His latest creation, Dreamer's Tale, had frustrated him to take a call of nature.
When he returned to his cubicle,
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This work is the copyrighted material of the respective author. ~Tigger
Author Notes: I read another blackmailed-to-submission story the other day. This is the result. ~Tigger
Cautionary Notes: This story contains suggested elements of Female Dominant, Male Dominant, TV Dominant, Female Submissive, Male Submissive, TV Submissive themes. It is not 'Forced Femme' so much as 'Strongly Urged and Gently Manipulated Femme.' These elements are necessary to the story I want to tell, but I hope that most readers will not find these elements of theme too distressing. The reader should take that into consideration when deciding to read this tale. ~Tigger
S. Marcus Summers the Third (Marc to acquaintances, Trip to his friends, but *only* his mother dared call him Sheldon) should have been bored. All of the work he *had* to get done was already finished and sitting in the email queue, just waiting for him to click that little send button. His boss wasn't expecting those messages until the next morning at the earliest, so Trip decided to wait until just before the end of his work day. That way, he'd still be a superstar *and* his boss wouldn't find anything more for him to do before quitting time.
That left Trip time to indulge in his secret vice and passion - female domination. At least, female domination fantasies. You see, Trip had never met a woman who was really into dominating men, but he had a fantastic imagination and a ready source of inspiration from the Internet.
Actually, the Internet was where he'd discovered this wonderful (at least, he thought it was wonderful) variation on the eternal battle of the sexes. While in college, he'd stumbled across the newsgroup, alt.sex.femdom, and had fallen in love. He could not put a face to the woman he'd fallen in love with, but he knew her none the less. She was a collage of the special women who posted to that group on a regular basis. Indeed, she was a woman of many parts - a woman of sharp intellect, of calm wisdom, of clear understanding, yet with a quirky, if somewhat dark sense of humor. She was a woman who spoke of whippings on one hand and hugs on the other; of soul cringing, public humiliation in one posting and of exaltation and pride in the next.
And she *scared* the living hell out of Trip. So much so, that he had never been able to find within himself the courage to face a woman on such terms. Any more than he had been able to find the courage to face himself on those terms.
Instead, Trip poured out his bottled up dreams into writing fantasies. They were from his soul and because they were, he'd nurtured them with particular love and caring. He'd even gone so far as to take a night school class at the local college to improve his writing skills because something as important as a piece of his soul had to be done well or not at all. Gradually, over time, his writing improved, until one day, he experienced something akin to an epiphany while reading a story that had been posted to his beloved news group.
His stuff was infinitely better than that piece had been, or at least, he thought so. But then, what did he know? He was just a virgin with an overactive imagination. Still, after re-reading the posted story, he still thought his most recent story was a better, more imaginative tale.
He thought about that for several days before making a decision. He'd still closed his eyes just before pushing the "send" button, but he had posted his latest, and in his biased opinion, best story to alt.sex.femdom. Then, he waited for the worst.
Only, he did not get the worst. His story attracted no flames. He even gotten an emailed "attaboy" from one of the regulars. It had been all the encouragement he'd needed.
Now, writing was his primary hobby, an avocation that consumed most of his non-working waking hours as he worked to make each little inspiration into something special. In truth, not every story was a winner. For every one he posted, there were four or five dead ends that he had not been able to pull together into a workable story. That usually meant that he couldn't get the characters to behave and give him a happy ending. What the hell good was a story where the domme sent the male screaming into the night, never to return? They were, after all, *his* fantasies and *he* wanted happy endings where the girl got the guy and they lived, loved and played happily ever after.
That's not to say that some of his stories did not have very dark, perhaps even malevolent overtones because some of them did. The one he was working on now had such a plot, and the story had him in its grip. He was consumed by this story. It simply would not let his mind rest as he fought tooth and nail with his protagonists to find a way to get them to a happy ending. Only, how he was going to manage that when this particular domme seemed to be so . . .so especially and marvelously evil? When she had such a life and death hold over the sub? Trip just did not know. All he knew was that it would not let go of him.
That was why he hadn't sent in his completed office work to his boss - so he could spend *just* a few extra minutes writing and "negotiating" with his stubborn characters. He just *had* to find a way to salvage this story - it was just too good to become a dead end.
