The Dopplegangers Gambit

Her long chestnut hair hangs down across one side of her face, partially obscuring the soulful brown eyes locked onto mine. She has that cute quirk of a smile that always makes me wonder what's on her mind. I trace my finger along the curve of her jaw and something stirs within me. My dick, already at half-mast, nudges further into my pants. I withdraw the hand upon her cheek and reach down to massage my growing bulge, feeling it expand and awaken with my touch. With my other hand, I start undoing my belt and—

Knock knock

My heart leaps into my throat. I rapidly minimize my browser window and take my hand off of my cock in one swift motion as I clear my throat and call out, "Yeah?"

Touching myself in the office is risky, but exciting. There's always the possibility of getting caught.

The new intern—what's his name? John or Joe or something? I don't know, something with a J. These interns look younger every year, or am I just getting older? Feels like HR is hiring straight out of the local middle school these days.

John or Joe or whatever opens the door a crack and pokes his head in.

"Hi, um, Mr. Stone—I mean boss—um, sir?" he stutters nervously.

"You can just call me Mark."

Why are the new interns always so skittish?

"Ah, okay...um, Mark." He steps the rest of the way into my office. "There's someone here to see you. She says she knows you, but I don't think she's a client?"

I stare at him expectantly. When additional details aren't immediately forthcoming, I gently prod, "Okay? Did she give her name?" I reach for my coffee cup and take a sip.

"Um, Mia something? I think a Ms. Mia Wells?"

My heart lurches to a stop. I sputter and choke mid-sip, spilling my coffee down the front of my shirt, slightly scalding myself in the process. "What!?"

"Should I tell her to leave?" 'J' asks.

"No!" I stand up suddenly, grabbing some napkins from my desk and dab at my coffee-stained shirt.

Pull it together, Mark. Be cool. Don't set off alarm bells.

"Uh—no. No, go ahead and tell her to come on in."

J looks at me warily after my little outburst. "Alright, I'll send her in. Is there anything else you want me to be doing right now?"

"No, that's everything. Thank you, Jooooo—" I drag out the syllable, unsure which it is, Joe or John. "—oohn?" I taper off, venturing a guess.

"Okay, I'm gonna go on my lunch break, then." He pauses in the doorway and cringes. "It's...Ethan, by the way."

Ethan! Where the fuck did I get 'J' from?

"Right! Ethan. Sorry about that. Thanks, Ethan. Enjoy your lunch."

A few moments later she appears in the doorway, moving with what can only be described as cat-like grace. Before she can fully enter my office, I grab her by the forearm and yank her through the door, shutting it behind her. She's momentarily thrown off balance and takes a second to compose herself by smoothing her glossy tresses, and for the first time since she appeared in the doorway, I fully take her in.

She's exactly as I imagined her. Well—not

exactly

—a simple photograph can only convey so much. A photograph doesn't capture someone's essence: the way they hold themselves, the way they move. I pictured her as beautiful, warm, funny, nurturing...and the person before me is beautiful, certainly, but the warmth behind the eyes in the photograph is gone. If her photograph was giving Sleeping Beauty, before me stands the Evil Queen. She's not cold, per se, but imperious—arrogant, even. Her gaze is unyielding as she scrutinizes me head to toe.

Even her clothing is different. She glides her hands over her gray, curve-hugging pencil skirt and adjusts her white blouse to display the perfect amount of cleavage from her full breasts. I can see the suggestion of erect nipples through the fabric of her top. She'd described herself as a jeans and t-shirt type of girl, but seeing her in front of me looking like this?

Acting

like this? It's Exciting. Erotic.

And entirely inappropriate! What primal part of my DNA is making me ache and seethe with desire for this—for lack of a better word—

stalker?

"What the fuck are you doing here? Do you have

any

idea how much of an invasion of privacy this is?" I say, hushed, but urgent. I don't know how far Ethan has wandered and I don't want to risk being overheard.

"Now, Mark, is that any way to speak to a lady?" she tilts her head and purrs softly, but there's no sincerity to her question.

Incredulous, I say, "Seriously? Mia? What the fuck? How did you even find me? And at my place of work? This is so inappropriate!"

I rack my brain trying to remember what I've said during our chats. What subtle clues I may have dropped with enough identifying information that she was able to find me, but I come up empty. Our long conversations usually revolved around books.

And sex. Oh, the fantasies I've had about her—about ruining her pretty little face with my cum or about bending her over my desk, holding her down, and plowing her sweet little ass from behind. In my fantasies she was a sweet innocent young thing, not the viper I see before me.

