The Red Room

The Red Room

Go to the Red Room and wait for me there.

That's all the last email had said, and since I'd received it yesterday I must have read it over again at least twenty more times. I'd met the sender at a club in Amsterdam a week ago, and he'd been breathtaking. Charming, intelligent, and involved in who I was and what I was interested in. Of course, you don't tend to talk about much other than sex at a club like the one I went to, a goth/grunge/industrial haven with smoke machines, black lights, thrumming music, hot bodies in fetish wear, and strong drinks. This is my only indulgence into this sort of lifestyle, or it was... up until tonight.

Right now I'm holding his business card and standing in the lobby of an office suite. It's winter, which means that it's comfortable to wear a bulky woolen coat, boots, and jeans to hide what's underneath. The card I hold is elegant and professional, with his name and title embossed in bold, black ink:

Cain Serafino, Professional Escort

Cruel Indulgences Escort Services

A woman at the main desk takes notice of me and greets me with a smile. I would imagine that a lot of people come here and feel nervous their first time, so without fearing too much ridicule I withdraw the printout of the email correspondence that has my appointment date and time and show it to her. The receptionist politely hands me a key card and directs me past a pair of doors and down the hallway beyond to the last room on the left. I thank her and head inside, and I can hear her pick up a phone as she lets someone know about their 7pm appointment.

Me, in other words.

My flat heels click on the gleaming hardwood as I head down the well-lit hallway. Rows of closed doors set into the beige walls on either side make this place seem very institutional, like a hospital or an asylum. It smells like disinfectant, but beneath that I can smell cologne and perfume. I know I'm not the only one in this wing given the soft, muffled sounds coming from behind a few doors. Are these rooms sound-proofed? My steps come to a halt for a moment as I think about that detail, and I close my eyes. The thought that even if I screamed no one might hear me makes me positively ache between my legs, and that particular reaction makes me just a little bit concerned. God, how debauched am I?

Taking in a deep breath and straightening my back with determination, I continue walking, my glance skipping from one glossy black door to another. Each one is inscribed with a word, each word spells out a different color, and just as I get to the door that the receptionist had indicated, my eyes nervously light upon its label. Red. This, obviously, must be the Red Room. My clammy fingers press the key card into the slot reader, and I wait an anxious half second before the little green light glows and the door unlocks with a click.

The minute I step into the studio space I can see that calling it the Red Room must have been unavoidable. The walls are a rich, velvety sanguine red with a texturing that mimics stucco. My boots click on more polished hardwood, the planks dyed a honeyed amber and thickly shellacked. Little divots, dents, and impacts there make it pretty obvious that adventures were had on this floor in the past. On that train of thought I scour the space with my eyes, looking for any signs of stains or filth, but everything looks extremely clean. The only thing that looks slightly worn is the low wooden bench that runs along the wall to my left, all the way around to the wall opposite the door, where the bench ends abruptly halfway across. Stainless steel eyelet screws have been firmly worked into the wood along the sides of the bench, and gleaming stainless-steel heavy chain is draped like a garland from hook to hook, fastened to each screw with clips.

My eyes start to water, and I realize that I've been staring at this bench for at least twenty seconds straight, imagining what it's used for. I blink away tears and sigh at myself, feeling self-conscious and awkward. If I'm unhinged by a bench maybe I should reschedule this. My brows knit as I frown at myself and rolling my shoulders I stubbornly look further up along the walls, refusing to get cold feet. Black wall sconces with slender cylindrical cream shades are situated at about head height every ten feet or so, casting an even, soft glow over the room, and I only realize now that there are absolutely no soft surfaces in here. A corner cabinet in steel to my right is tempting to investigate, but even as I walk over and reach for the handle I notice something in the slightly reflective metal. Why does the ceiling look strange?

And then I look up, craning my neck slowly as I see that the entire ceiling is covered in mirrors. My own flushed face is looking down at me as I gaze up at it, and I can feel that ache between my legs return. "Oh, that's naughty..." I whisper in admiration. For some reason I take delight in studying the room's reflection upside down, and while doing that I end up studying myself. I'm in my late twenties with an Italian heritage that flashes like a beacon from miles away. My skin is naturally olive-tan, and my hair is an inky, beautiful black that hangs straight down beyond my shoulders. I've been blessed with a slim build and cursed with small tits that I absolutely refuse to get 'done'. If my girls aren't enough for some guy, then that guy isn't enough for me. Period.

My hazel eyes widen as I hear the door unlock again. I had closed it behind me out of habit, and now I turn to look at who might be joining me. A tall man, standing at least eight inches taller than myself, slips into the room comfortably as if he owns the place. It's Cain, his dark, handsome features lighting up with a smoldering expression as he sees me waiting for him. My gut twists and I stare at him, wanting the hell out of him; he's even more handsome here in this place, in this light, than he ever was in the club. And at the club he was gorgeous. The man is svelte like a dancer but not effeminate. His facial hair is trimmed close to his jaw, the follicles black like charcoal as it outlines his full, expressive mouth in a goatee. His eyebrows are like thick, bold strokes over his brown eyes, and his hair is just long enough that I can imagine grabbing it as I climax. And there goes my pussy again, aroused to the point of aching at just the thought of it.

Okay, it's probably good I came here tonight.

