Stoing Inferno

This is my first ever attempt at writing erotica I joined this site after years of reading, just to submit this story. Please be kind!

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I am overwhelmed. There are people everywhere. I have never seen so many in a single place and yet they walk and take up space as though each were in the world alone. Everything is a flurry of motion, color, and dismissive busy faces. I am in New York City, in an airport, somewhere between fantasy and reality wondering if I made a big mistake. Maybe I can turn back and jump back on the plane and go anywhere but in this moment. My heart is a jackhammer constructing a skyscraper of anxiety from my chest to my parched throat. The dizzy feeling is back and I try to shut it out, that horrible out of control sensation that I might die at any second because living is just too much.

Oh no, not here. Please God. I try to catch my breath discreetly. I feel trapped in the earthquake of a sudden panic attack but I am determined not to make a scene. Clear purifying water slakes my thirst. Somehow it stills me and I pull myself together by my inner bootstraps just as a familiar seductive voice exclaims,

"There you are!"

And there I am, smiling brightly back at the voice's owner, the cause of my distraction, anxiety, and obsessive focus.

"Here I am!"

I mimic sweetly, eyes firmly in control of body and then we are walking together out of the airport. Well, I am floating and you are walking briskly and then you whisk me into a taxi and New York City is whizzing by outside the yellow cab's window while I barely notice the lights and people and monuments as they blur into each other.

You are speaking and I am studying you from the corner of my eyes, trying to construct you in my mind so I can tear you apart and figure you out. You are telling me about your flight and your schedule full of power lunches with important editors and publishers. You describe the cozy places in New York we must visit, fond memories you've made here and the friends who share those memories. I nod and smile politely and interject and ask thoughtful questions. You exude confidence and control but your eyes are kind and I am grateful. I wonder if I should speak more but I have never been one to speak just to fill the empty spaces of conversation. I speak plenty in my mind.

I wonder how this will unfold. This situation is now all too real. Before I took the first step, I could still see the safety of my familiar life. Now I can't fathom who I am or what my life will look like even a week from now because I am already a changed woman.

I wonder if you really can help me become a better writer. I wonder if you can help me become successful. I wonder if I have talent and then I banish that thought quickly. That inner critical voice is ever present and self-destructive. I hope you are not another disappointment of a man who when tired will discard me like used tissue.

The thought crosses my mind that our time together is a bizarre solemn mating ritual, akin to losing one's virginity and I giggle like a schoolgirl at the thought. I wonder if sex is on the agenda and I imagine our bodies moving intimately in rhythm. I feel a flutter somewhere below my belly button and I can't deny my attraction.

"What's so funny?"

I blush madly and manage to say something witty and blunt, then we're both laughing and the tension has passed. You take my hand and I feel safe as New York and New Jersey blend outside and our destiny draws ever nearer.

###

The Tudor house is sprawling and slightly run-down with majesty. After the cabbie is paid, you turn to me. Your eyes have changed to hardened steel and I am a butterfly caught in the web of your intensity.

"This is the moment of truth. For the next two weeks, your mind, body, and soul will belong to me. There is something inside of you begging for release and you have chosen this path and me to guide you down it. You will work hard, you will write, and you will meet deadlines or I will punish you in any way I see fit. I demand your complete submission at this moment or the driver will take you back to the city and we shall part as friends. I understand this is a new experience for you, but it is an experience you have sought. You desire discipline. You crave direction. I can bring order to your chaos. There will be pain, yes, and pleasure too, but know I will not give you more than you can handle. Do you trust me?"

I do not trust my voice to answer and I fear that I will panic and back out if given a moment's hesitation. I nod quickly and my fate is sealed. You seem pleased and take my hand, sending the taxi on its way back across the Hudson as we enter.

###

The house is quaint, the professor is charming and after a polite amount of time, he has left us to settle in our attic apartment, promising a late dinner if we're not too tired. Alone again with you, the nervous feeling returns. I furtively glance around, looking for hidden implements of torture. The room is unassuming and vanilla.

"Stand right there. Don't move."

You take my satchel and suitcase and place the bags in the closet while I stand perfectly still as ordered, listening to my heart thud as you return to walk around me, appraising my body from every angle. I feel myself blush but I am obedient and do not raise my eyes from the floor.

"Drop all limits, fears, and doubts, for I will push you past them anyway."

I feel your eyes on my skin and I shiver. This moment feels very intense and I know this is only the beginning.

"Are you ready?"

Again I nod. You grip my chin and lift my eyes to meet yours. I am quaking, fearful and nervous, but I feel my body respond to your electric touch.

"A few rules to start. When I ask you a question, you will answer. You will address me as Master or Sir in private. Perhaps in public as well, though that is entirely at my discretion. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," I answer and your eyes dance with mirth and approval. There is something in your hand that I didn't notice before; you must have hidden it well.

"And when we're alone in this room, I want you wearing this."

You brandish a black leather collar. Although the design is simple and unadorned other than one steel D-ring in the front, there's no denying what this means. At first your hands caress my hair lightly, then, your fingers gather my waves tightly as you expose my neck then buckle the leather into place.

