by Ty Marton
YOU WILL OBEY
by
Ty Marton
APC Publishing
©2011
This is an adult story focused on themes of bondage, discipline, and sadomasochism between adult men over the age of eighteen. Subject matter includes explicit material and is intended purely as fantasy for mature readers. If such material offends you, or if reading or owning such material is prohibited in the area where you live, then you should stop reading now.
-TM
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
Chapter One
DING!
Michael straightened his tie as he stepped off the elevator, ready to attack another Monday morning. With neatly pressed pants, neatly combed hair, and neatly trimmed fingernails, Michael was the walking personification of style by design – which, not so coincidentally, happened to be the motto of Atticus, the design firm where he’d worked for three years now. Michael had a skill for “looking the part.” Most of the firm’s employees assumed he was an excellent drafter, even the ones who had no idea who he was.
In truth, Michael was rather average at his job, but that hadn’t stopped him from advancing quickly to a senior drafting position, complete with one of the firm’s sought-after corner offices. Always keep up appearances – that was his motto.
“Good morning, Scott,” Michael said as he passed the firm’s young front receptionist, offering the same pleasant tone of voice and polite nod of the head that he always used. Michael was a creature of routine, a man who thrived by controlling all aspects of his life, from the critically important to the terribly mundane. Anything out of place or out of the ordinary, and Michael would quickly become agitated, quietly, nervously clenching his fists, an age-old habit he had developed as a child and carried ever since.
So when Michael came to his office and found a single, unaddressed, black envelope waiting for him in the inbox outside his door, his fists clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t that Michael wasn’t used to finding mail waiting for him in the mornings – he simply couldn’t recall ever having seen a black envelope before, and that, in and of itself, was enough of a deviation for him.
With curiosity and a touch of anxiety, Michael plucked the envelope from the plastic container, scrunching his brow as he inspected it. No name, no return address, no mail code – just a plain, black envelope.
“Huh,” he couldn’t help but say out loud to himself.
“What’s that?”
He turned to find Rick Pender, his fellow drafter and sometimes rival, smiling at him from behind his too-trendy horn-rimmed glasses down the hall, mug of coffee in hand.
“Oh, good morning Rick,” Michael said, holding up the envelope for him to see. “Did you get one of these?”
“No, no I don’t think so,” Rick said, stepping in for a closer examination. “What is it?”
“I don’t know – haven’t opened it yet,” Michael answered, before musing. “A black envelope… can’t ever remember seeing one before.”
“Huh,” Rick echoed, taking a sip of his coffee before adding, “A little early for Halloween party invitations.”
Michael gave a forced chuckle. Rick was tolerable, but just barely.
“Hey,” Rick said, snapping his fingers, “maybe it’s blackmail.”
Rick laughed at his own joke, patting a less-than-amused Michael on the shoulder as he passed by, making his way down the hall. Michael didn’t know why, but he already didn’t like the way this day was shaping up. Like ripples in a pond, small disturbances in his routine always seemed to drift along, growing into bigger and bigger disruptions. Who knew what this dumb envelope would lead to?
Suddenly grouchy, Michael unlocked his office and stepped inside, tossing his briefcase in the corner and taking a seat at his desk. He pulled out an ivory letter opener, slowly and carefully opening the envelope, treating it almost like evidence, careful to leave it as intact as possible. When it was finally slit open, he poured its contents out into his hand.
Out fell a single Polaroid photograph. Michael squinted at it, his eyes suddenly widening as he realized what it was he was looking at.
It was a picture of the Grotto.
The Grotto didn’t seem like much on the outside – in, fact it didn’t seem like anything. It was a blank, ugly building near the airport, devoid of style or signage. It could have been a small warehouse, or maybe an industrial storage unit, or any one of a million other kinds of places that people pass by every day without ever thinking twice about. It was, by design, completely inconspicuous and unremarkable on the outside, and this was to protect what was on the inside: a well-furnished, well-attended, highly secretive club for anonymous men seeking the firm hand of other men –dominant men.
And in the picture, Michael, donned in sunglasses and a leather jacket, was walking inside.
Somebody knew.
His mouth suddenly dry, his fists clenched in front of him, Michael couldn’t help but glance at the framed photo he kept on his desk, an image of him and his wife dancing on their wedding day.
He swallowed, his face emotionless, but also colorless, and turned the Polaroid over, finding three simple words scribbled in domineering-looking block letters:
“YOU WILL OBEY.”
**********
Rick had been right, Michael thought to himself, trying in vain to distract himself from the photo with a new set of sketches for one of the company’s oldest clients. Literal blackmail – he would have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified. After just a few minutes, he slammed his pencil down on his desk, unable to concentrate on anything but those three, simple words:
“YOU WILL OBEY.”
“Did you see who left this letter for me?” he asked Scott, holding up the black envelope, trying his best not to seem frantic. The friendly, boyish, college Republican-esque young man could only shrug.
“Sorry, Mr. Baines,” he said, “but I really have no idea. What is it?”
