Voice Inside My Head

Everything is normal, says the voice inside my head. And I believe it.

Desmond doesn't seem to agree. He has an almost comically astonished expression on his face, the whites of his wide, staring eyes contrasting vividly with his warm, dark brown skin. His mouth is open, like he wants to say something but he's so stricken with utter bewilderment that he doesn't know what words should come out, and he's looking down at me like he's never seen me before in his life. Which is odd, because I'm his boss. Have been for years. Taking a meeting with him in his office should be as everyday and routine as breathing.

The voice assures me that it is. I love that.

But Desmond keeps gaping at me, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. He lifts his right hand from the armrest of his office chair as if to reach out to me, then lets it drop again like he doesn't know what to do with it. He's behaving so strangely. The voice doesn't tell me why, but I'm used to that. The voice doesn't give me reasons. It only tells me what to say, what to do, what to think. That used to bother me, but then the voice told me to stop thinking about it. And I did. That felt so good, so warm and nice and happy in my head. It felt like a gentle caress right inside my brain.

It felt like that because the voice told me it would.

Life's been a lot easier since the voice told me to stop thinking about what it wanted me to do. Sometimes it means that things don't always make a lot of sense... like Desmond. He won't stop breathing funny, making all these little gasps and whimpers like his back is hurting or something, and he still isn't talking to me. He has this desperate, tortured expression on his face, so many emotions mingled together that I'm not sure even he knows what he's feeling right now. Surprise and confusion, definitely. Fear, maybe? Pain? That would explain the heavy breathing. And something else, something like embarrassment that stills his voice and prevents him from telling me what's wrong.

I don't feel anything but happiness anymore. The voice makes sure of that.

I don't know where it came from. I don't think it's... you know, really inside my head. I know I wouldn't be able to tell if it was, but something about the way it speaks to me doesn't match my understanding of auditory hallucinations. (Not that I know much about auditory hallucinations-I had only just started Googling it when the voice told me to stop, and of course I did.) I think it's someone talking to me. And I... I... I can't really think. About why, or how. I sometimes try, but... but my thoughts just stop. Exactly where the voice tells them to. It's so beautiful, so blissful to know that I'm obeying the voice inside my head.

I know I only feel that way because the voice told me to. But that doesn't make it any less true.

Next to the indescribable beauty I hear in my mind when I obey, Desmond's voice sounds thin and reedy and bewildered. When he finally manages to whimper out a few words, there's no strength to them, no force or conviction. He just mumbles out, "Veronica, I-I'm married..." in a pathetic, trembling murmur that sounds almost like he doesn't know he's saying it. It would be easy to ignore him even if I wasn't being actively told to keep doing what I'm doing no matter what Desmond tells me.

Still, it's such an odd thing to say. I wonder if he's feeling okay.

The voice doesn't let me think too much about it, though, because everything is normal and I can't follow any train of thought that leads me to believe it isn't. It's always very strange, the way that my brain effortlessly steers me away from anything that I'm not allowed to perceive or conceive, but of course it makes me happy because I've been instructed to feel a surge of deep sexual pleasure whenever I realize that I'm following a command. Sometimes, when I'm alone and I obey, I fall to my knees and masturbate in helpless, overwhelming ecstasy, thanking the voice out loud for fucking my mind into compliance.

At least, I think I only do it when I'm alone.

I know I'm not alone right now, but I can't seem to stop my fingers from creeping down and hooking into the hem of my sober, professional navy blue skirt. It looks a little less professional sliding slowly up my creamy white thighs, giving Desmond a look at more and more of my body as my legs spread wider and wider until I... stop thinking about that. I can hear the voice inside my head, speaking to me in a deep, rich, purring growl that could be a man or a woman but couldn't possibly be resisted or fought, telling me not to think about what's happening with my dress or my hands or my pussy or my mouth right now in tones that compel absolute obedience.

I didn't know there was anything happening with my mouth I needed to stop thinking about. But I can't think about that right now.

Whatever's happening, it's distracting Desmond more and more with every passing second. He doesn't know where to look anymore, his eyes keep flickering up and down in confusion as he grips the armrests and strains his hips up into the air with short, bucking thrusts. He's openly grunting now, little subvocal moans that don't sound exactly like pain escaping his lips as he squirms and writhes in his chair like he's a spy desperately trying to resist interrogation. He's fighting something, I don't know what it is and I don't know why he's fighting it but I know he's struggling as hard as he can against some sort of inner turmoil. He whimpers out, "...please stop," his voice hoarse and growly, and there's something familiar about his tones but I. I'm not. I can't. I don't.

My brain keeps stopping. It keeps bumping into thoughts I'm not allowed to think.

But that only means I'm being a good girl. I love to be a good girl for the voice inside my head. When it tells me to answer him, I pull up and off... I pull up and off... I stop doing what I'm doing for a moment and give him a coy, innocent smile like a schoolgirl who just 'accidentally' flashed her teacher. "Stop what?" I ask, my voice sweet as syrup, before plunging my mouth back down onto his... before I lean back in and swallow up... before I. Before I get back to obeying the voice. That's what I was doing. That's all I need to think about. I'm accepting my commands, complying with my programming, and obeying the voice like a very good girl ought to. That's all that matters.

Which is why it's so strange to hear Desmond say, "...s-stop sucking..." before he trails off into moans and whimpers once more.