She steps past me and moves behind my desk, roughly pushing my chair aside. She leans over the computer keyboard, her tight ass sticking out behind her. Despite her impropriety, I can't help but admire the view. The idle computer is prompting for a password.

"Give me your password," she says without a hint of irony.

Eyes wide, I look at her. "Um—are you fucking crazy? I'm not giving you my password!" I reach for her upper arm to guide her out of my office, but before I can grab her, she spins around and grasps my balls in her hand. She doesn't squeeze, but her grip is firm—tense—a threat waiting to be fulfilled. A flinch of both fear and excitement runs through my body. She brings her face close enough to mine that I can feel her hot breath on my face.

Slowly, she starts to tighten her grip until a dull ache begins to radiate in my abdomen. I start to feel slightly nauseated, but there is no dearth of pleasure behind the thrum of pain. It's a beautiful symbiosis, the delicate tangle of pain and pleasure—no pleasure without the pain, no pain without the pleasure. My cock involuntarily hardens, and I emit a grunt through clenched teeth.

"Password. Now." she says, more commandingly.

I swallow hard and in a strained voice I relent, "It's password1."

She abandons the vice grip she has on my balls and my lungs empty in a whoosh. She looks at me, disgusted, and arches a brow. "Really Mark?

That's

your password? You've got to be fucking kidding me."

She resumes her position over the keyboard, her long nails clacking as she enters the password to my computer.

She clicks to resize my open browser and the photo of her pops up in full-screen. "Jerking off to photos of me again? How flattering." Her tone suggests it's anything but.

"Okay, yes. Yeah, I was. But that still doesn't answer my question. How the fuck are you here right now?" I'm floundering.

"I'm about to fucking tell you. Be a good boy and be patient," she says sharply.

She clicks into my computer's webcam and a picture-in-picture window opens. I can see her face in the small square in the top right corner. Centered in the larger window is another woman, a lovely brunette with deep brown eyes framed by large, tortoiseshell glasses. Dressed casually in a blue tank top, the other woman smiles a quirk of a smile and waves a shy wave. A striking resemblance exists between the two—they could be sisters or even twins.

"Who is that?" I ask.

"It's me, dummy," Mia says without looking up from the screen.

"What?"

"IT'S. ME." She punctuates each word as if I don't understand plain English.

"Yeah, I heard you. What do you mean, 'that's me?'

You're

here in front of me, who is THAT?" I ask, pointing at the screen.

Mia stands up and turns around to face me once again, rolling her eyes. She begins speaking to me slowly, softly, deliberately—condescendingly. Like I'm a child. "That's me. I'm not here. And actually? You're not here either. None of this is real." She gestures around the room. "We're in my imagination right now." She explains this like it is the most obvious thing in the world.

I smile nervously. "Okay. Um...look, I don't know what kind of prank this is or if you're just in need of some medical attention—clearly I got in over my head chatting with you. I'm so sorry. Just—can you please leave? I can call you a cab to wherever you need to go." I gesture towards the door, hoping not to set her off. She's clearly dangerous.

She shakes her head and laughs, but it's a laugh without any real joy behind it. "You still don't understand. I can 'leave,' sure, but—none of us are going

anywhere.

Not you. Not me. Not Joe-John-Ethan out there. He's not even a real intern, did you know that? He's a fictional creation of my own mind."

"Okay, that's it. I'm calling security," I say, reaching for my phone.

"Sure, go ahead," she says casually, perching herself on my desk with her legs crossed. She inspects her perfectly manicured nails. "Won't do you any good, though. I didn't imagine up any security guards for this office."

I scoff and dial the security desk. The phone rings and rings without anyone picking up.

Mia picks up the custom nameplate I had made after my recent promotion. "Mark Stone, Senior Vice President," she says with exaggerated sarcasm. "Oh, Mr. Boss man, so important!" She tosses the nameplate over her shoulder nonchalantly where it crashes into my ficus. She resumes admiring her red lacquered nails.

The phone continues to ring endlessly. "I told you. No security. You can keep trying, but no one is going to pick up."

"Unbelievable." Frustrated, I hang up.

I step out of my office and look down the hallway. The rest of the offices are quiet, dark. Did everyone just fuck off early for the weekend? Why am I the only one here? But my intern—

"Jo—Ethan?" I call.

