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From: tigger@alices.com (tigger)
Subject: (ASSM) RP: Not Blackmailed - Celeste 10-10-10 (FemDom, Romance)
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Not Blackmailed
by Tigger
Copyright 1997 - all rights reserved

Reposting/Archiving of this story on a site which charges
*no* fee (including so-called "adult checks") is permitted 
provided the story is unchanged and the authorship and the
copyright are noted.

Author's Note.  I wrote this tale in the fall of 1997.  
Recently, I have become enamored with the idea of the
story my male character is trying to write.  Unfortunately,
it was as hard for me to write as it was for Dreamer.  So 
I went and got help.  "Dreamer's Tale" will follow this
posting in honor of the kickoff of SSBB-F.  Special Guest
Co-Author is a surprise.


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 accepts the gift of his first submission."  She
punctuated that with a teasing slap to Trip's butt to send him
finally on his way.

~-----------~

She'd been so very right, Trip thought several days later as
he clicked the send button of his news reader program.  The
story had come together so easily 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, and had been unable to
continue the seemingly one-sided relationship any longer. 
Wanting more from him than she could possibly take, she had
given up her coercive power over him, only to be stunned when
he had given her back all that and more, once he had been 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.
"Thank you for waiting, First Lady."


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