He seems to realize that he needs to say more, but it's as though he's struggling to make the words come out. Like it's not fully real to him until he says it, like he's not really doing anything so long as he doesn't admit that he's doing anything. (He's not doing anything. Neither am I. I can only think about this if I accept that he's acting in a bizarre, inexplicable manner and simply try to pretend that I'm just observing my subordinate's bewildering behavior.) For a moment, I don't think he's going to be able to force himself to say it, but finally his resistance breaks down and he chokes out, "...stop sucking m-my. My c... my cock. Please."

I can't help laughing at the absurdity of his words. Something muffles the sound.

Still, though, it's absolutely ludicrous. I'm a top executive at a Fortune 500 company-the idea that I would get down on my knees, crawl over to my subordinate's chair and unzip his pants, and give him a long, slow, sloppy blowjob while I fondled his balls with one hand and played with my pussy with the other is simply beyond absurd. It's the kind of thing you only see in cheap, silly pornographic movies, the woman so consumed with lust for cock that she ignores the man's impassioned pleas to respect his marriage vows and engulfs his entire shaft into her mouth and sucks him until he shoots gush after sticky gush of cum down her throat. I'm not like that. Nobody's like that.

I try to explain that to Desmond, but it's very hard to talk for some reason right now.

The voice in my head seems happy, though. It sounds amused, almost, as it tells me to do... something... without thinking about what it is. Whatever I'm doing, it seems to be having the most remarkable effect on Desmond-his eyes roll back in his head, and the tiny little grunts melt together into one long, sustained moan of pure emotion that I can't place. His leg spasms, his eyelids flutter, and something twitches and pulses in my mouth but I don't really need to think about what or how or why. All I know is that I'm being very obedient, I'm pleasing the voice so much, and the pleasure in my brain is so strong it's like each and every individual thought is swimming through it. God, it makes me want to play with myself.

But of course I'm not doing that right now. Not in the middle of the day at work.

I feel something warm and wet squeeze around my fingers, a tight pulse of pleasure that has absolutely nothing to do with the tingling sensation in my clit. My head rocks back and forth, up and down, bobbing over and over in a rhythm that has absolutely nothing to do with Desmond's squirming, whimpering body. I feel the delicious euphoria intensifying every time my brain resolutely refuses to forge the connections it needs to in order to make any of these events make sense; the world doesn't need to make sense to me anymore, not when the voice provides me with all the logic I need. It tells me to obey, and I do. What could possibly be more reasonable than that?

The voice supplies me the answer before I can think it, and of course it's nothing. Nothing at all.

I hear Desmond let out a strangled, urgent groan, and his hips lift clean off the seat as my mouth fills with a thick, salty fluid. I swallow as much of it as I can, but wherever it's coming from, there's more of it than I can comfortably gulp down. I feel a trickle of liquid dribble out around the... around... I feel a trickle of liquid dribble out between my lips, splattering my impeccably tailored light blue blouse with splash after splash of pearly white. I don't mind. I know how to clean it off, and I know that I don't need to know why I know. My brain is an intricately crafted, perfectly honed machine with exactly one purpose, and that purpose is obedience. I'm so proud that I fulfill it so precisely.

And just as I'm thinking that, just as Desmond is softening in my mouth... the voice allows me to know.

I hear it in my head, stripping away all the elaborate filters around my perceptions with a single whispered command. I know that my mouth is filled with Desmond's cock. I know that the taste on my tongue is his semen. I know that I'm still helplessly masturbating, lewdly displaying a pussy I shaved by the voice's command for him as I jam three fingers into my gushing cunt. I know the office smells like sex and I know my blouse has a large, obvious cumstain down the front. I know who Desmond is married to, and I know what he's going to be made to do to keep the footage of my sloppy blowjob from getting into the hands of his wife. I know how many people I've done this to before. I know... oh fucking god, I know everything.

But it still feels so good. Oh, god in heaven help me it feels so fucking good.

The voice didn't take that away. Oh, it let me understand everything I've done under its irresistible control. It allowed me to feel the full, crushing, existential horror of being turned into its puppet and made to do so many dirty, degrading things by its command. Blackmailing Desmond doesn't even scratch the surface. But it didn't take away the pleasure I feel when I obey. All those memories are shameful and awful and horrifying... and they're inextricably intertwined with intense, mind-blowing ecstasy. I'm shocked, but it doesn't stop me from cumming so hard around my fingers that I squirt all over the motherfucking carpet.

The voice doesn't need to break my will, I realize. If it gives me the chance to forget all this again, I will break my own fucking self.

And just like that... it does. I hear the voice in my head again, whispering to me that if I'll only stop struggling against its control, I'll never have to think about what I've done to obey it. And eagerly, joyously, I surrender myself to its power once more. I feel it all melting away-all the memories of having my holes used by strangers, the look of betrayal on Desmond's face, even the knowledge that I've had this veil of blissful ignorance removed before and every time I've begged to be made compliant again if I could just float in a sea of blank, happy obedience. It all slips down the memory hole, leaving me a good girl again for the voice inside my head.

And I stand up. Because the voice tells me to, magnanimous in its victory... and I love to obey.

"Thank you, Desmond," I say as I straighten my skirt, confused by his horrified expression. "You've been a big help." I smile. I wave. And I walk away. I don't give him a second thought. I don't wonder what was up with his trousers, I don't notice where my feet carry me next, I don't think about what I'm doing as I scrub my blouse in the executive washroom. None of it matters, and I know it doesn't matter because the voice told me it didn't matter and all I want in this world is to be a good girl and obey.

Everything is normal, says the voice inside my head. And I believe it.

THE END