Desperate Breaths Ch. 01

Ryan heard her, rather than saw her, come back, and made himself stare at her screen as focused as he could be.

"Oh," said a startled voice that he had some slight recognition of, "Uh, hey!"

He looked up and nearly fell out of the chair. It was the same pant-suit filled out by the same curvaceous brunette he'd ridden the elevator with. For half a heartbeat they both stared at each other, both flustered for their own reasons, until Ryan quickly realized that all of his own sexual vulnerability was pretty well concealed at the moment, as long as he recovered the powers of speech immediately. "Oh, hey. Samantha, right? Sorry. I'm Ryan the Cybersecurity Manager. Help desk said you were having some issues," he opened, managing to keep his voice from cracking or squeaking like some sort of schoolboy caught with his pants down by a teacher. When he noticed that her face was draining of color, he felt himself relax, certain that she'd just realized what was still open on her computer, and guiltily set about putting her own mind at ease, "I hope you don't mind. I just went ahead and sat down to fix it since I wasn't sure how long you'd be gone. I didn't want you to be locked out of the application the anti-virus was freaking out over all day, and I wasn't sure when I'd be able to swing back by."

"Oh," color came back to her face, but now it looked like she was flushing, "No problem. Here, let me just save the work I had open and you can-"

He was waving his hand to cut her off, smiling and standing up, despite a sadistic desire to let her dangle and make her squirm, "There's no need. I've already got it done. You should be good to go, but if it gives you any more trouble just let us know."

She moved past him to her desk, but Ryan noticed she didn't try to jump to the screen or keyboard. She was cool as a cucumber, and all of a sudden too. So much so that it actually made Ryan question whether he'd read her right. Maybe she had no clue what she still had open? "Thank you, Ryan. Do I just call Help Desk again, or can I email you directly if it's causing issues?"

"You can just email me directly, no problem," he answered, both of them getting back to a professional common ground.

"Perfect, thank you," she said and turned to her screen as he walked out. The minute he was out the door, she let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, and closed her browser window, vowing to herself to be more careful even as a new fantasy started to form in the back of her mind, unbidden.

* * *

Sam sipped at the wine in her bath and set the phone back down. The erotic novel she'd been reading on her tablet wasn't helping the frustration she felt through the core of her being and soul. The words were still ringing through her mind. Demanding? Unreasonable? Un-safe? That one really pissed her off. She had come to him for non-consent play. No, it was fucking rape-play. Of course it's fucking unsafe! Why even fucking respond to her request?! She undid her hair and set the wine next to the tub on the tile, sinking her head under the hot water, committing to washing the entire experience out of her head and hair. It was one more in a long line of disappointing encounters, and this service Top had come so highly recommended too. Samantha wasn't looking for pain-induced release, though, and he hadn't been willing to really break her will. Why did none of them understand that she couldn't let go easily? That a spanking or a beating just didn't do it? Her mind was her biggest asset and her biggest enemy and always had been. Tie her up and beat her and she'd just find a space to go into to endure it where you wouldn't be able to own her, find a way to close off. You had to find a way to show her you had her, in your hand, and that was just all there was for her, accept it or fucking don't.

She'd been through 3 different play partners in the past year, and they each had their problems, but they all boiled down to the same thing, they couldn't keep up with her in some way. The Valentine's Day setup had lost within the first verbal sparring match. The guy she'd met at the summer BDSM munch she'd indulged in had relied way too much on being physically intimidating, which was fine except he himself got intimidated when she started to outsmart him in everyday life subjects. So very much "no" to that. This latest one, though, was the biggest disappointment. Two of her closest friends in the community had recommended him after having play sessions with him that they both claimed were "amaaaaazing". He was a service top, a professional, and he wasn't cheap either. Money wasn't an issue to her, and the negotiations had seemed encouraging, if a little drawn out for her tastes. Truth be told, as much as she knew it was a good idea for him to ask about her aftercare plan and all that, he'd rather he just told her in a gruff voice, "Given your kinks, you're going to be on your fucking own for aftercare, like you deserve." and thrown her over the negotiation table to surprise her with the start of their scene right then. Things ended terribly with him safewording after she'd kicked him in the balls.

As she'd tried to explain to him, it was a desperation move, not because she felt unsafe, but because she felt too damn safe. He was a good role-play actor, but that's what he was doing: acting. He didn't want or need to pin her down and rip her clothes off to get something from her and her body, to possess her in a way that showed her that her resistance wasn't just futile but actually irrelevant.

Sam held her breath under the water with her arms folded under her breasts, holding herself tight, feeling angry at him and at herself for feeling like the fucked up, inadequate one...again. Her hair floated in front of her eyes and face in the water and she wanted to scream, wanted to feel like she was drowning physically, just like she felt emotionally. She sat up abruptly and let her hair fall forward over her naked body, the scream caught in her throat as she felt the tears start to well up. She willed them to try and come out, because maybe then she'd get some desperate relief, but they wouldn't come. Trying to focus on a task now, she grabbed her shampoo and started to wash her hair, then she washed her body, shaved, and moisturized. Her thoughts were turning inward again, feeling the need to be good enough... good enough to overwhelm someone attractive with enough desire to reduce him to his baser instincts. She had to make it all perfect. Then somehow, magic. He'd just know. Someone interesting would know that there was something worth taking and taking apart just a few millimeters of cloth away. Why do you do this to yourself? she asked herself, He's the one who didn't understand what you explicitly asked for. He's the one who didn't measure up. In frustration she stood in front of her mirror and looked at her naked form after she toweled off and tried to recall every time she'd been ogled by men or gotten pissed off looks from women for this body, forcing herself past the flaws she saw. It rarely worked.

Finally she collapsed onto her bed with her phone and started writing out a long post about how much it sucked to have a kink that even other kinksters were scared of. It started to pour out of her there, the frustrated desires that were so raw now that they were spawning worries that they might turn into bitterness that would block any ability to enjoy a good partner.

She owned the fact that she was being demanding, "Simply finding a guy that is clever enough to keep up with me is a big ask (yes, I know, arrogant bitch alert), but how am I supposed to find him attractive otherwise? But on top of that, to need him to be able to drop all sophistication, to become a brute capable of truly doing unspeakable things if necessary to own my body and soul simply because he wouldn't accept anything less... Yeah, could any man want someone that much? Is that even realistic? Especially if it ruined it all for me to give him anything, even encouragement? What rational, intelligent man wouldn't find that insane? I literally need him to ignore all he's been taught about how to treat a woman, how to court me, and also ignore my own voice when I'm telling him I don't want him to take my body. I need a guy to go from my crush that I banter with and secretly want to ask me out directly to forcing me to take his cock in whatever hole of mine he wants to use and defile with his cock, with his cum, with his out of control desires to satisfy his desire for girlflesh with MY body, with ME, while I desperately sob or scream or threaten him, and I need him to be willing to do this to me over and over again. How truly fucked up am I that this is what turns me on like crazy and makes my legs weak?"

Just a few miles away, someone else was reading through all of her past posts, reading her frustrations, learning them, sympathizing, and this one would hit home like crazy with him. He was feeling excited, and a little bit frightened, by how much of a complimentary spirit he seemed to have found in her words. In his heart, a spark was starting to grow, and in his mind, deep in a place he'd never considered letting out, he was beginning to plot.