Submit, You're Willing Pt. 00 - Prequel

There were dark moments. Times when I felt trapped inside my own body, unable to make eye contact for the fear that the world would see what I was really feeling, my torn soul. So I looked away, unable to reach out and touch those standing a mere arms reach away; the frustration, the anger, the self-loathing, the pain, overwhelming,

I am stronger than this, this moment, this piece of time, step aside and let it pass...

I whispered, over and over, in the dark moments of quiet, but I could not find the strength to move. And so I stood, like a deer in the headlights as the car rushed towards me, and then. Crunch. I was flung far into the black, my limbs torn from me, my blood falling as though mocking rain.

In that moment of impact I searched for escape.

Dimly lit and anonymous.

I found the address in some back alley website. Grainy images of the fire and rack against the grunge of an underground basement somewhere in the east side. The images speaking to me on some primal level of pleasure and pain... of escape. The time and place, dress code; the website said BDSM like it was a fashion trend, a branch of cult wardrobe instead of a lifestyle choice or sexual leaning. I felt butterflies reach my throat as I trawled through my closet...

Am I really doing this?

I chose boots over shoes, no heel, black to the knee. Stockings and suspenders playing peek-a-boo under a skirt recently purchased. The further into myself I withdrew the higher the hemline seemed to get. A quarter length black military jacket cut just below my bust shrugged over dark ribbon and lace; the corset bones rigid against my flesh, holding me together like stitches hold a weeping wound.

No-one knew my plans, my new found direction. They wouldn't understand. I didn't understand, drawn by a need which suddenly felt unbearable. I left a note I expected no-one to read. A trail should I disappear down some dark alleyway. I wasn't being stupid, or cautious, somewhere in between the two. It was just me, a taxi cab and an unmarked steel door.

I swallowed as I knocked, my knuckles wrapping loudly against the cold metal, I felt the paint flake off beneath my skin. The face at the door was that of a giant; a Samoan lad, facial tattoos, big hands, barrel chested. I felt his eyes give me the once over as I handed him the entrance fee. He grunted as he heaved open the door; the distant beat of music echoing behind the scrape of metal and the complaints of hinges. I steadied my breath as I walked past him towards the noise, starting as the metal door slammed home.

"Down the hall, left and down the stairs."

I nodded, looking back and up at him, a reassuring smile on his face.

"They won't bite, unless you give them permission."

My smile was stretched in response. I turned to face the barely lit corridor; my hands trembling lightly. I trailed my fingers along the wall as I walked, the rough texture of naked bricks prickling against my fingertips, drawing my attention from my stomach. The stairs, steel grates winding down into the earth, my footsteps echoing as I descended, the sound merging with the music progressively growing louder. The darkness seeming to descend with me until I reached a dirty red doorway marked by time and the passage of people, draped with curtains serving as a door; here the shadows lay thick amidst the hollow sounds of the music.

I brushed aside the fabric and made my way across the threshold; a steadying hand reaching out suddenly, catching my arm when I stumbled, the floor suddenly uneven and soft. I looked down to a sharp intake of breath, heard even over the din of the bar; a male, naked, lay face down across the entrance. A human doormat. I balanced on the small of his back, numb for a moment as the hand that held mine squeezed my fingers softly.

"My lady." A soft voice acknowledged, calling me from my posture. His hand allowing me to regain my balance and step down from the prone form; I blushed, his soft lips brushing across the backs of my fingers before he retreated into the dark leaving me alone.

The bar was expansive, the room unfolding over the numerous layers of the entire basement level of the building above us. Dimly lit the ceiling was painted black and hung low with wicked looking beams and exposed steam pipes from the turn of the century. Candles burnt and melted on every wall, a mess of old wax slowly being covered by new, dripping downwards towards the floor. In the depths of the dark the music drifted out and around me, not loud but voluminous, filling every space like a secret, warm and twisted. I felt it inside me and I became the centre, this small world circling around me in all its intoxicating glory.

A twisted fun house of flesh and perversion.

Standing there, on the precipice of escape, the vibrations of the base crawling into my chest; the beat of my heart merging with the sounds of this underground world; I felt the peculiar sensation of rhythm in my lungs as I breathed in the aroma of stale beer, damp cement and the unmistakable odor of sex. The taste of leather and latex on the back of my tongue. I moved, curiosity pulling me into the candle lit corners. The darkness withdrawing as I moved closer to the shadows, every alcove seeming alive with writhing bodies, spectators surrounding acts of debauchery and release. The floor was sticky under my feet. I tried not think with what.

A small group of people drawing me deeper; their eyes on a woman clad in latex as she ground her body against a naked male bound to the dirty wall. Shackles bolted to a low cement beam held his wrists, his hands an angry red recognizable even in the dull light, held too tightly for too long. The image of his cock, hard and proud, whispered of the same ill treatment, its swollen head weeping with restrained lust. I watched as she raked her nails across his chest and pinched at his flesh; a mask of torture and obscene pleasure on both the victim and the architect. The spectators silently leering, some naked themselves taking pleasure in their own hands as they watched.

