

Please don't think that, Sir! I take you VERY seriously.

Then maybe a little discipline will keep the rule fresh in your mind?

The idea of submitting to his discipline had both riled and thrilled her since he'd first brought it up the night before last. To give a man the power to set the rules and to punish her for breaching them would have seemed laughable two weeks ago. Yet now she stood panty-clad and wet and hungry and repentant. Ready to accept his terms. She could feel her pulse race as her fingers tapped the keys.

Yes Sir.

Good girl. We'll start easy...THIS time.

Yes Sir. Thank you.

There was a pause of about 45 seconds. Grey could only await his next words in a state of arousal and anxiety . The crotch of her panties started to soak.

After our chat tonight, you will get a pen and paper and write 50 times "I must answer with the Complete Truth". They you'll scan the pages and email them to me. You'll complete this before you sleep. Understood?

The thought of sitting and writing lines like an errant child was humiliating, but it somehow made her feel more submissive, more controlled. How could he so easily stimulate the part of her soul that she hadn't even known existed?

Yes Sir, understood.

Is there anything else you'd like to say on this matter?

Yes Sir. I'm sorry for forgetting your rule, and I'll really try hard not to let it happen again.

I know you're trying hard, kitten. I won't let you fail. Have a seat now, just as you are.

Yes Sir. I'm sitting now.

I enjoy the thought of you in just your top and panties. I'd like you to dress this way whenever we chat from now on. Will you do that for me, kitten?

Another rule. Another tiny piece of her independence surrendered to her nameless, faceless Dominant. So why did she relish the thought of it? Because the computer made it safe and anonymous? Because she could stop it any time she wanted? Or did it speak to something more fundamental to her psyche? This time it didn't even occur to her to refuse him.

Yes Sir, of course.

Good girl. Do you remember what happens tonight?

Yes Sir. The First Gate.

For the first time in the two blissful weeks of their online liaison, she felt a pang of real fear. Early on, when he'd told her about his Twelve Gates plan, she had thought him insufferably arrogant.

"Every two weeks I'll assign you a special task, something that will require you to submit yourself to me to a greater degree. The task is like a gate -- you can choose to go though or you can refuse. If you refuse, then our journey is over. If you complete the task then we continue along to the next gate. Each new gate gets more difficult to pass." is how he'd explained it.

It annoyed her - offended her - that he assumed she would jump through hoops for his amusement, and the demand was in stark contrast to his usual, coaxing style. Was it a game? A heavy-handed macho attempt to prove his control over her? Did he think she would submit to such obvious emotional blackmail?

Except... in the eleven days since he had broached the subject, his chats had become the bright spot in her otherwise dull, boxed-in life. He was friendly and funny and attentive. He offered sympathy and support when she wrote of her frustrations at work. He didn't judge her about her weight or the size of her breasts or that she had to ride the bus or that she had worked at the same job for 5 years without a promotion. He didn't care that she lived with her ultra-conservative Grandmother and she couldn't talk to him on the phone. He told her jokes when she was down. He teased her and excited her and awarded her his undivided focus each night. And he made her burn with embarrassment and lust and need. With him -- only with him -- she could be the woman she truly dreamed she was. Could she lose him now?

Yes. First Gate. Do you want to hear your task?

Do I have to, Sir?

No, kitten. You can refuse. You can always refuse.

But then you'll stop chatting with me!

This is true. But the choice is yours.

She felt her arousal retreat, replaced by a growing sense of desperation.

That's not fair!

That's true as well. It's quite unfair.

Then why? You're being unreasonable.

She waited a long, anxious minute before his blue text popped up in the chat window.

I suppose I want to find a woman who can love an unreasonable man, kitten.

The part of her that was sane and rational and proud screamed at her to cut and run. After all, how many potential chat partners were out there? Ten million? More? Just because this was the first one that made her feel this way didn't mean he would be the last. The law of averages was on her side. End it now, before she learned his name, before the craving became something unhealthy or dangerous.

But the part of her that had thought about him all day, that had counted the minutes until their 9 o'clock chat, that had stripped off her pants and fingered her pussy at his command...the long-dormant side that yearned for freedom, whispered "hear him out. At least find out what the First Gate is. You can stop any time..."

Fine. This is SO unfair. Let's hear it then.

Excuse me?

She took a steadying breath.

I'd like to hear about the First Gate please, Sir.

Much better. Your first task is to give me your cell phone number. I know you can't talk where Grandmother could overhear, but I want to send you text messages throughout the day. That's the First Gate.

Grey read the words with an odd mix of relief and concern. She had expected the task to be sexual, perhaps painful or humiliating. Something like a fraternity initiation, just to see if she'd chicken out. The surrender of her cell phone number wouldn't hurt or embarrass; it would strip away some of her anonymity. As it was, all he had on her was text on a screen and her chat name: GreyMouse109 -- she had even used fake information to sign up for her email account. But her cell phone was registered to her. Would he be able to learn her identity, and from that her address? Where she worked? Would he stalk her? Was he a threat?

Or was she being over-cautious? She was 29 years old, after all, not some helpless child. And it was just a phone number. People exchanged phone numbers every day. She had to admit to herself that the idea of receiving texts from someone other than her older sister was exciting. Was this his way of getting closer -- of raising the level of intimacy? Viewed from that angle, the request was kind of flattering...

Do I have to give my answer now, Sir? Can I give it some thought?

Of course, kitten. But we can go no further until we've passed through the Gate. I'll sign off and you can email me when you decide.

Wait!

Her heart rebelled at the thought of ending the chat early when she'd waited all day to enjoy his company. She needed this time with him...

You just want to text me, Sir? I can't talk at night, and I'm too busy to take calls at work.

Just text, kitten. You know that I would seek your consent before going further than that.

Grey took a deep breath and quickly typed her 10-digit cell number. Her finger hesitated over the ENTER key. It truly did feel like she was passing through a gate, crossing a threshold. No going back...she sent the message.

There was a long, anxious pause as she stared at her cell phone number in the chat window, elated and shocked that she had dared to send it.

She heard the high-pitched 'ding' from her phone that usually announced a text from her sister. Grey snatched the phone off the bed and saw a new text from an unknown number.

Well done, kitten. We've passed through the First Gate. How does it feel?

She smiled at the perfect spelling and punctuation of the text. His messages had always been thoughtful and well-crafted. She keyed a response on the touch screen of her phone.

It feels scary and exciting, Sir.

The next message appeared in the chat window on her computer.

Each Gate will be like that. Each one a little scarier and more exciting than the one before.

But we have two weeks until the next one, right?

That's right.

I hope I'll be ready when the time comes, Sir.

Time will tell, my kitten. In any case, I want to hear about your day! Is your boss still giving you a hard time about the file re-org?

Her smile widened and she marveled that there was someone on earth who actually wanted to hear about her frustrations and her boring office job. She keyed her response. The chat lasted long into the night.