Time flew by, but he got no closer to resolving the basic conflict between his characters when the alarm on his watch beeped. Fifteen minutes to quitting time. Carefully, he saved the file to his password protected folder and to his floppy for transport to home where he would take up the battle again.
The call of nature caught him unaware - then he realized he had not moved from his chair since lunch. He got up and made a quick trip to the restroom, only to be stopped on his way back by an associate from another department. This guy was a notorious brown noser, and what he really wanted an update on the status of Trip's project so he could show his own boss he was staying "on-top-of-the-work".
Midway through the impromptu briefing, Trip realized he could not remember closing the story file on his computer. He tried to break off the conversation, but his co-worker kept asking questions and wanting further clarifications of minor points. Trip was nearly in a panic when he finally broke free of the "status vulture's" clutches. Trip's two minute pit stop had turned into a twenty minute status report.
When he finally got back to his cubicle, his worst nightmare awaited him. Ms. Daniels, Trip's boss, was waiting inside. Only she wasn't really waiting. She was deeply engrossed in the text that was scrolling across Trip's screen. He watched speechless as she paged up to the top of the file to where his byline was. Only then did she realize she was not alone in the cubicle anymore.
She spun slowly about in Trip's office chair until she was facing him directly. Susan Daniels was a striking woman in her mid to late thirties. She was tall, almost six feet in her normal dress shoes - Trip typically had to look up to meet her eyes. A strict exercise and diet regimen kept her figure slender and shapely. Her hair was blond going ash and her eyes were vividly green. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, except when she smiled - then she was lovely. But she was not smiling now.
Strangely, she did not look angry either, rather she looked more bemused than anything else. Trip fought, mostly successfully, not to squirm or fidget under her unflinching stare.
She finally spoke. "I thought I recognized this writing style." Whatever he had expected her to say, it had not been that. He started to speak just to fill in the silence, but she cut him off. "I recognize the handle as well as the style." she said simply.
"But . . but, how?" Trip stammered.
That made her mouth quirk up into a half smile. "How, what, Marc?"
"How can you know the handle or the style when I only post it to . . ." he cut himself off before he went too far and admitted where he published his work.
He needn't have bothered. "When you only post your work to alt.sex.femdom and then later to soc.subculture.bondage-bdsm?" she finished for him. Trip's mouth fell open. "Oh, yes. I am quite a fan of yours, Dreamer." She reached over and pulled out the floppy from the computer before shutting it down. She stood, straightening her skirt as if she were hitching up trousers for battle, and then beckoned him to follow her.
The office was already deserted when they passed through it on their way to her office. Once there, she tossed the diskette onto her desk and motioned Trip into one of her easy chairs, taking the other herself. "Well, what are we going to do about you?" She asked softly.
Trip was still reeling from the knowledge that she knew about Dreamer; that she knew his writings. But . . .but how?
Trip was so befuddled, he had not even realized that he has spoken aloud. Ms. Daniels looked at him for what seemed to be an eternity before speaking a single word. "Does that name mean anything to you, Dreamer?" She asked as she moved to her own computer.
Trip watched as she brought up a newsreader program while he considered his next words. Of course he recognized that name. It was the handle of one of his favorite people from asfd. It was the name of the woman who had cared enough to email him after that first story.
"Look at this, Dreamer." She ordered quietly. He came over to where she was working and looked at the computer screen. On it was the setup window for the newsreader, and the handle that appeared in the "Reply-to" block was the name she had just spoken.
"You mean, you're . . ." Trip asked, trying to regain his equilibrium. "That is. . .I mean. . . you are . . . her??!?"
Now, Susan did smile. "Yes, I am. Glad to finally meet you, Dreamer, although I wish our introductions could be under more pleasant circumstances. Dammit, Marc, you knew I needed those reports before tomorrow, and you were doing this" she picked up the diskette, "on *my* time."
"It's done." he said quietly, feeling more than a little ashamed. "I finished it up about an hour ago and was going to email it to you before I went home. It is not an excuse, but the fact is that the story is bothering me and I decided to look at it instead of taking a chance that you had more work for me today."
"Do you do this at work often, Marc?"
He shook his head. "A couple of other times, when a story was really grabbing at me. When I could not have gotten much work done anyway because of the distraction. Other than those few times, I write at home."