The scene was graphic and surreal. I knew I was breathing too quickly, my body trembling, my breath shallow, chest heaving. My whole body shook as I forced myself to take a deep breath. My head was spinning but I could not say why. I stumbled, moving until I found an empty alcove where I pressed my back against the cold cement wall and I steadied myself in the dark.

Jesus.

The air whooped as I took another deep breath. Turning into the wall my fingers danced across the clasps of my corset, laying the fabric open and allowing my chest to expand into my breaths. I placed my forearms flat against the cement above my head, my chest stretched, my back arched. I had had a panic attack before; this didn't feel like one, this felt like adrenalin. A surge of flight or fight, the butterflies in my stomach migrating to all corners of my being and simultaneously flapping their wings causing a hurricane of responses.

I moved my hands higher and stretched against the wall, the steel of manacles singing as I accidentally brushed against them. I reached out and found the clasp in the dark; my fingers moving over the metal, noting the soft leather interior and the butterfly bolt serving as the locking mechanism. I trembled as I explored, moving my hands blindly around the small space, finding the second hanging an arms length away. Curious I held onto one and stretched until I could hold both at the same time. The distance was wide and I pressed myself into the wall as I stretched, my bare chest complaining from the cold and texture of the rough cement. I closed my eyes and let my hands take some of my weight, letting myself hang for a moment, my cheek pressed against the wall.

"You look good up there."

The voice was soft, masculine and close. I think that I would have started had I had an adrenalin reserve, instead I pressed myself into the wall and breathed, allowing my feet to take my weight again and slowly let go of shackles. I flexed my back as I pushed back from the wall and turned. My corset still hanging open, my breasts bare. I inched the fabric together to cover myself, not ready to lock myself within the claspes just yet. My chest still tense. But not wishing to abandon modesty despite my surrounds.

"I am sorry, I just needed a moment."

I don't know why I was apologising. He looked as if he belonged here. As if it his space I found myself in without an invitation. My fingers played nervously with the clasps before I crossed my arms over my chest, holding myself together under his gaze. He dismissed my apology with a flourish of a hand and then sensing my continuing discomfort he held up his index finger as if struck by an idea, his figure moving to find hidden ropes and suddenly the alcove was closed off behind thick curtains. The world outside disappearing except for the sound of music and the intermittent sound of arousal.

"Better yes?" He held his head cocked to the side as he continued to examine me. I nodded. It was better. A soft cocoon allowing me a little space from the reality I had thrown myself into. I wasn't sure what to do. So I waited. Watching him back. Watching my breathing. Feeling myself still and the silence stretch. Until it was broken by a nod and his soft voice.

"You really are quite beautiful." He said it with a tone that implied it was not a compliment but a simple observation. I found myself blushing none-the-less.

"Yes I would remember you." He nodded again looking at me, speaking to himself and then to me. "Which means this is your first time."

It was not a question. I nodded regardless. Confirming his assessment.

"How delicious."

He smiled, his teeth flashing. Even in this environment, so new to me, I still recognised the look of predation. His playful manner drawing an instinctive response, I flushed again. Very aware of my naked breasts and how my nipples suddenly contracted with arousal. It was unusual, my visceral response. My body mirroring his as he moved, around me to the wall. I watched, his long fingers playing with the shackle I had been holding, undoing the butterfly nut, opening the cuff. He held the nut up in the soft light showing it to me.

"Have you ever been restrained?"

His voice silk and gravel and temptation. My pulse sounded in my clit. Such a little thing, a butterfly nut. I shook my head, not daring myself to speak. My arms crossed at my chest, tightening with my admission. He held the nut out to me, my arms uncrossing instinctively to take it. The air on my breasts cool as the fabric fell open. His eyes holding mine, his hands warm as they caught up my own, pressing the heated metal into my palm. He leant into me then, his nose following the line of my throat. His breath was hot on my skin.

"Do you want to be?"

His hand closing my own around the butterfly's wings. I swallowed. Choosing not to answer. Despite myself I felt him press buttons I didn't even know I had. My arousal wetting the tops of my thighs, my knees felt fluid. I felt my nostrils flare, his nose tickling the soft skin of my neck before his hands moved to my corset, inching the fabric together. He was careful not to touch my skin, working on the clasps at my breasts, closing me in.

"I would restrain you... if you have want." He said quietly, finishing off the clasps and stepping back a little.

"You just did." I answered, my tongue felt thick in my mouth.

"My wall is a lot more fun than boning and lace little one."

His hand caught a loose curl that had escaped my pins, tugging on it playfully before letting it fall.

"Your wall?"

"My wall."

