Blackness disappears to reveal a woman sitting on a wooden chair, her lips pouting, her arms and legs bound back by wide, silver tape.
She tugs at her bonds, then sighs. “Hi,” she says. “If you’re under eighteen or are offended by graphic sexual descriptions, then please go away.”
A voice drifts in from beyond view. “Go on.”
She glares. “And any resemblance to real people or situations is just a coincidence, okay?”
Her legs strain against the chair; then her eyes widen as the chair begins to tilt over. There is a yelp of concern, a flash of someone running forward, a loud thud, then—
The Manual
Arclight
It had actually arrived. Sheila nearly slipped on the staircase as she bounded up to get back to her apartment, the brown-wrapped package cradled in her hands. The rest of the mail was mostly bills, with a couple of manuscripts to help her pay them. She tossed the manuscripts into the pile of other documents she was proofreading, and set the package down on her desk, tugging at the crumpled brown paper.
The manual was thicker than she had expected. She hadn’t really expected a response, could barely remember why she had bothered at all. A complete waste of a perfectly good twenty-nine bucks—not that a freelance proofreader was rolling in money, with the market so slow and all.
But the guy who posted the message was right—it was just the price of a lunch. Or two. Or maybe three. It probably depended on where the lunch was at. Maybe the guy was from London, and ate lunch at McDonalds—a friend had told her that McDonalds there was really expensive.
She shook her head. In any case, if there was just the smallest, slightest, slimmest chance that she could make Andrea come back to her, it would be worth it. If twenty-nine dollars could just get Andrea to listen to her. To hug her again, just one more time. Maybe just a little kiss, like before, a chaste one. Or even a not-so-chaste one, like that night at the beach—
Sheila sighed. Who was she kidding? Seduce-any-girl, indeed. If his website was any indication, she had probably just bought some lamer’s story of how he had finally gotten a pity-lay after twenty years of trying. What had she been thinking? And why the hell did Andrea jot the website down in her files anyway?
Glumly, she eyed the manual. Its cover was brown, almost the same as the wrapper it had come in. About five inches wide, seven inches tall. Nothing on the cover but the title: ‘Girl’s Seduction Manual’.
She flipped through it; it figured—the whole thing was handwritten. The lamer didn’t even have the decency to type the damned thing, and make his screwjob just a little more credible. But then again, he didn’t need to—not with numbskulls like her running around the net, thinking with their hormones.
And it was bad handwriting, too. She frowned at the awkward scrawl. It looked like it had been written left-handed by a right-hander. No, more like someone had tried to write it in a way he wasn’t used to. Awkward, but very careful and deliberate. She’d done that, once, when she had tried to fake her mom’s handwriting to get out of school. She had given up after the first few sentences—it was just too tiring.
But this guy had done it through his whole book.
She flipped on her reading lamp, and squinted at the text. It looked like gibberish, like no characters or language she had ever seen. But for some strange reason, she could sense meaning. As if something was pushing its way out of the text.
Symbols, maybe? Strange symbols pushing their way out of text, just like in that book by Bla—
No, wait. That was that book she had proofread.
Turning back to the first page, she sat down at her desk, and began to read.
She woke up with a jolt. The manual was lying open on the desk in front of her. She stretched, wincing as the kinks worked through her back.
—sheila?
Her head whipped up, looking around—no, she was alone. It was dark outside the window. How long had she been reading? What was that voice?
—sheila?
No way. It couldn’t have come from the manual.
“Who’s there?” she squeaked. So much for sounding strong. Hold on—why was she talking back, anyway? She should be calling apartment security, or 911, or the ghostbusters—no, wait, Andrea had said they weren’t real.
Maybe the X-Files; Gillian was really cute—
—SHEILA!!!
“Okay already!”
It figured—if she was going to have a weird dream, it had to be about some spooky talking book. Just her luck. Now, if Gillian was in the dream, that would have some potential—
—shush, dear girl. you’re not yet done.
Sheila frowned at the voice. It just kept interrupting—maybe if she ignored it? After all, it was her dream.
Now, where was she? Ah, yes—Gillian. Really pretty face. Her butt was too big, though. Now, Andrea, on the other hand: her butt was perfect. And those long, smooth legs that Sheila could just eat right up. She nearly did eat them up that last time, with the whipped cream. That had been so hot.
—that’s a good girl.
Good girl? Of course she was a good girl. Andrea had always called her a good girl, hadn’t she? Except that one time with the hamster. And that didn’t count.
But she had been a good girl that night with the whipped cream. She hadn’t stopped at the legs—she had dripped the cream all over Andrea’s body as they were lying on the couch. Then she had slowly licked it all off, feeling Andrea beginning to writhe and pant under her tongue. God, she had gotten so wet just listening to Andrea moan.
—ahhh, yes. go on, go on.
So wet, just listening, and licking. And her nipples had gotten so hard while she licked, she had started to stroke them. Slowly, at first, then a little faster, and then she rubbed herself all over Andrea.
—good girl. just a little longer.
Just like when she had last rubbed herself all over Andrea, that time they had played nurse. Or the time with the massage oil. Or...
Sheila’s eyes were half-closed. She moaned, touching herself slowly with one hand—how long had she been touching herself? Hours. Hours of just listening to the soft, slick sounds of her fingers playing in her sex. Listening to that, and to the voice.
—good girl. such a hot little wench.
“...hot...” she murmured. She stroked her swollen nipples, tugging and pulling. Exquisite sensations surged through her with each touch. Like that night that Andrea had spent hours just stroking her nipples. Just stroking, and stroking, until she had sobbed and begged to be touched in other places as well.
—now, just as i promised: that other girl of yours—what was her name again?
“...A-andrea...” She moaned the name, then flicked her tongue out, licking at the air as she pushed her fingers deeper into her sex.
—ahh, yes. you’ll seduce her soon, of course. you can seduce any woman now. just as i promised. the manual gives you the power, you know?
Sheila groaned, nodding, plunging her other hand down to find her clit, stroking and rubbing the swollen bud.
—and if you’re good, maybe i’ll even allow you to cum. do you want to cum, dear thing?
She nodded again, more frantic then before. Her fingers moved faster and faster, with a mind of their own—stroking, touching, playing. Her thighs twitched, wet with her own juices. Why couldn’t she cum? That silly voice, breaking her concentration. “Please. Oh, please.”
—i want a favor, though. you will do me a favor, won’t you, dear? anything i ask?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, shut-up already!” she gasped out. Her body tensed as her fingers found their rhythm, teetering on the edge of the release she wanted so badly.
—good, good. now, this is what i need from you—oh, and yes, you may cum, that’s a good girl...
Sheila screamed, her back arching as she half-stood from the chair, her eyes wide and her fingers clutching helplessly at her sex. The waves of heat erupted through her, up her legs, through her body, searing a scorching, burning line into her mind. She collapsed back onto the now-soaked chair cushion, her thighs still jerking as orgasm after orgasm pummeled her.
—good girl. now, i need you to help me proofread my message board posts. Oh, and I think my website needs a lot of proofreading, too. And do you do website re-designs...?