Susan sat quietly, her hands spinning the floppy. "You . . You really are . . . her" his finger pointed to the screen. "You really do . . the stuff you write about?" He just couldn't bear not knowing for sure.
She shook her head as if clearing it. "Yes, I am, and of course I do what I write. Don't you?" Her question was flippant, but when Trip flushed brightly, her green eyes narrowed in surprise. "Don't you?" she asked again very softly.
The silence that ensued went on for several minutes, neither willing to speak. Trip because he did not want to admit to this woman his fraudulent lack of *real* experience; Susan because she already knew the answer.
Finally, they both spoke at once. "No, I don't". "No, you haven't, have you?"
"If someone had told me you were an untried novice, I would have laughed at their joke." She tossed him the diskette. "Send me those reports and get your other files off your office computer. The next time your muse grabs you, I will expect you to take a personal day to deal with it."
"You mean, I am not fired?"
"No. You are usually a pretty good worker. Better than pretty good, actually. Just lose the Dreamer persona when you come to work and we'll forget this ever happened."
"But. . What about. . " his hand raised the disk.
"What about it?" she asked, confused.
Trip went bright red and started to turn away, but was stopped by an imperious 'give' hand command from Susan. Swallowing hard, he all but whispered, "You aren't going to use this against me? Demand that I . . " his voice fell off as he realized how foolish he sounded.
"Demand that you what?" She asked, confused. Then Susan's tones were derisive as she recalled the unfinished story she had just read. "Demand that you submit yourself to me or I will fire you? Like the woman in your story there?" she pointed at the disk Trip now clutched tightly in his hand. "Don't be more of a fool than you already have been, Mr. Summers. First of all, if I were so stupid as to try something like that, you could have me up on sexual harassment charges in an instant. The company would jettison me like a ticking time bomb and I would never work in the industry again. Secondly, what makes you think I would *want* your submission, Marc?"
The blow shook him like a heart punch. It was just as he had always feared. He wasn't worthy. He had not even been given a chance and she had already found him unworthy. "I'm . . ." his voice caught and cracked. "I'm sorry." was all he could get out.
He started to run out the door, but Susan surprised him again by beating him to the door and shutting it. "Sit back down, Marc." she ordered, then adding in a softer tone, "Please."
With stiff, precise steps, he went back to the chair and then sat in it. Susan again took the other leather arm chair. "That came out more harshly than I meant, Marc, and I apologize for that. You upset me when you implied that I might blackmail you into surrendering to me and I struck out at you in retaliation."
Too emotionally spent to care anymore, Trip felt the first burning tickle of tears behind his eyelids. "What . . .I mean, " he took a deep breath before finally choking out "what is it about me that is so . . . unacceptable?"
Susan considered for several moments before answering. "Nothing, Marc, other than the fact that I don't know what is particularly acceptable about you, either. You have a marvelous imagination. Until this minute, I did not know just how marvelous because I never thought for a minute that Dreamer had never actually submitted to a woman. You are a bright, attractive, intelligent young man with a wonderful future. But I do wonder . . ." her voice trailed off.
"What?!?" Trip's voice was pleading, now.
"If you feel as deeply as your writing indicates, if you are at all honest in your dreams, why have you never actually tried submitting before this? You've been writing for what, about three years now? You make a good wage. Even if you have not met anyone who would experiment with you, you could have afforded a professional session or two."
Trip hung his head in shame. "Afraid." he whispered. "Afraid that I would not be good enough."
"That is exactly your problem, Marc. That is what you have to get past. Do you know why I would not play with you right now? Because I want more than just the momentary pleasure of the game, the rush of watching a bottom go red and eyes get wet from my paddle. I want a friend and a companion, too. Submission takes strength and character to do well, but not nearly as much of either as it takes to be a friend. It is much harder to be there when a friend needs a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on, than it is to offer up your self for a short period of time under a domina's will. One is forever, the other is but a moment in time."
Trip played with that thought for a while, then shook his head. "It doesn't seem that way, Ms. Daniels. I've been a friend, *am* a friend to other people. I've done the things you described, but taking that step into someone else's control seems . . . much, much more."
"It's not, though. Being a friend is about caring and giving which is all that real submission is about, too. I could not blackmail you into submission, Marc, because that would be taking and it would be uncaring. For that special sharing to be real, both of you, dominant and submissive, have to care enough to give. *You* have to care enough to get past your fears and your male self image; *she* has to care enough to guide you and protect you so that you come out of it strengthened rather than diminished."
