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🕑 Added 2022-09-08 19:00:04 +0000 UTCJohn seemed not to hear her. Are you in the bedroom? he asked casually.
Karen looked around. She’d been wandering through the Fortress without a thought as to where she was going, as if she were trying to get away from the voice that hectored her—or seek it out. And she had made her way to one of the guest bedrooms.
“Now I am, not that it’s doing me much good.”
And what would you be wearing?
Karen paused, almost blurting out some sarcastic response, but instead finding herself intrigued by his tone of voice. “Yellow blouse. White slacks. Flip-flops.”
Lie down on the bed. There’s a mirror across from it, isn’t there? Stack the pillows so you can prop yourself up—I want you to see your reflection.
“Why? Can you see what I’m looking at?”
Let’s focus on you for the moment. I want you to see what I’m having you do.
Karen about rolled her eyes—wondering if he could see that—wondering if he could sense it in her thoughts despite his denial that he was psychic. But what else could it be? All this seemed very telepathic... and yet... wasn't Clark as paranoid as a good-natured Kansas farmboy could be about being mind-controlled? Wasn’t the Fortress set up to detect anything affecting his brain chemistry?
And did it really matter? She was excited, her legs feeling weak with every step she took to the bed. She laid down on it as John had suggested, propping herself up so she was high enough to see her reflection in the mirror.
“I am a good-looking woman,” she said to herself, not minding if John heard.
That’s putting it mildly, he cooed to her. You’re a goddess and I’m going to make you appreciate it as much as I do.
“I thought I was a whore,” she retorted.
Who says you can’t be both? That sounds to me like the perfect woman.
“Yeah? What makes you think I’d settle for you then? Talk about a manlet—I haven’t seen so much as one inch of your height.”
What expectations do you want me to live up to? Be a perfect gentleman, soft and even-tempered and always treating you with respect? Making you feel like a queen? Or slapping your ass, pulling your hair, making you come? Making you feel like a woman.
Karen gulped, not that it did anything about her suddenly dry mouth. “I suppose I’d want… some of both,” she said haltingly. “I wouldn’t like either all the time. But you can take it too far.”
How? By being honest? It seems to me that so far, I’ve kept up my end of the relationship. Kept you happy. You are satisfied, aren’t you?
“Not yet,” Karen reminded him.
But you know you’re going to be. So long as you do as I say.
“That’s not much of a statement. You want me to touch myself, right? You think I don’t know how to do that on my own?”
You really shouldn’t, a woman that looks like you.
“Because I could have any guy I want.” Karen meant to sound smug, but she didn’t know if she pulled it off.
Any guy you want so long as you don’t mind your reputation taking a hit. And you do mind. They can’t make it worth your while enough for you to not care if you’re called a whore.
“Watch it.”
Alright, I’ll humor you. You’re not a whore. Not yet. But you are curious. Wondering if it could feel as good to be my slut as I keep telling you or if it’s all wishful thinking. Well, what am I asking? That you indulge your curiosity a bit? Is that something to be so frightened of?
“Maybe,” Karen said tauntingly. “Who knows if you’re the real deal—maybe you just want something you can put on the internet.”
Now who’s being disrespectful? I already made this clear to you; I don’t share. I would never be so tawdry or so unambitious. I don’t care about social media likes and I care even less when they’re in comparison to you.
“So you think you can have me?”
Yes. I think you can give yourself to me. And that you will give yourself to me. You’re already thinking about it and all I’ve done to you is let you hear my voice.
Karen bit her lip. Plenty of guys couldn’t get her turned on even with six-pack abs, rubbing and massaging, even a well-sized dick. And here this John was, with a voice, and it was working for her. Maybe she was a slut… some kind of submissive he knew just how to talk to.
Well then, what harm could it do to take advantage of this metahuman phone sex operator? No one would think less of her for having a one-night stand; she probably had a reputation for that kind of thing anyway, thanks to her costume. This could only be less serious. She wasn’t being touched, she wasn’t even being seen. She was just listening.
Listening and doing as she was told.
“Okay, so—“
I’m getting bored of this chit-chat. Unbutton your blouse.