"He's not here anymore. You sent him out on lunch, remember?" she says, not looking up. "Pretty shitty of you to not even know his name. Not even close. Joe? That sounds

nothing

like Ethan. I could have written you as a nicer guy, but it's going to be

so

much more fun putting you in your place like this."

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" I raise my voice in frustration. My temper is starting to bubble to the surface. I'm not usually an angry guy, but I'm reaching my limit for bullshit.

She finally looks up from her nails. "When are you going to get it? How I 'found' you? How I'm 'here' right now?" she says, using dramatic air quotes. She knocks on the hard wood of the desk. "This desk? In my imagination. This piping hot coffee?" She picks up my cup of coffee and hops off the edge of the desk. She tosses it in my direction. I close my eyes and flinch, waiting to be scalded. Nothing happens. I open my eyes. Pink confetti flutters down to the floor.

"See? Has coffee ever turned into confetti for you before? All of this? Not real. Imagined. Fabricated. Fictional. Theoretical. Figmental. Phantasmal. Nonexistent. MADE. UP. You once told me you were a vocabulary buff, didn't you? Well, I have a browser open over there with a thesaurus." She jerks her thumb back towards the computer screen.

I look at the face on the screen. The woman in glasses looks up momentarily, smiles sheepishly, shrugs, and continues typing.

Mia continues rapid-fire. "Invented. Make believe. Pretend. Dreamt up. Counterfeit. FAAAAAAKE." She spreads her arms and belts out the last word like an opera singer in the final act. "Do you need me to go on? I'm literally over

there,"

she emphasizes, pointing one slender finger at the screen, "typing this out as we speak. In real time.

She's

the puppet master and we're just her little playthings."

She considers this and continues contemplatively, "But—well, I suppose...I'm not

fully

under her control...I am a

part

of her, so to speak...we have a little feedback loop going on. I suppose you could say that if we're taking Freud's personality theory as an analogy? You could call me the id. She's the ego."

"Well, then, where's the superego?" I ask.

Mia looks over at the screen expectantly. The woman in glasses finally speaks up. "Sorry, that doesn't really fit into this narrative. Do I have to include it?"

The Mia in my office addresses the Mia on the screen.

"No, darlin', you don't. If it doesn't serve this narrative, we can just ignore it. Fuck it, Ethan could be the superego if you want." She gestures towards the door.

Ethan pops his head back in the door. "Hi, Mark? I'm supposed to come here with this memo before I leave for the rest of the day?" He's holding a small yellow slip of paper in his hands. "It says, 'I'm the superego?' I'm...not really sure what that means, but the caller said you'd understand? Anyway, I'm heading out for the weekend. See you Monday?" He turns to leave.

"Ethan, help. Call security or 9-1-1. This woman is crazy!" I call to him before he walks away.

He stops. "Oh yeah, the caller told me you would say that, but that it's part of a prank that you like to pull on new interns. Nice try. See you Monday." he says before turning on his heel to leave.

Office Mia smiles wryly. "See? She's in control. And me. I'm in control too. But for the purposes of this...tête-à-tête...let's just say...

I'm

in control." She reaches over and clicks out of the webcam screen.

She turns back to me, standing and approaching slowly. Instinctively, I feel myself start to back up with her every step.

"So now...why am I here visiting you in this play space of mine? If you recall...when we were chatting, you asked me for a recording of my masturbation. Do you remember that?"

I do remember that. It was phenomenal fap material.

"Yeah..." I say, hesitantly, unsure of where this is leading.

"I made you a very, very nice recording, did I not?"

"You did..." I say, slowly, now backed up against the wall behind my desk.

Her voice lowers in volume, but it's no less titillating—terrifying. "And...before I sent it to you, what did I ask you to do in order for me to—" She presses her body against mine, leaning in to bring her mouth to my ear. "—

bequeath

it upon you?" She enunciates the word 'bequeath' in a whisper. Her lips brush softly against my ear, making the hairs on my neck stand on end. I gulp nervously.

"You...wanted me to beg for it." I reply weakly. My voice, usually full of confidence, sounds foreign to my own ears.

She takes a half step back with eyes wide. "That's right. I asked you to beg for it," she praises me patronizingly. "I was feeling cheeky...a little

saucy."

She emphasizes the word with a smirk and a crinkle of her nose. "I thought it would be fun and sexy to turn the tables on Mr. Big-and-Important and make you beg for it."

The truth is, I

did

think it was kinda sexy, but my pride wouldn't let me take the bait.

"So did you? Beg for it?"

"I—well..." I stutter.