“Nothing,” Michael answered, perhaps a little too quickly. “Just… curious.”
The day seemed to drag by at an excruciatingly slow pace. All Michael could think about was the photo. He thought back to all the times he had secretly ventured out to the Grotto, picturing the shadowy faces of the men there, wondering if his blackmailer was somebody he had met there. He thought of the illicit back rooms with their sleazy red lighting, the bathroom stall glory holes, the kinky sex furniture in the public rooms where daring exhibitionists could bare all and put on a show for the entire club. Michael certainly hadn’t partaken in all of it, but he had indulged enough to feel vulnerable, to feel exposed. Did this blackmailer have more photos? The thought was dizzying and overwhelming, and it always brought Michael back to those three words…
Of course he would obey, Michael knew. The things this blackmailer knew about him had the potential to ruin his marriage, ruin his career, ruin his entire life. Everything he had built, all of his careful social calculations, all of the time he had spent establishing his image… all of it was in jeopardy.
But obey how? What did this person even want? Money? Michael actually found himself hoping it would be that simple, but he couldn’t shake a feeling in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that it would be much, much more complicated than a simple financial transaction…
By the end of the day, Michael had barely gotten any work done, and left in a hurry, avoiding contact with anyone as he rushed out of the building and down into the parking garage, fumbling for his keys and climbing into his car. Immediately, he th
rew his head back, sighing and wincing as if in pain. Michael’s car felt like a sanctuary after a long day of acting like nothing was wrong. It was a strange relief to sit in isolation and react to the mysterious letter without having to filter himself for the benefit of others.
“Fuck…” he muttered to himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He was tempted to open his briefcase and take another look at the picture, but he knew it was pointless. He had looked at it at least twenty times during the day already, and had every detail burned into his mind.
He sighed again and placed the keys into the ignition, ready to get home, but then froze, stopping just shy of turning the key.
On his windshield, tucked beneath the wiper blade, another black envelope was sitting right in front of him.
He stared at it for a few moments, the color quickly draining from his face. Finally, he took a breath and opened the door, stepping out to grab it. He sunk back into his seat and closed the door, eyeing the envelope in his hands, identical to the first. Inside, he could feel another photograph. With a strange reluctance, he tore it open, pulling the photograph out and inspecting it, his brow furrowed. It wasn’t what he had expected…
It was a picture of a small black box, sitting on a shadowy concrete floor. He squinted at the photo – something above the box looked familiar…
It was the bottom section of a license plate, he realized: “Land of Lincoln.” And judging from the color of the bumper it was attached to, it was Michael’s license plate…
After carefully looking around to make sure he was alone in the garage, Michael exited the car again, quickly moving to the front of the hood and kneeling down.
Sure enough, there, beneath the front bumper, sat a small black shoebox.
Michael swallowed, hesitating, then picked it up and hurried back into the car with it.
The box was taped shut in front, and Michael anxiously used his key to tear through, quickly folding the lid up and open, his mouth going dry at what he saw: another photograph, a pair of steel handcuffs, and a small plastic baggie with one tiny, white pill inside.
He picked up the photograph first, wincing as he saw himself strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross at the Grotto, naked and blindfolded, his nipples clamped, his erect cock tightly tied, his mouth open and gasping with pleasure.
“Jesus…” Michael muttered quietly, realizing the true extent of this blackmailer’s knowledge. Michael lived a spotless life, but his one digression, his one weakness, his one pure vice… was the Grotto. It was where his dirty little secrets lived, and this blackmailer clearly knew all of them.
He flipped the photograph over, finding the same striking block letters from before.
“YOU WILL OBEY. GET IN THE PASSENGER’S SEAT. LEAVE THE CAR UNLOCKED AND THE KEY IN THE IGNITION. PUT ON THE HANDCUFFS. SWALLOW THE PILL.”
Michael couldn’t help but give a weak, frightened laugh. The whole situation was so ridiculous, and yet so serious. Was he really going to leave himself drugged and defenseless?
Did he have a choice?
He didn’t, he realized. This person clearly knew the intimate details of his transgressions, and he simply couldn’t risk disobeying their instructions. He shook his head in stunned amazement, in near disbelief of the situation he had gotten himself into.
“Fuck,” he muttered again as he wearily pulled out his cell phone, reluctantly dialing and bringing the phone to his ear. He waited, the phone ringing, but no answer came. Instead, he heard the familiar cadence of his wife’s voice on their home answering machine.
“Hi, you’ve reached the Baines residence. We can’t take your call right now, so leave a message – thanks!”
Michael gave a quick sigh before the sound of the beep, then immediately launched into bullshit mode.
“Hi honey, it’s me – it’s a little before 5:00. Things are pretty bad here at the office, so I might be a little late. Nothing to worry about, just… I might be a little late. Okay, I’ll see you when I get home. Love you.”
