Immobile

This is a little vignette about a particular fantasy of mine.

*****

Elsa Yarkovsky rolled over in bed and smiled. It was Saturday morning, and all was right with her world.

In her capacity as a special investigator for the Federal Trade Commission, she'd spent the past week accumulating evidence against Bronson Douglas, scion of the Douglas Industries Douglases, and she knew without a doubt they'd nailed him. He'd delayed his trial for months, pushing for binding arbitration instead, and she couldn't wait to see him seated behind the defendant's table in a courtroom, listening as his network of schemes and deceptions was dismantled. A jury trial was the worst possible thing for someone like him: he was good looking in an Eighties-movie-villain sort of way, he'd inherited all the money he'd used in his scams, he'd been in the tabloids with a variety of women as his wife remained steadfastly by his side. Only a jury of millionaires would have any sympathy for him.

She stretched as the sunlight cut through the air. She lived alone, and had no real time for a social life that might put a man in bed with her. And that was okay. She planned a quick yoga workout, followed by a leisurely run around the park and a positively decadent lunch to celebrate her triumphs.

The phone on her nightstand buzzed. It showed an unknown number, and she started to ignore it, but then wondered who would call so early on the weekend. She picked it up and said, "Hello?"

"Ms. Yablonsky," a smooth male voice said. "Good morning."

Elsa went cold. "How did you get this number?"

"You really think it's that difficult?" Bronson Douglas said. "I have all the resources in the world."

"What do you want?"

"To give you one last chance. Tell me what evidence you have against me that makes your boss confident enough to risk a jury trial, and nothing will happen."

The implied threat only made her angry. "Goodbye, Mr. Douglas."

"Wait! It's really in your own best interest to hear me out. You only have less than ten minutes."

She felt the first frisson of fear. "Until what?"

"Until you find yourself unable to move or speak."

She frowned. It was too early in the morning for nonsense. "Unable to move or speak? Do you plan to tie me up or something?"

"Nope. It'll just happen. In six minutes now, wherever you happen to be."

"Oh, I suppose I'll just fall over?"

"No, you'll likely just stand there. Unless you're sitting."

"Uh-huh. And how will this happen?"

She heard the insufferably grin in his voice. "Ah, that's a trade secret. One you haven't uncovered."

"Look, this contact is entirely inappropriate," Elsa said. "I'm blocking this number, and I don't expect to hear from you again. Do you understand me?"

"Five minutes now," he said. "In five minutes, no matter what you're doing, you'll stop and be unable to move or speak."

Reflexively, she glanced at the clock on the cable box. 7:35 A.M. "Goodbye, Mr. Douglas," she said, and ended the call. Then, as she promised, she blocked the number.

She stared at the phone in her hand. What the fuck was all that about? And what was that weird-ass threat? She started to call her boss Tommy, but figured it would be cruel to wake him this early on a Saturday. This nonsense could wait.

She started the coffee maker and went to look out the front window. The city stretched away from her, bustling even at this hour, the morning mist hiding the tops of the buildings. The coffee maker beeped to announce it was complete, so she turned to walk back to the kitchen. She happened to glance at the clock again, and saw 7:39 change to 7:40.

She stopped in the middle of the living room.

It wasn't deliberate. She simply could not get her body to move. She was frozen, paralyzed. Only her eyes seemed unaffected.

What the everlasting fuck?

She struggled with all her might, but her limbs might as well have been made of concrete. Not a finger trembled or changed position. She began to breathe heavily, and felt her chest tighten with panic. She saw herself in the mirror across the room, looking for all the world like a still photo or portrait: the checkered drawstring pajama pants, the loose white undershirt, her bare feet and disheveled hair. Her face shone with perspiration even as her expression remained blank. She couldn't even muster the energy to look terrified.

What had happened to her? How had this happened to her? What did that son of a bitch Douglas do to her?

Her cell phone buzzed from the kitchen counter It was less than six feet away, but she could do nothing to reach it, or even turn to look at it.

Oh, my God, she thought, her heart racing. Somehow he did it. He really did it.

