"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?