She handed him a tissue and then took his other hand in hers. "That is the core of the problem you are having with your story, Dreamer." she said quietly. "It is not submission because she is taking from your male hero. You won't find your romantic happy ending as long as there is no caring and shared giving."
Trip thought about the stories he had posted and the ones he had "killed", and realized that she was right. He hadn't been able to bring off the happy ending in this story because there was no foundation for a loving relationship in the story. The woman dominated the man, but he had no choice because of the blackmail plot. Even though he began to enjoy her attentions and to look forward to their time together, Trip had been unable to make him believably care for her. It was all so simple.
"Thank you." he said simply. "And I am truly sorry that I thought, even for a moment, that you would do something like that." She nodded her acceptance of that. With a burst of courage, he admitted. "Truthfully, I guess I even hoped that if it had not occurred to you, you might decide to try it. Dominating me, that is." he added hurriedly. "It would have taken the choice out of my hands and I would have *had* to try it. It would have been easier that way."
"It would also have been very wrong and disappointing to you, Marc. You have to find that courage within yourself before you can give yourself. Some people can just play at it, some can't. You, I think, are one of those who can't. Your romantic nature, I suspect. It will mean offering up a special part of you in the process, and that takes a special kind of bravery."
He nodded slowly, the fatigue of great emotion weighing heavily on his shoulders. He rose from the chair. "Thank you again. I think I understand a lot more than I did before."
Susan watched as he moved once again to her door. Oh, what the hell, she thought. "Marc?" she called.
He stopped and turned to face her. "I do like you, you know. Tell you what, *friend*. Today is Wednesday. Decide if you want to care and if you can find that courage. I have Saturday free. If you find it in yourself to do so, be at my door at noon on Saturday. Nothing *too* tough." she grinned mischievously and Trip's heart skipped a beat. "A little bondage, a bottom warming or two, some teasing and maybe a few gentle surprises." Her smile transfixed him. "I always wondered what it would be like to dominate Dreamer, and I know your dreams very well since I have read them all at least three times." she laughed as he gaped at her admission. "We can stop anytime and just talk, too. How about it, friend?"
Trip had to swallow twice to get the lump out of his throat. God, he wanted it so much, and he was still so afraid of it. "Can . . . umm., Can I think about it for a bit?" He asked, hesitantly.
Susan smiled again. "Of course. Right up until noon on Saturday." He'd be there. She was sure of it. She knew Dreamer's dreams too well. "The choice is and always will be yours, Marc." She walked over to him and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Now go home and get some sleep. It will all be clearer in the morning."
He hesitated one last time. She had called him friend, hadn't she? "Ms. Daniels?" She cocked a single brow at him in query. "My friends call me Trip. For "the Third"."
Her smile blossomed even brighter. "Thank you, Trip. Mine call me Susan." she said softly, and then a mischievous glint lit her eyes. "That is, they do outside the office where they still call me 'Ms. Daniels', or in my dungeon where the call me by another name. It will be interesting, I think, to discover what name the Dreamer decides is worthy enough for the woman who takes his first submission." She punctuated that with a teasing slap to Trip's butt to send him finally on his way.
She'd been right, Trip thought several days later. The story had come together the very next time he'd sat down to work on it. The domina had freed her victim, had given him back the false, incriminating evidence, because she had come to care too much for him. She'd been unable to continue the seemingly one-sided relationship any longer. Wanting more than she could take, she had given up her coercive power over him, only to be stunned when he gave her back all that and more, once he was able to do so freely and of his own will. And, except for eating dinner standing up occasionally, Trip's latest story pairing would live happily ever after.
And so it came to pass, on a bright, sunny day, that a young man with dreams, took one last deep cleansing breath, and rang an ornate doorbell. The door opened to reveal Susan, dressed casually in a sweater and jeans, idly slapping an old fashioned wooden cooking spoon against her free palm. "You're late!" she growled. "Get your butt in here, Shelly-the-Trip. I have been waiting a long time for you."
He still wasn't quite so sure, but he thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd been waiting a long time for her, too. Resolutely, he stepped over her threshold, and past his fears.
End of Not Blackmailed© 1997,2013 Tigger
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