"Obsession" H. Jekyll Part One: Prologue --------------------- This is a six-part story of evil and desire. It is a cautionary tale. "Jekyll" is not to be confused with H. Jekyll, the mild-mannered author, nor is "Kytn" to be confused with my e-friend Sweetkytn (@aol.com). I am indebted to my editor, Maggie McGee (maggiemc@citynet.net), for her heroic efforts to make my writing clean and direct. Copyright 2000 by H. Jekyll. Permission is given to repost on any web site that does not charge a fee for access, as long as the author is prominently noted. Net writers post stories for feedback, not money, and I am no different from anyone else. I welcome comments, complaints, and conversation, at h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com. My stories are archived at the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository: ftp://ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/h_jekyll/ M/F, F/F, bdsm, cons., nc -------------------------- Kytn is bound and sightless, waiting for a resolution while Jekyll's car rolls along some invisible road. It slows, turns, bumps, stops, starts again, and continues. Kytn's arousal and fear have long since stopped battling and have merged: she can no longer tell them apart. She lies half-curled on the trunk carpet, hyperventilating in a unified state of anxiousness, knowing nothing, her wet eyes dried by the blindfold, wanting it to happen. But what is "it"? What will he do to her? Her fantasies have been of hurt, immobilization, domination, and humiliation, her four horsemen, her four abominations. When did she first realize that each excited her so? How long has she searched them out in hidden corners of the web? How long since they snared her? He has fed them, Jekyll has, fed them all. He has seduced her with dark tales of sex; he has whispered, through email and chat, of how much grander the reality will be than the tales. Come Kytn, experience real leather on flesh, not just the thought. Be controlled, rather than pretending you cannot move. Stop sitting at your keyboard, panties at your knees, running your slippery fingers through your sex. It is time to take the next step, time for me decide your anguish and your pleasure. She has wanted so much to let him, this wise, strange man. His messages have come at different hours: first, stories of domination; then chat; then, private emails telling of his experiences enslaving women. Could she believe it, any of it? He has made her hot, alone in her place, wanting something, wanting a master. She knows she is perverted, not at all like her friends, but though she has argued with herself it hasn't quelled the desires. She has masturbated reading Jekyll's posts, trying to go slowly so she could finish a story before she finished herself, then re-read the posts and masturbated again. Twice she rubbed herself sore, and went to work sore the following day. She played with tying herself to her bed, with whipping herself, with sticking objects in her vagina, then she went back to the stories and the emails. She couldn't get her mind off him. -------------------------- One night he asked if she had pleasured herself to his writing, and she surprised herself by admitting it, feeling a sexual charge just by doing so. In reply he required her to describe what she did. She sat a full half hour, frozen, then told. She typed her answer with stiff fingers and waited ten minutes before hitting the "send" button. Now it was done, and it washed away the dam. He replied that she was not complete, not detailed enough, and that she must tell everything. He made her tell which hand she used, what sounds she made, how she sat while she did it. He asked her if she tasted herself on her hands. She complied in everything, and with every description she became higher. Was she ever not hot anymore? How was it that she had ever enjoyed her boyfriend's sweet lovemaking? She must be a different person now, and anyway it seemed long ago. He told her not to masturbate until the next day when they were online together. He wanted to know the exact time, and he wanted her to describe it while she did it. She spent the night and the day in constant arousal, unable to sleep well, unable to concentrate on her job, unable even to watch TV. She turned to internet porn, but she found that she was stroking herself and had to stop reading. Oh Jekyll, write. She waited at her computer and watched for email, but it didn't come. It didn't come. And then it came. He told her to strip. She stripped. She wrote that she had done what he asked, and he typed: "Now, stroke yourself just once, and describe it exactly." Where, how strongly? How much pleasure? He told her to suck fingers into her mouth while she stroked herself, and again to tell the experience. He made her tell when she was close, made her stop for ten minutes while he went offline, then finally