Second Person, Singular

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You arrive at work. The wind is too strong for your umbrella and your hair gets wet, whipping about in strands. You wish you had a longer coat or a shorter walk from the car. Your first stop is the department office, where you say hello to the administrators, take some candy from the jar on the front desk, and check your mail.

In your mailbox there is a copy of the department’s self-satisfied newsletter, two circulars from textbook publishers, and a small manila envelope. You open the envelope. There is a key in the envelope, and a piece of paper. You do not take these items out of the envelope before putting it into your purse. The junk mail goes in the recycling bin.

You say goodbye and leave the office. Your own building is another windswept walk across a tree-fringed quadrangle, but shorter than before. You hurry to get in out of the rain.

You pause in the lobby. You take out the small, manila envelope and extract the paper from it. Someone has written the number 405 on the paper. The ink is blue. You do not recognize the handwriting, though three numerals are not much to go on.

Your office is on the first floor. You summon the elevator. In the elevator, you comb your tangled hair with your fingers as you wait for the door to open onto the fourth floor.

The corridor is identical to your corridor on first, but it feels different. You don’t know so many of the faculty up here – you think this is where the political science people hang out – and it lacks the buzz of downstairs, with students popping in to use the copy room or eat lunch at the tables outside the coffee shop.

You walk along the corridor until you reach room 405. There is no nameplate next to the door, which is not that unusual: some offices are kept aside for visiting faculty, and people are always moving—arriving, retiring, getting jobs in the admin building or pursuing the grand dream, shared by everyone on that campus, of moving to an office without a view of the Radiation Research building.

You knock on the door of room 405. There is no answer.

You take the key from the envelope. You hesitate. You are conscious that your heart rate is elevated. You knock on the door again. No answer.

You unlock the door and push it open. The room is empty but the overhead light is on. You notice that the room is identical to your own, or would have been if six years’ worth of personal touches had been removed. Your office is cozy, welcoming in despite of the insouciant brutality of the cinder block walls and vent work on the ceiling. This is just a room. There are no books on the shelves. The window is in front of you. There is an uninterrupted view of Radiation Research’s grimy brutalist facade. To your right is a desk. On the desk is an open laptop, apparently university issue.

What did you expect? You can’t answer that question. You turn to leave.

The computer chimes at you. You turn your head and pause. A message appears on the screen. You have to let go of the door handle and take two steps into the room to read it. You reach in your purse for your glasses.

The laptop is running some sort of video conferencing client. Not Skype, but something similar. In the main window your face looms as you peer closely to the screen. The web cam must be running.

A chat window is also open. It displays one line of text.

>Close the door.

The doors in this building are self-closing. You jump as you hear the too-loud clunk of the door shutting. Your pulse is even faster. You imagine you can hear the blood thudding around your body.

What did you expect? Why are you scared? Are you scared?

You take a Jolly Rancher from your purse and unwrap it. It is grape flavor. You stand about two paces away from the desk, looking critically at your bedraggled hair in on the computer screen.

>Lock the door.

You freeze. You glance out the window. You suck your candy.

You step up to the desk, bend over the keyboard.

You type: wtf?

>Don’t touch the computer, please.

>Lock the door.

You decide that you have had enough of whatever this is. You turn your back on the screen and walk to the door. Your hand is on the handle. You hear the chime again.

You freeze. Time passes. You press your forehead against the door. Time passes.

You lock the door.

You return to the computer. You pull out the chair from beneath the desk. You sit down. You read.

>You’re wet. Would you like to take your coat off?

You move towards the keyboard.

>Please, there is no need to type. Don’t type.

You come in close to the screen. You whisper: Who are you? Who the fuck are you?

>Your hair will tangle. Do you have a brush?

You stand, infuriated.

You take your coat off, hang it on the peg on the door. You rummage in your purse for a comb. You do not look at the screen while you fix poker oyna your hair. You get just enough of a reflection in the window.