Before she could even speculate on why, or what else he might have in mind, the front door rattled as a key turned in the lock. She couldn't turn, but the mirror's reflection showed the entrance. She felt a jolt of genuine terror mixed with white-hot rage as Bronson Douglas entered. He closed and locked the door. "I warned you," he said, smug and delighted.

You fucking asshole, Elsa thought. But she made no sound.

He held up the ring with a single key. "And getting a key to your place was as easy as getting your phone number. You've really got to do better at security."

He strode slowly around the room, looking it over as if he were a potential tenant. "I'll give you the short version of what's been done to you," he said. "Your will has been deadened. Completely. As a result, you are unable to do anything without a direct command from someone else." He moved closer, so he could speak directly in her ear. "And right now, that's me."

He heard her breath catch in her throat. In her condition, that was as the same as a scream.

He moved in front so she could see his face. She'd never wanted to punch anyone as badly as she did him at that moment, but she might as well have wished to fly. Nothing broke through the paralysis holding her still. Was it true? Could she only move when she was told to? Was that even possible?

Looking right into her eyes, Douglas touched the hollow of her throat and traced his fingertip down to her cleavage, stopping at the undershirt's seam. The reality that she could not keep him from touching her shot through her, and she began to breathe rapidly, almost gasping.

"Don't freak out," he said teasingly. "We're just getting started."

He pulled his hand away, then rested it at the swell of her hip, on the bare skin between the bottom hem of the undershirt and the waistband of the low-slung pajama pants.

"Here's how this works, Ms. Yarkovsky. Not only will you do anything I say, you will feel whatever I tell you to feel. I don't mean emotions: I can't make you fall in love with me, don't worry. But I do mean I can tell you to, oh, think about nothing but the way your breasts feel."

She had only an instant to think, What the fuck? before her mind filled with intense sensations and awareness. As a girl she'd gotten her breasts early, and they'd always been large, so she definitely appreciated the difference between how they felt in a bra and the way they felt now, unsupported beneath the undershirt, their weight pulling on her shoulders. She also could seemingly sense the presence of the flimsy, well-worn fabric covering them, and even the tiny gap where her suddenly-erect nipples pushed the cloth away from her aureolas. Each breath made them rise and fall, pressing up against the undershirt and then falling ever so slightly away before the garment settled on them again. She'd never experienced anything about her body in such detail, with such totality, and when she saw her face in the mirror, she was shocked to see her eyes half-closed in—

She gasped helplessly as he touched the tip of her nipple through the cloth. The sensation roared through her with a vividness beyond her imagination.

Then he put his thumb and finger on either side of her nipple, and lightly pinched.

She cried out. It was totally involuntary, and the most desperate sound she could imagine. She'd never heard herself make a noise like that before.

Douglas chuckled. "Now play with them yourself, Elsa. Show me what you like."

There was truly no resisting. Her hands slid beneath her undershirt and cupped her breasts. She squeezed them, pushed them together and pulled at her nipples. She made no sound, but could hear the soft collision of flesh as she manipulated them.

"You can stop now," he said.

No! she wanted to scream. Not yet! I need to keep doing this! But her hands fell to her side and did not move.

As if an afterthought, Douglas added, "And you're no longer thinking about your breasts."

And just like that, the desire to touch her breasts vanished. A red flush burned up her neck and cheeks, a shame that she'd never felt before.

Douglas's voice grew throatier. "Now: take off that shirt."

She fought with every bit of her willpower, but only managed the briefest hesitation before she pulled the undershirt over her head and let it fall to the floor. She felt shame, and fury, and a weird sort of defiance. Want to see my boobs? Take a good luck, she thought angrily. They look like every other pair of tits, don't they? You could've saved yourself the trouble.

As if reading her mind, he said, "You can't imagine how many times I've watched you in court, or in those interminable arbitration meetings, and wondered how you'd look this way." His eyes narrowed. "Stand up straight. Put those shoulders back."

She obeyed. Like most large-breasted women, she tended to slump, especially when she was braless. Now she stood erect, chin up, shoulders back, thrusting herself out for him.

He looked her up and down in blatant appreciation. Her body was toned from years of yoga and jogging, pale and pink in the morning light. Then he stepped back and raised his phone.