“I thought you were trying to convince me!” Karen snapped, making a fist that could’ve smashed a boulder into pebbles. He couldn’t keep talking to her like that!
No, I’m being patient with you and your skittishness. But even my patience has limits. If you want me to shut up and leave, that’s fine. You can even fuck yourself without me. But if you want to be my bitch, then I expect some show of respect.
Karen took a deep breath and undid the buttons as quickly as if she were ripping off a Band-Aid. “Okay, my blouse is open. You want me to take it off, ‘master’?”
Don’t call me that unless you’re going to imbue it with the proper amount of respect. Apologize.
“You’re kidding me.”
You were doing so well, finally being yourself, but you had to get defensive. It’s a very bad habit. I won’t tolerate it.
Another deep breath. Karen felt a headache coming on and, worse, like she was giving it to herself.
What was she even doing? Was she going through with this or being a snotty brat, like a punk teenager sitting through a pep rally, snarking all the while? Rao, she’d asked for this—or at least not protested too hard when John decided it was time for it.
“Alright, I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t be so rude when we’re… when we’re doing this.”
Let’s see how sorry you are. Try using that word again. But this time, properly.
Karen ran her hands over her face, unsurprised to find a sheen of sweat covering her features. What was she doing, what was she doing… but, working hard to modulate her tone not to give a hint of willfulness, she spoke in what seemed like the proper cadence: “I’ve opened up my blouse for you, Master. Would you like me to take it off?”
Yes, Karen, I would. And that was very good.
Despite herself, Karen felt a blush of heat across her cheeks and down lower in her body. Her eyes even blinked moistly. It wasn’t such a large effort to play the submissive. It seemed to come naturally and satisfyingly to her. And when he praised her… it was like she was touching herself. His praise tingled her body the same way pleasure would flow from her hand rubbing between her legs.
John continued, his voice sharp and a little nasty, but also polite. Even caring. I want you to look at yourself in the mirror, Karen. Watch yourself. See how you slide the blouse slowly off her shoulders. Then touch your neck with her fingers. Let them flow down your body. Taste yourself. Touch your cleavage like you don’t know your breasts, like you’re feeling them for the first time.
Karen did as ordered, again feeling a rush in doing what she was told to do. It was little more than what she would do to herself—she knew her own body as well as John seemed to—but there was a definite thrill in the feeling of being watched, ordered, manipulated. Someone calculating and contriving the best way for her to feel good.
Taking control. Denying her any restraint.
The blouse fell from her shoulders. Narcissistically, she looked at herself in the mirror as her fingers ran down her slender neck to the bulging fullness of her breasts inside their tight half-bra. Karen breathed a little faster and wondered if John could tell.
She thought to touch herself, but then—remembering how surprisingly sweet it had felt to have him praise her and angling for more of that treatment—she decided to include John in what she did next. “Can I take my bra off, sir? I want to feel my tits for you.”
No, not yet. First unzip your fly. Nice and easy.
Karen did it, but John didn’t respond—didn’t praise her or anything. Karen grinded her teeth, waiting for his next instructions. Usually, she’d have moved right on to the rubbing, the body-play; her clit already wanted it. But there was a keen, rapturous agony to having to wait, listening for John’s words, hanging on his every breath. If she could hear his breath. She strained to.
What if he’d stopped talking to her? Had she done anything to displease him? No, she couldn’t have—she just had to wait. Be patient. But it was so frustrating. She wanted to snarl something at him, but then she might truly offend him and then he would stop, and she knew her masturbation after that would pale in comparison to what it was building to now.
Lift your hips up—take your slacks down. Just a little at a time. There’s no rush.
“Easy for you to say,” Karen muttered under her breath. “What’s with keeping me waiting? Don’t you like girls?”
What was that? John asked, with a churlish pretense of not having heard her.
Karen buttoned her lip. She had to show respect. But God, the threat of losing him—the razor’s edge she was walking—she didn’t know if that’s what was making it so good, but something was.
She looked at herself in the mirror again as her creamy thighs appeared from underneath her slacks. Wiggled her hips against the satin sheets to get them all the way down, then kicked away her sandals so she could take her pants off.