When you look back at the laptop, almost angrily, another line of text comes through.

>You have pretty hair.

>Don’t type! (You had moved your hands in the direction of the keyboard, reflexively.)

>Please, sit.

You sit. You fold your arms across your chest. You try to look defiant.

>Thank you.

>We’re sorry to deny you the chance to speak, but please be assured that the process will work better if communication between us is one way only.

You stare at the screen. You stare back at yourself from the screen.

>The process is very simple: we will tell you what to do, and you will do what we say. It should only take twenty minutes of your time. Perhaps a little longer, depending on certain variables.

You find that you are concentrating hard on the cursor blinking in the chat window. You wonder if you’re somehow being hypnotized.

>Do you have any questions?

You hiss: of course I have questions. The fuck you think? Like, I dunno, who in God’s name are you and what the sweet loving fuck am I doing here? You try to keep your voice low so that passing political scientists won’t hear you.

>Please don’t speak.

You once again try to stare out the computer, to burn through the screen with x-ray vision to get through to this asshole who was messing with you. But you just see yourself looking petulant. You suddenly feel like laughing, but you quash the impulse.

>We are ready to begin…

>To start with, please remove your sweater.

You freeze. Time passes. You swallow. You are angry. What did you expect? You try to formulate a response, something beyond a mere fuck you, which is no longer sufficient to express your contempt for this…this thing. Time passes.

You take your sweater off. You drop it on the floor.

>We like your shirt.

>Please take it off.

Your fingers are at your shirt buttons before you have thought about the matter. There are five buttons. They were fastened, now they are open. You take more care with your shirt, laying it out flat on the desk to the right of the laptop. It wrinkles easily.

>Thank you. Please stand.

You stand.

>Your next instruction will have more than one step to it. Kindly read the full instruction before beginning to act on it.

You wait.

>Take your bra off, then go to the window and press your naked breasts against the glass until we tell you to stop.

You shake your head. You believe you have a beseeching look on your face, perhaps even a tear in your eye. You mouth: I can’t. Don’t make me. Time passes.

You pull the straps of your bra off your shoulders and your arms out of them. You peel the cups from your breasts and yank the band around until the clasp is to the front. You take your bra off. Your breasts are bare; your nipples are erect.

You walk to the window. The glass is cold and already starting to fog somewhat, to your relief. You press your body against the window. Your breasts compress and then spread themselves over the glass. You turn your head to one side and lay it against the glass too. You suspect you might be crying for real, now. But you do not leave the window.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see down into the quadrangle, which is mostly empty. The few students still making their way to class are huddled in their raincoats, hardly looking up from the sidewalk. But it would take just one person to look up to see your tits, which are, islands in a foggy sea, tipped with rosy little volcanoes of sensation. Or perhaps one of the physicists across the way will raise his head from his atoms and look up and across to your window, attracted by his – or her – perception of a strange new source of radiation in room 405.

You are humiliated, scared. It is thrilling.

You realize you have started to count in your head. When you reach one hundred and seventy-eight, the computer beeps. Your breasts resume their natural shape as you move back from the window. They are damp from the condensation, which is a persistent problem in these offices in the fall and winter.

You breathe. Time passes. The screen indicates that your interlocutor is typing. You wonder what the person at the other terminal looks like, what he or she is wearing. You sit back down. You look at your breasts in the picture, swiveling the chairs slightly to observe their parabolas, their subtle bounce. They look sexy.

>In the upper left hand desk drawer there are two clothespins.

You freeze.

>One is red, one is green. Take the red clothespin and attach it to your left nipple, oriented straight downward.

You open the drawer. You take out the red clothes pin with your left hand. After several seconds of stillness, in which canlı poker oyna you stare into the laptop screen intently, but see nothing but your own face, your own breasts, the clothespin, you take the first and second fingers of your right hand and squeeze your left nipple.