She raises her eyebrows at me tauntingly. "I—I—what?" she demands.

"Well—no, not really."

"No, not really. What did you say,

really?"

"I said, 'I'd really appreciate it if you would send the recording to me.' I'm—I'm bad at begging on command!" I protest.

Her mouth forms a line. "That is so. Very. Disappointing. Bad at begging. You hear that, Mia? He's

bad at begging."

She grabs my tie like a leash and pulls me away from the wall, bringing my face an inch from hers. Aggressively, she growls, "Come on, Mark. Begging isn't that hard. You add a bunch of extra e's to the word 'please.' You inundate the receiver with lavish compliments. You lower your position in the dynamic. You prostrate yourself before them. You bow at their feet. You place them on a pedestal. Something like—"

Suddenly, without meaning to, I blurt out, "Mia, you beautiful queen, I'm unworthy of your time and attention. I'm but a lowly man desperate to hear you cum. Please let me hear you cum, you magnificent creature. I know you may not deign to do so, but I'll take anything, even the tiniest crumbs of your attention. Please, you gorgeous woman, please. Pleeeeease." Horrified, I clap my hand over my mouth.

After a moment, I lower my hand apprehensively. "What the fuck!? How did you do that? Why did I say that?"

"You said it because I wanted you to, so I wrote it down and it happened."

My head is swimming. "That's impossible."

"Oh no, it's entirely possible. Watch." She gestures to me, smiling archly.

"I'm a singing hippopotamus that spanks my own ass!" I clap my hand over my mouth once again in disbelief.

She screws her face up in confusion. "What? I don't even know what that one means." Looking up towards the ceiling, she says, "Hey, Mia? Don't make it weird, hun."

She turns her gaze back on me and continues matter-of-factly. "But you see? I can make you say whatever I want you to say. Don't get this twisted, though. I'm not so dark that I'm going to do things to you without your consent...or make

you

do things to

me

without your enthusiastic participation, as the case may be. You may be in my imagination, but I still want you acting 'of your own accord,' so to speak. So that being said, you're going to be my willing servant, follow my every command, and give me my fucking gratification today."

Something about those words from that mouth sends the blood rushing from my brain. I'm lightheaded. The throbbing in my groin is unbearable.

She steps back over to my desk and begins slowly hiking up her skirt. I eye the length of her legs from her black stilettos all the way up to the swell of her backside and bite my lip, hoping to catch a glimpse of what she has on underneath that skirt. I silently urge her to keep going, but she stops just before her cheeks emerge from under the hem. I'm momentarily disappointed, but when she hops up on the edge of my desk and slowly parts her legs, my hopeful cock responds in full and I can feel the dampness in my boxer briefs as the pre-cum begins to leak from my head.

She reaches down between her legs and her fingers come back glistening and wet. She looks at them, mouth agape in an exaggerated show of feigned surprised, eyes alight with mischief. "Oh, Mia. You

bad

girl!" she says in a mock-scandalized tone. "No panties? This woman's mind is a vast and complicated place, I'm telling you."

Her playful demeanor drops as she turns her attention back to me.

"On your knees." she says commandingly.

"Ar—are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm fucking joking?"

She does not look like she is fucking joking. She looks serious as a mother fucking heart attack right now.

"Get on your knees and crawl over here in front of me. Right now. I don't like to be kept waiting."

My heart is pounding with excitement. I never thought I'd enjoy degradation, but being under her thumb has me feeling some kind of way. Slowly, I start to lower myself to my knees.

"Faster than that. Come on. You're 50, not 80."

I drop the rest of the way to my knees and crawl forward until I am right in front of her spread legs. I can smell her wet heat. It is positively intoxicating. Her slick arousal emerging from between her puffy, clean-shaven pussy lips looks like an oasis to a parched wanderer in the desert. I lick my lips in anticipation, ready for a taste. I begin my approach slowly, but before I can reach her center, I feel the rough grasp of her fingers intertwined with my hair as she forcefully shoves me face-first into her pussy.

"What the fuck!?" I cry out in surprise from deep within her cunt, but the baritone of my voice is muffled by her folds.

She holds me firmly in place and singsongs, "So-rry! I can't heeeaaar you! You're too busy eating me out! And besides—" She switches to a growly, dominant tone, while clamping her thighs together around my head. "—I don't fucking care what you have to say right now. You may speak

after

you make me cum. Get to

fucking

work," she commands me through clenched teeth and emphasizes her point by twisting her fingers into my hair even harder.