He ended the call, then closed his eyes and brought the phone against his forehead, tapping it lightly against his brow. Michael hated lying to his wife…
Finally, resolved, he opened his eyes, a cornered animal forced into action. Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, he unlocked his door and slid the keys back into the ignition. Slowly, but resolutely, he climbed over into the passenger’s seat and buckled his seatbelt, then held the handcuffs in his lap, looking them over. This was it, he knew. Once these handcuffs were locked on, there was no turning back.
He took a deep breath, then clicked them onto his wrists, working quickly to avoid dwelling on the gravity of the situation. Then, he took the baggie, opening it and removing the pill. It was small and circular, like an aspirin, with no markings whatsoever. Michael had never seen anything like it, and had no idea of what it could be. For all he knew, it was rat poison.
But what other option did he have? He shook his head, took another deep breath, and brought his hands to his mouth, popping the pill and swallowing it. No turning back now, he thought to himself…
For a minute, he felt nothing, but then, as the pill began dissolving in his stomach, he could feel the effect, the chilling, hazy feeling of everything slowing down, as if his blood was flowing at half pressure. His head began to feel heavy, his thoughts jumbled…
Focus, he tried to tell himself, struggling to keep his head upright and his eyes open. Just stay awake long enough to see who comes…
He turned and looked out his window, watching for anybody approaching, but as before, the garage was empty, and his ability to focus was quickly diminishing. His eyelids began to droop, his vision blurring… He began to feel a true sense of panic setting in, and began anxiously trying to open his car door and escape the vehicle. But the influence of the pill was growing stronger by the second, and Michael could only watch in vain as his weak, numb fingertips clumsily traced over the door handle, falling helplessly back to his lap. The car seemed to be spinning now, and all he could do was lower his head and close his eyes to avoid passing out from the intense dizziness.
Then, he heard the sound of the driver’s side door opening. He opened his eyes and tried to look up and see who it was climbing into his car, but the simple act of turning his head made him incredibly woozy, so much so that within seconds, his head was back down, his chin collapses into his chest, his eyes closing against his will…
And then, just a few moments later, Michael was out cold, the sound of the ignition turning echoing through his unconscious head.
**********
Chapter Two
CLICK.
Michael jarred awake at the familiar sound of a camera’s flash, wearily shaking his head, trying to force himself to attention, confused by the fact that he couldn’t seem to see anything.
A blindfold, he realized, his senses slowly coming to him. I’m blindfolded…
Then, he was hit with the sudden, terrifying realization that he could barely move, his arms and legs securely tied to the dusty wooden chair he was seated in. In an instant, he began to violently struggle with his bonds, nearly pulling himself and the chair over to the ground, the thick, coarse rope grinding against his skin. He grunted with exertion, and realized that something was blocking his mouth… duct tape, maybe…
As he battled with the ropes, his body sliding against the grainy wooden seat, he made one final realization: he was naked, completely bare from head to toe.
He was totally helpless.
Finally, his mind stopped focusing on the urgent immediacy of his predicament, thinking back and asking the question, how did I get here? That’s when he remembered the car, the handcuffs, the pill…
You will obey… Michael remembered, deflating in his chair a little.
He sat still for a few minutes, occasionally trying in vain to slip his wrists out of the rope, never coming close. It was futile. Whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing. Michael wasn’t going anywhere.
SPLASH!
Michael cried out in surprise as a bucketful of ice-cold water washed over him, every nerve ending in his nude body firing at once, his muscles tensing at the frigid shock. As he struggled to stop shivering and catch his breath, a hand reached out, ripping the duct tape off of his mouth.
“W-who’s there?” Michael quickly asked.
SMACK!
Michael reeled to the side, grunting in pain as a hand flew across his face, hard, seemingly from out of nowhere. It covered his mouth, roughly grabbing his face and pulling it back to center.
“No questions,” a hushed, masculine voice whispered into Michael’s ear. “You will obey.”
Michael gave a muffled cry of fear before the hand released his face, its owner stepping in front of him, standing over him. Michael felt the hand clench a fistful of hair at the back of his head, pulling his neck forward.
And that’s when Michael felt his lips land on the thick head of a cut cock.
He gasped in surprise, and the slight parting of his lips was all that his captor needed, his hips bucking forward, the cock sliding into Michael’s dominated mouth. He gave a slight moaning gag at first, more from sheer surprise than from anything else, sucking in a deep breath through his nose just before the large cock pushed down towards his throat, cutting off his airway.
The cock pulled out for an instant, and Michael gave another quick gasp for air before it slammed back into his mouth, then again, and again, his face being brutally, mercilessly fucked. The captor pulled Michael’s head back and forth along his shaft in perfect rhythm with his thrusts, and all Michael could do was endure it.
But Michael was a gifted cocksucker, and a natural submissive, albeit a secretive one. His instincts to surrender to this anonymous captor were strong – one only needed to glance down at his rock-hard erection to realize just how strong. As the cock continued sliding in and out of his mouth, Michael found his moist lips wrapping around the shaft, his tongue gently circling the head, his hungry throat sucking the cock in deeper. Before long, Michael wasn’t having his face fucked – he was obediently blowing this enigmatic master. He couldn’t help it – he wanted the man to cum…