Though the collar feels foreign, its weight reassures me. I feel possessed, owned. Safe. A soft smile skips across my lips. How funny that a piece of jewelry carries so much meaning.

"How does that feel? Not too snug?" I love that I can see the concern in your dark brown eyes.

"It feels fine. Sir," I add quickly.

You are suddenly seized with passion and surprise me by pulling me by the hips, close to your body, our mouths joined in a forceful kiss. I resist at first but then remember I have surrendered myself to you so I allow my limbs to relax. I fall into your kiss and melt into your steel. Your probing tongue asks silent questions and finds the answers in my body's response. My knees are jelly against your strength, my sex wet beneath my sundress and lacy underwear. Time has stopped.

The kiss is intimate and possessive but also serves its purpose to show me I am yours. I am completely at your whimsical disposal. The thought both thrills and terrifies.

When you break away, I almost fall in a swoon but you lean forward to catch me, hot lips pressed against my ear. My sensitive neck burns sending sparks down my body and ripples in my core as you whisper against my jugular with warm breath,

"When we're alone in this room, I want you wearing my collar. And only my collar."

I quiver, hearing a slight accentuated stress on the word "my." It's true. I am yours. My knees tremble for I know what's next.

"Now take off your clothes," you say firmly and you disentangle yourself, hands from hips and a respectable distance between us. You want to watch me disrobe. I feel the blush you won't see though I know how intently you are watching my response. You are carefully gauging my reaction. I know you are testing the depths of my submission.

I am embarrassed and shy but I will my fingers to unzip my dress. I obey, knowing afterward you will tell me I am a good girl. I need to hear you say it.

Your eyes bore into mine and your gaze holds me fast. I cannot tear my eyes away. You silently command me otherwise. I am taut. My nerves and emotions hypersensitive and raw, the intensity of this moment dampens my panties. As though in slow motion, my fingers slowly pull zipper of my coral sundress down my back, tracing a sensuous line down my vertebrae. I slide the straps from my shoulders and the dress falls to the floor, leaving me standing in my underwear.

I want to cover myself. I am too cold, exposed. I don't want to look into your eyes and have you ferret my secrets from the dark recesses of my mind. But you are no longer staring deep into the windows to my soul but instead your eyes are caressing my body. Your expression tells me you appreciate the white lace displaying my firm breasts in a half-cup and accentuating my tight round bottom. I push the petty insecurities away; I can tell I please you.

"Now the rest."

Off come the underwear and then I am standing naked. My nipples harden. It's early spring, and someone, presumably the professor, has left the windows in the attic open and is to blame for the goosepimples that blemish my skin. I can almost feel your eyes consume my displayed flesh. I stand a bit wobbly for a second then think how silly I must look, in my birthday suit and heels, so I bend down to undo the ankle straps and step out of the heels you asked me to wear.

The silence unnerves me. I wish you would speak but instead you move behind me and tie a scarf firmly in front of my eyes, blocking out all light. I tremble. I want to ask your intentions but I don't. Somehow, I feel compelled to remain silent because you have not given me permission to behave otherwise. The thought flits across my mind that I am a natural submissive. I am afraid. I do not know what that title will mean or why I hope you are pleased with me. I don't know you yet I am entrusting you with the tender secrets of my sex, believing you can unlock unknown explosions of pleasure through the twisted deviant corridors of pain and submission.

I feel you in front of me. I feel your breath on my body, you are that close. I feel your presence though you have yet to touch me, to claim me as yours. The cool air charts a map south across the terrain of my skin, stopping right at the apex of my sex.

"Spread your legs," you say and I am tormented by mental images of torture against my womanhood, each more horrific than the previous imagined punishment. How can three words incite such conflicting emotions? I burn, blush, and obey without a contrary word.

And then I feel a rough wet sensation on my inner thigh, scratching broad strokes high and close to the heat and slickness radiating from my ladyparts. It tickles and I squirm, trying my hardest not to giggle.

Smack!

My jaw drops open in shock but the handprint on my butt engenders the desired effect. I endure the tickling on my thigh as still as a statue.

Then your heavy confident footsteps head away, towards the door that leads from the attic to the rickety wooden stairs and then down to the professor and the rest of the house and normalcy outside this room.

I am still blindfolded. The attic door creaks open.

"Remove your blindfold."

I comply and look at you from across the room, my eyes readjusting to the light. You are a silhouette in the door. I cannot see your face or read the expression in your eyes. I have the distinct feeling of having finished taking a grueling exam. The brief rest afterward, knowing that regardless of the outcome, for now, the test is over.

"When you are ready, join me downstairs in the library on the second floor. East Wing, the third door on the right. I want you to meet the professor. Wear a dress and no underwear. You have twenty minutes."

After the door closes behind you, I am left alone with my emotions and a maelstrom of thoughts to sift through and process.

I don't notice you've branded me until later in the evening when I am alone in the restroom.

My inner thigh reads "Property of S________ H________" in short block capital letters. I trace the letters lightly, then rub the flesh slightly but the permanent black ink does not smudge.

My supple skin sears as though the brand was forged in fire.