let her finish. He had her describe her orgasm, then closed by telling her once again to not to pleasure herself until he was online again. So started a cycle. In an odd fashion she was happy. Her friends could tell it: she had a man. Who was it? Did they know him? Even she didn't know him, didn't know his looks or voice or smell or the touch of his hand. Just his words. He kept giving her fantasy. He guided her pleasure; in return he required confession. Then came the day he said they should meet. He should be her master in person. This frightened her, for the first time. She knew what meeting could mean. She knew people got hurt. She knew that where there was a Jekyll there was a Hyde close by. She was frightened of what the real experience would entail, but he pressed the issue. When she finally said she couldn't, he stopped writing entirely. The sun stopped shining for Kytn. All the atmosphere was sucked from her world; everything was empty and hollow. He didn't write, didn't respond to her emails. Kytn walked around her apartment endlessly, weepy. She called in sick. She sent Jekyll a dozen letters a day, explaining, telling him that she needed him, telling him more with every letter. She finally sent the letter saying she would do anything at all for him, if only he wouldn't leave her like this. She was crying while she typed it because she knew that one way or another she was doomed. Soon after, he put a block on her address, and everything that she sent bounced back. -------------------------- It was three days into the next week that she walked into her apartment and found his email. It said: ---- My Dear Kytn: We *will* meet, on my terms. I will not play silly games. You know how I make you feel, and how you feel apart from me. It is time. Reply 'yes' now, or stop trying to write to me. Jekyll ---- She read the letter over and over, all evening, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and then on tissues. She sighed huge sighs. Again she walked around the apartment. She sat and read the letter once more. She knew what she would answer, but she was afraid the of the result, so before she did anything, she read over all his messages, and her replies. She remembered what she had done for him, what he had made her do, how he had taken her mind to some erotic place far from her humdrum world of vanilla sex and a job. She grew hot in the process, and she wanted him to cybersex her again. It was her first sexual feeling since he had stopped writing. Finally, she sat at her keyboard and wrote the word -- "Yes" -- and sent it. -------------------------- Joy. Kytn cried with joy, cried out loud, though she knew she imperiled herself. She had assented. She would do whatever he told her. She grew dizzy, hot, could not stand still, walked around the apartment once again, then back to her computer to look for email. Please answer, Jekyll. Tell me you've read my answer, that you want me. Tell me what to do. Don't make me wait. But he did, of course. She stared and waited, got a Diet Coke from the kitchen, and came back. After a few hours it was clear he wouldn't answer straight off, but she kept online. She dozed, all the lights on. At some point she jerked awake and went into the bathroom, then rushed back to the desk. This time she turned all the lights out, except for the one beside the monitor. After awhile she dozed again. His message came at 3:30 a.m., waking her with the little "mail" sound her machine made, like a mother awakens to her baby's first cry. Like a mother, she roused with quick breaths and adrenaline. The message had one word: "Undress." Kytn was standing naked in front of her monitor, not wanting to sit down in case a message should come while she did and she would be late to see it. The next message said: "Masturbate." With it came a story, a lovely, dark story of submission, using her name, and his. The story spoke of how she submitted and hurt and cried, achieving boundless pleasure and fulfillment with her submission and her pain. The story was only for her. She couldn't control her stroking while reading it, and she orgasmed harder than she could ever remember. She cried out loud. Because she was still standing she swayed and had to catch herself with her free hand on the desk, after which she slumped over the desk, gasping for air, holding herself up with the one hand while she cupped the other over her sex. He told her to describe everything she had just experienced. She left out nothing, writing on and on for him. He told her to do something different, to get a vegetable from her refrigerator and put it up her rear, to hold it there while they chatted. She left the computer to run the kitchen, skidding when she turned a corner, grabbed a zucchini, greased it with olive oil, and forced it into herself, trying to hurry. It was hard to do. She had never put anything back there on