You squeeze hard. Your nipple contracts and expands at the same time

You put the jaws of the clothespin around your nipple. You slowly release the pressure that was keeping the jaws apart. They bite you.

It hurts like hell.

You do not remove it.

>The green clothespin goes on your right nipple, but this one should point straight out from your breast towards the screen.

You comply. Now your right breast experiences the same tingling agony. Your left nipple, meanwhile, is now throbbing more pleasurably.

>Please stand.

You stand.

>Please remove your pants.

You watch your tormented breasts on the screen as you stand up and unbutton your pants. Your nipples are a livid dark pink. The clothespins dangle as you bend forward slightly in the act of easing your pants over your hips.

Your pants get placed carefully on the desk with your shirt. This is all very businesslike. You aren’t stripping for anyone. You are simply following some simple, direct instructions.

>Now take off your underwear.

You freeze. What were you expecting? You are standing in an anonymous office with your nipples clamped tight, your breasts singing an urgent song of pain and need. What did you expect? Of course you have to take off your underwear.

They fall to floor. You try to look defiant, or at least confident in your nakedness. You are not sure you’re fooling anyone.

Nothing happens. Nothing happens for too long. The rhythm of whatever is happening has been interrupted.

Has it ended?

You do not move, as every movement redirects your focus to your nipples, which hurt like hell. You want to take the clothespins off. But you do nothing.

You don’t want it to end, not like this.

You mouth the word please at the laptop. Nothing happens. Eventually you place your right hand on your hip and slide it up your side to the underside of your right breast. You stroke up until your hand reaches the green clothespin. With your index finger, you give the clothespin a shirt, sharp flick. It hurts like hell.

The laptop bings.


You stop.

>Kindly follow our instructions, and only our instructions.

You realize you are whimpering at the renewed agony in your nipple.

>Will you agree to follow our instructions?

You nod, biting your lip.

>You may remove one of the clothespins, if you wish.

Your hand is on the green clothespin in an instant. As its jaws release you, the pain is if anything, worse, as the blood pours back into your nipple. But the feeling of relief is also sensational. Your knees buckle slightly.

>In the upper right hand desk drawer, you will find a vibrator.

What did you expect? You don’t freeze, this time. You pull open the drawer with a sort of hunger. There is a box. In the box is a dove gray, non-anthropomorphic vibrator, about eight inches long, with a gentle curve to it. The non-tip end is silver, with five small black buttons.

You hold the vibrator up to the camera.

>There is some lubricant in the drawer if you need it.

You blush bright, bright red. You look down at the floor then back at the camera. You shake your head.

>We like your bush.

You look at your bush. You like it too.

>Please sit on the chair and hook your legs over its arms.

What were you expecting? You comply.

Your cunt, it turns out, is directly centered in the image on the screen when you sit like this.

>Using your right hand, please spread your labia so that your clitoris is visible.

You comply.

You blush again when you see how apparent your arousal is. Your cunt glistens, your clitoris strains up from its normal resting place, as if seeking light. But what it wants is touch.

Nothing happens. Time passes. Juice flows from your cunt onto the pad of the chair as you hold yourself open to the cameras gaze, which you realize is your own gaze.

Your left tit hurts like hell but you don’t want it to stop.

>Place your left index finger on your clitoris. Do not move your finger.

You comply. Time passes. You think that the smallest motion would make you come. You make no motion.

>With your right hand, take the vibrator and place the tip of it at the entrance of your vagina.

You comply.

>Push it into your vagina, to the depth of an inch.

You comply.

>Switch the vibrator on by pressing the button closest to you with your left hand.

You comply. You feel the vibrations of the device in your cunt and on your labia. You gasp. In the silent internet casino office, the vibrator sounds incredibly loud.

>Put both hands on your head and count to twenty. Count slowly.