He smiled, his eyes never leaving mine. His face angled so he could look down onto my own.

"Come, let me show you."

His voice was soothing, persuasive. His demeanor sure. The predator tucked away out of sight. He took the nut from my hand and replaced it on the dangling shackle, careful in his work, his caress of the metal almost as a lover before he took my arm. Later I would remember the possessiveness of it, but in the moment I simply let him lead. And as he did so the hand on my arm became the palm at the small of my back, moving me deeper into the space, past people and acts and the music; through a door dark and hidden in the wall.

The room beyond opened out in front of us like a bowl, the two of us appearing to stand on the rim looking down into a dark hole, industrial steel railings circling the depths. The lighting was soft but brighter when compared to the den we had left behind, and the size of the room seemed to add to the quiet as opposed to creating the echoes you would assume. It was a brand new world, complete with two rows of velvet chairs, placed one behind the other, encompassing the room. Misplaced in this concrete and steel setting. Bodies already filling the seats, silent, all looking down into the dark, waiting.

It was a theater.

The realisation dawning as he guided me to a front row seat; deftly plucking the embroidered "reserved" sign off the plush decor before having me sit. He was gone as the lights dimmed around the balcony and the candles below began to flame to life. I watched the faces of those across the breach, I saw them inching forward, perched on the front of their chairs like so many birds, vultures. I was reminded of the 19th century lecture halls, of medical students and colleagues high above the patient in the room below and I too leaned forward and watched as candle after candle flared to life, revealing the depths of the room.

The pit was circular, concrete walls wrapping around on themselves. The room bare except for a woman, naked, bond to a wooden crucifix at its center and the candles strategically placed on stands near mirrors designed to illuminate the room. One length of wall stood dark with a curtain and beside that, a door. My mouth was dry as the truth of what I was seeing grew clearer - a chamber of pain.

I felt my blood pound in my ears as I watched the woman below, blindfolded and bound. A sick perversion stirring in my gut as I breathed with her, felt the tug of the bonds as surely as she did, the soft leather turning hard with my sweat and the ache of my muscles held taut for too long. I waited with her, barely able to breath.

The door was silent when it opened. My eyes wide as I watched him stride into the room. He wore a mask but I knew him. His face the Phantom, but I recognised his smile. He turned and bowed to the crowd and looked back towards the woman. Around me I felt the audiences energy surge forward. Mine surged with them, he had my attention.

He was a specter; a dark presence haunting the woman. She had felt his entrance; her muscles flexing in anticipation for the act to come. He gazed at her admiringly, a hand ghosting over her skin. The back of his fingers trailing down her ribs, the slope of her waist. Tentative teasing tastes of sensation feed into her deprived frame. As his hand traveled lower, she trembled, softly moaning as his fingers stroked her swollen flesh.

I trembled. My skin warm and aching where he touched her. I felt my clit throb and the wetness between my legs saturate what little underwear I wore.

I bit back my urge to groan as he leaned into her, whispering something only she could hear. His fingers moving to her chest, pulling, twisting, milking; his lips moving against her ear. Stretching her nipples until she was gasping. The shine of juices on her thighs. I saw her nod even as she whimpered.

Her nod, it seemed, was his queue. He moved back slowly, his steps measured as he approached the curtained wall; a simple tug pulling the fabric open like a sculptor revealing a work of art. The parting curtains baring a wall adorned with whips and paddles, steel and leather, cuffs and chains... the tightness in my stomach recognised as longing as I gazed at his toys and then at the man. His long slender fingers running over each item on his wall, tasting the textures of his tools, his mouth relaxed as he browsed, looking for that opening act.

He took his time, ambivalent to the crowd. The chosen item lovingly caressed in his hands as he approached her. An implement of torture hidden until it was revealed on her skin. Silver weighted nipple clamps causing her to moan, long and soft. He tugged on each, repeatedly and for different lengths of time until her moan was a song and he, a cat with a toy, batted at the weights in between stretching her sensitive flesh.

My toes curled in my boots as I watched him take such pleasure in his work. My own nipples hard and wanting tight behind my corset. I pressed my hand between my legs as he walked back to his wall. My body rocking gently, sensations surging between my legs and in the pit of my stomach, building to a fever pitch as his hands reached for his whip, the leather thongs dancing as he moved, playing together as he warmed his arms and the air with their sound.

He looked upwards as he approached her, circling the crucifix to her back; I felt his eyes even as I dismissed his ability to make me out in the dark; those dark eyes sending a jolt to my clit as the first stroke fell. Until that moment I had never heard the sound of leather on skin. Until that moment, this fleeting desire or fantasy to taste the whip on my flesh, was simply that. Until that moment I did not think to accept his offer. But as I watched that first stroke fall, as I heard the sounds of leather on flesh, as I watched his eyes, dark and afire, I knew there was no other option but to put my want to the test.