He's going to take my fucking picture! she thought. She struggled with all her might to raise her arms and cover her breasts, or at least turn away, but as before, nothing happened.

"Smile," he said, and to her horror, she did.

He took several pictures, then scrolled through them with a satisfied sigh. When he looked back up at her, he barked out a laugh. "You can stop smiling now."

Her expression fell back to neutral.

He stepped close again, and used his hands to cup and lift her breasts. The touch sent shivers of revulsion through her. His thumbs stroked her nipples, but they did not stiffen. Without a command to enjoy it, it was the least erotic thing she could imagine. Instead, she envisioned her hands around his neck.

"I can make you like this," he said softly.

She glared at him, but she knew it was true.

He pulled away his hands. "But first, take off those pants."

She reached for the drawstring, untied them and slid them down her legs. She stepped out of them and discarded them, just as she had her shirt. Now clad only in black cotton panties, she resumed standing immobile. The sensation of air on her bare legs and back, the helpless certainty of her situation, filled her with renewed rage and terror.

He slipped one finger under the waistband of her panties and slid it slowly across the skin below her navel. "One little piece of cloth is all that keeps you from being naked," he said. He circled behind her, then stepped so close she could feel his erection through his trousers against her buttocks. He cupped her breasts from behind, his now-ragged breath in her ear. As he kneaded the soft flesh, he said, "You can speak now. Tell me how this feels."

Like a switch had been thrown, she snarled, "You motherfucker, get your fucking hands off me, don't ever touch me again, I swear to God when this wears off, I'm going to kill you so fucking slowly you won't—"

"Shut up," he said, and she did. "Now...answer this question honestly. Which would humiliate you more: me removing your panties, or making you do it yourself?"

Oh, God, she thought, please, no, don't make me answer, don't let me give in—

"Myself," she said with no inflection.

She felt his breath on her neck when he chuckled. He took away his hands, stepped back in front and again raised his phone. "Smile, and take them off."

It only took a moment. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband, bent over and slid the slight garment down her legs. It joined the pile of discarded clothing. Then she stood again, motionless, smiling with apparent happiness, and now totally naked.

The way he looked her up and down felt like the touch of some filthy rag, but her smile didn't waver. "Turn around," he said, and she did. When she again faced him, she realized that he hadn't photographed her, he'd filmed her: to all appearances she'd willingly disrobed and posed for him, delighted to display herself. Another red flush of shame crept up her chest to her face.

He lowered the phone. "Now. Tell me what evidence you have against me."

"Recordings of your calls with the Russian ambassador and the Colombian shipping company," she said. "Original documents listing the actual manifests before they were altered. And the testimony of your former assistant."

He nodded. "I'm impressed. I hadn't even suspected Miss Ling." After a thoughtful moment, he said, "You realize that with what I've already got, I've destroyed your credibility. My work here is done."

She had only a moment to feel relief before he added, "So the rest of this will be totally pleasure." He stepped close, his smooth silk shirt pressed against her bare breasts. He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. "I'm going to put you through your paces, and film every minute of it. You will appear not only willing, but eager. And," he added with a smile, "you can think whatever you like, but any words you try to speak will come out as, 'fuck me.' Now tell me how you feel about that."

I will kill you slowly and painfully, she thought. But she only said flatly, "Fuck me."

"Good. Now: on your knees."

Obediently she knelt before him. She knew what was about to happen, what he intended to make her do. Her stomach roiled with revulsion.

"You can speak whenever you'd like," he added as he undid his belt.

She glared up at him. I'll rip off your balls and shove them down your goddamn throat, she thought. "Fuck me," she said.

Not surprisingly, he was already rock hard when he freed himself from his pants. "Don't keep me waiting, Elsa."

I hate you and I'll see you in hell, she thought furiously. "Fuck me," she snarled, and took his cock in her mouth.

He was hot and rigid, and tasted of salty dick sweat. She was terrified he would come this way, claiming her with his masculinity in the most disgusting way possible. But she couldn't stop, nor could she deliberately do it badly. She obediently bobbed her head, one hand at the base of his shaft, the other braced against his thigh, applying all her experience and skill. She looked up, and saw his phone held over her, filming. It blocked her view of his face, but his little noises of pleasure were loud in her apartment.