You comply. You realize at six that without use of your hands the vibrator will slip out of your wet cunt. You wiggle in your seat, trying to hold it in place against the chair. You have counted to nine. You clamp down with your cunt, but you are too wet. The contraction expels the vibrator from your cunt as you reach fourteen. It drops to the floor. All you can hear is its buzzing. All you can feel is its absence.

Time no longer passes. You count slowly to twenty. Nothing happens. You look at the vibrator with hunger. You look at the image of yourself on the screen. You believe you will die of frustrated lust if you do not touch yourself right now.

Nothing happens. Your cunt is weeping. Your eyes are weeping. Only your mouth is dry.

They are typing. You stifle a sob as it seems to take minutes for the message to appear.

>Please pick up the vibrator and put it back into your vagina.

>All the way in, this time.

You comply, eagerly.

Your cunt is suddenly delightfully full and stretched. The buzzing of the machine is no longer so loud now that it is stuffed to the hilt in your flesh.

You look straight at the screen. You whisper to your own image: I need to touch my clit. I need to come.

>Please do not speak.

You shake your head.

>Press the fourth button away from you. This will increase the intensity of the vibrations inside you.

You comply and it feels good, but don’t these moitherfuckers know that you don’t come without clitoral stimulation?

Time passes.

>Now kindly remove the red clothespin from your left nipple.

You comply. It hurts like hell, but the rush of blood back to your swollen nipple is very nearly enough to make you orgasm. You are panting.

>We are reaching the end of the process. Please do not deviate from our instructions at this time.

You nod. You will do anything.

>Apply the clothespin to your clitoris, please. Or as close to it as you can manage.

You do not comply. You shake your head. You plead silently with the screen: I can’t. Don’t make me. I don’t like it. But there is only your own image to complain to, just you, naked in a strange office chair, being filmed with your cunt stuffed with a stranger’s sex toy.

Time passes. Nothing happens. Your cunt buzzes. You still have the clothespin in your right hand. Your clitoris is bigger than you have ever seen it, looking positively penile as it strains up from under its hood.

And nothing happens. No message, no orgasm. Time passes.

With trembling fingers, you squeeze open the clothespin. Its jaws open, ready to bite into your clit. You let it bite you—not right on the nub, but above it, on the hood.

It hurts like hell.

But the sudden constriction of your clitoris and, yes, the pain, creates a circuit uniting your whole cunt with white hot electrical energy. Your vagina begins to spasm. You come.

And you keep coming until you reach the point that you can neither bear it to stop nor bear it to continue and something has to give and as it turns out it is the clothespin losing its grip and springing off your clit and the relief of that and the renewed blood flow makes your cunt contract one final time and it expels the vibrator and your liquid is everywhere and it feels as if your molten center is draining out of you and you twitch and hyperventilate and everything is very, very good.

Time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. You’re not in a position to tell.

The laptop chimes.

> There is a packet of Kleenex in the second desk drawer on the left.

> Please wipe the chair before you leave.

You pay no heed. You are too blissed out. But after a moment you do realize that the vibrator is still buzzing, loudly, on the floor. You manage to turn it off with your foot.

Finally, you manage to sit upright and look at the screen.

Who are you? you say, suddenly focusing on the computer quite intently.

After a moment:

> I’m a computer.

Come on—who’s at the other end? Who’s behind the screen? I want to see the wizard!

You are suddenly and incongruously giggly. You are conscious that you are flirting with a machine, and that this could be considered ridiculous.

> There is nobody here.

> Only you. Just you.

> And you are all that matters.

And with that the screen goes blank.

Time passes.

And in the end, you find the Kleenex and you wipe down the plastic of the chair cushion as best you can, though the room still reeks of your cunt when you have finished. And you put on your underwear and your bra and then your pants, your shirt and your sweater. You comb your hair again.

You place the key to room 405 in the envelope and you put it on the desk. You leave, but not before picking up the discarded clothespins and the sticky vibrator, which you stuff into your purse. You head for the elevator.

You go about your business.

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