her own, not even a finger all the way in. She thought of how they said to do it in the porn stories. It hurt to push in, but finally she did it. Oh it was cold in her, and she felt so full. She held it in place using just her anal muscle. Occasionally she reached back to touch the protruding stem, to push it back in a little. She was ready to jump at his next command, but he turned practical. He wanted personal information: her name, address, job, vacation days. He wanted a digital photo. She sent everything. She hurried, wanting to get through it before she lost her nerve, wanting it to be too late to change her mind. She sent the information right away. She had trouble with the digital camera, though. Getting it, the zucchini started sliding out and she had to hold it in with a hand. She walked stiffly, bent a little to one side, her arm wrapped around her back and down to her ass. Then she couldn't line up the camera for her photo. Finally she had a naked photo of herself and she sent it. She got his last message for the early morning. It said he would be in touch. "Tonight," he wrote, "you will cook and eat the zucchini." She went to the kitchen, where she pulled it out. Oh, what an odd sensation! It had some feces on the end that had been deep in her, so she washed it off in the sink. She placed it on a folded paper towel on a plate. Before putting it into the refrigerator to keep, she stroked it like one might a lover's cock. -------------------------- She was dazed, Kytn was. The days blurred, held together by her need and his will. Jekyll kept her up through the nights, waiting for his messages or following his directions. He required her to log on and send him a message as soon as she walked through the door, then to light the apartment only with candles and to wait. During the day, he required that she go to her office. Her friends asked her if she was ill. She frequently nodded off at her desk, then dozed at her home computer while she waited for him. Within three days she received a package from him, with restraints, clips, bottles, and some things she didn't recognize, all to use on herself. The first night he made her secure her arms behind her back with Velcro straps, and type messages with her nose. The next night he told how to give herself an enema and how to insert a plug in her ass, to hold the slurry while they chatted. She had never in her life had an enema. Doing it for him overwhelmed her. He had sent her syrup of ipecac, which he ordered her to drink. She did everything. He would be so proud of her. She thought this while she leaned over the fouled toilet, heaving dry heaves. He made her masturbate until she was almost there, then stop to continue the next night. She got no sleep at all that night, and disobeyed him by calling in sick the next day. Then she got the airline ticket for Atlanta, with her instructions. -------------------------- What do you think while you're flying to your doom, to your love? Kytn kept moving to the restroom to try to vomit, though she had not eaten all day. With the door locked she could hug herself and rock and look at her sunken eyes in the mirror. He would not love her now, not like this! Jekyll, please don't reject me. No sexual urge now, just the need for his acceptance, for him to use her. How would she know him? Could he possibly match her dark fantasy? She didn't think she could stand to replace the fantasy at with a flesh and bone person. When she landed, the Atlanta airport itself was not right. It was not right at all, with the bright, modern lighting, moving sidewalks, hordes of gray travelers, the absence of any atmosphere of sensuality. She wanted to run somewhere, to run home to hide. Coming was a mistake. Perhaps so. The mistake was all on her part, however, not Jekyll's. He found her easily and had a plan ready, as she should have expected. He was upon her without warning, a very tall, pale man, with devil-dark eyes. "Kytn, no words! Look at the floor. Come with me." He led her, half pulled her, quickly through the terminal, to the airport parking shuttle, she always looking down, being obedient, looking up at him only furtively. Would she have gone with him if he had looked different, if he had not fit an evil fantasy? They went like that until they were at a distant, dark corner of long-term parking. There was no ceremony. He cuffed and gagged her, blindfolded her, she cooperating in everything. Then he put her in the trunk. Finally she was with him. So Kytn is bound, in the dark, waiting while the car rolls along some invisible road. As it slows, turns, bumps, stops, starts again and continues, she tastes the gag, tests her bonds, feels rough carpet against her face. She is so afraid and so excited, and merely wants to be there, wherever "there" is, so he will do things to her. Indeed, what will he do to her? What will he make her do?