"Stop," he said breathlessly, and she did. He stepped away, his cock red and hard, gleaming with her saliva. She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily, waiting. He sighed with satisfaction and asked, "Did you enjoy that?"

I'll enjoy cutting out your fucking heart, she thought. "Fuck me," she said.

He put his phone aside and removed his clothes. He was lean and muscular, an attractive man if you didn't take into account the fact that he was making her complicit in her own rape. Her eyes found her own discarded clothes on the floor. The small pile now represented the last of her dignity.

Now he was also naked, still rock-hard, and once again smiling. "On your feet," he said, and of course she obeyed. She put all her hate and fury into her eyes as he stepped close. The end of his cock pressed against the soft flesh below her navel.

He raised her chin again. "Kiss me."

Somehow, it was even more revolting than sucking his cock. That act was all about domination, and even though she hated it, it had no emotional intimacy for her. As she pressed her lips to his and slid her tongue into his mouth, though, the reality of her situation overwhelmed her. Worse, his kiss wasn't rough or clumsy; he was, of all things, gentle. When he finally pulled away, she leaned forward to continue the kiss, having not been commanded to stop.

"That's enough," he said. His voice was low now, and almost seemed . . . regretful?

He took a deep breath, shaking off whatever momentary doubts had come over him. "Now, Elsa: take me to your bedroom."

She took his hand and led him down the short hall. She was absurdly ashamed of the clothes scattered everywhere, including lingerie, and the piles of magazines and legal papers.

"On your bed, and on your back," he ordered, and she crawled onto the bed. She looked up at him as he closed the blinds against the morning sun, dimming the room. Then he stretched out beside her and put his mouth on her breasts. He sucked and licked them for what seemed at eternity, reminding her of those first boyfriends who were so amazed by her boobs that they couldn't focus on any of her other body parts. But she felt nothing other than revulsion, helplessness and rage.

He seemed to realize that. He raised his face and looked down into her eyes. "You are now," he breathed, "so aroused that even my slightest touch can make you almost come."

The idea seemed so utterly ridiculous for about two seconds, and then her body did exactly as he commanded. She was on fire for him, writhing and clutching at him, desperate to take his cock and guide it inside her. "Fuck me!" she cried, no longer thinking different words. "Fuck me!" She spread her legs wantonly, wriggling to get him into position. He slid inside her more easily than any man she'd ever been with, her suddenly-hungry pussy wet and loose.

At his first thrust she came, a tingling rush from her groin up her spine. It tore away any remaining inhibitions; now all that mattered was coming, and it happened with an ease she never would have believed. She couldn't even say "Fuck me" now, only moan and cry out as the comedown between climaxes grew more and more brief. She was drenched with sweat and her own juices. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, clutching him as if he were a life preserver in a storm, biting into his shoulder, climaxing over and over.

Until he whispered raggedly, "You don't want this anymore."

And like a switch was thrown, her arousal vanished. Her arms and legs fell away. She stared at him above her, his face moving up and down with the rest of his body, disoriented by the sudden change in her feelings. Her mouth worked but no sound came out, not even the vile, "Fuck me." Her shame, helplessness and rage rushed back, even as he pounded into her with unmistakable urgency.

"I wanted to make sure," he said, the cords in his neck straining taut, "you were able to appreciate this."

He ejaculated inside her.

The sensation caused something to snap in her mind. Bereft of any immediate command, she could suddenly move on her own. She cried out in disgust, and tried to push him off. But he pressed her down into her own sodden mattress, his cock pulsing into her again and again. When he was finally drained, he rolled off her with a cruel, satisfied laugh.

She scrambled to her nightstand and pulled out her gun. She leveled it at him, and just as she was about to fire, he said, "Be still."

She stood with her feet spread, immobile in a perfect shooter's stance. His semen trickled slowly down her inner thigh. There he was, right at the end of her gun, but try as she might, she could not pull the trigger and kill this bastard.