"Victoria." It rolls from his lips like it's the most perfect thing that he's ever said, and I've never heard my name spoken with such simmering promise. His smile grows as I feel myself flush, and he gestures to my coat. "Please, make yourself comfortable" he purrs, his mouth quirking into a soft smirk as he leans back against the door, arms slowly crossing in front of his chest as he murmurs "I'll wait."

Even as I unbutton my black coat I can see his eyes rake over me, waiting as I reveal myself to him in bits and pieces. He'd told me in our emails that I should come here dressed in something comfortable that I felt sexy in, and soon enough the black camisole I wear is visible, along with the points from my hard nipples. I'm not wearing a bra tonight, though I hardly need it to support anything. With my coat removed and lain on the bench, I take a seat beside it and unlace my boots, setting each one on the floor to reveal that my feet clad in black fishnet. A glance over at Cain reveals that he's enjoying the sight of the stockings, his dark eyes narrowed with delight.

Last but not least I stand with my back to him, though I really don't know why. Modesty? Tonight? My fingers work at the button and zipper of my jeans and I pull these off to bare the rest of my thigh-high fishnet stockings and lacy black panties. Taking in a deep breath, I glance over my shoulder and slowly turn towards the man I'm renting tonight. Why I feel that I have to impress him is beyond me, but I still feel nervous as I wait for his approval.

His eyes meet mine, and our gazes connect and twine together before he muses "Lovely, Victoria." I can't help but smile with relief, feeling some of the tension from my frame melting away. As if adjusting his look to match mine, he unbuttons the black silk shirt that drapes perfectly over his long torso and takes it off, folding it and draping it over his arm. A black muscle shirt clings to his chest and stomach in its place, his own nipples pointing against the cotton as he rolls his shoulders. His charcoal slacks are held up on his narrow hips by a black leather belt, the material showing off the perfect curves of his ass as he walks across my field of vision to the cabinet in the corner. With every step he takes, his black work boots thud solidly on the floor, his weight always easily centered as if he could halt his motion on the instant and still keep his balance.

To my frustration he places his body directly between me and the open cabinet, obscuring my sight of what sorts of things are kept inside it. "Are you still comfortable with the terms of our arrangement, Victoria?" he asks as he works, and I swallow.

"Yes."

I can hear a soft chuckle and he pauses to say "Yes... what?"

Heat floods my face to the point that I feel my skin prickling, and I look down at my hands as they wring at each other. "Yes Sir." It feels awkward to defer to someone like this. I don't even use an honorific with my boss; I just call him Terrance.

"Good Girl, Victoria." His honeyed voice flows into my ears and makes my eyes slide closed. He's good; he hasn't touched me yet and I'm already raring to go. Standing obediently in place, even though Cain had never commanded me to remain there, I watch the muscles of his back ripple as his arms move. My fingers tingle, wanting to touch the musculature there and to feel my nails slide over his skin. I want to taste his shoulder and press up behind him to slide my hands down to his belt to unfasten it and reach inside his slacks. My right hand twitches as I imagine tugging the belt free of the buckle, and I'm just mentally unzipping him as he turns back to me, catching me out in a daydream.

I gasp and look into his eyes guiltily as he walks back over to where I stand, and I'm certain that the smile on his lips means that he knows what I was thinking about. Do his other clients undress him with their eyes? What a stupid question - of course they do. I'm berating myself for idiocy even as he fastens leather cuffs to my wrists, pulling the straps tight enough to make sure they don't fall off, but not so snug that they cut off circulation. Each cuff is weighed down with stainless steel D-rings in the cardinal directions, and my arms feel heavy as I lift each wrist to study these new adornments. Even as I admire the look of the heavy-duty leather on my delicate wrists, Cain slowly crouches down in front of me, sinking to his knees by my feet.

My thighs quiver as I resist the urge to grab his hair and press myself against his face. God do I want to, but such things aren't part of the arrangement. Cain's specialty is BDSM, and in this session tonight I'm the one taking orders, not him. We felt that this dynamic would be easiest, considering how green I am with all of this. For most of my life I had quite vanilla tastes, and maybe as a joke would pull out a pair of fuzzy handcuffs once in a while. Yet after I'd relocated for my job I decided to start fresh and try new things. The club where I'd met Cain in the first place was one of those this-is-the-new-Victoria explorations. I'd been going there for a few weeks before I'd met him, and we were making out within an hour of laying eyes on each other. Never in my life had I been so compulsive and I loved it. I adored feeling his hands sliding over my body as he pressed me up against that dark, thrumming wall in the club. I'd never felt more alive, and I'd decided then that I wanted to pursue this other side of my nature. When Cain had explained his profession and handed me his business card I made a promise to myself that I would do this, though it had to be with him. I trusted him to be my guide; no one else would do.

What surprised me was how much communication had occurred in the interim, between that night and right now. We'd had a long email conversation about what I wanted to get out of this and what the limits of my comfort zones were. He wanted to make sure that I knew what I would be getting into and he also wanted to be sure that I was consenting to this willingly. I appreciated that he wasn't trying to take advantage of me and my curiosity, and I answered all of his questions as honestly as I could. He linked me to quite a few websites so that I could learn about the various aspects of his art, and I must admit that when I'd sit down at my home computer after work in my pajamas to check them out I was left flushed and squirming. The look on the submissive's face as she (or he in some cases) was manipulated and played with was something close to ecstasy, and I wanted to be in that same mental place more than anything. I had gotten a hint of it when Cain had kissed me against the wall at the club, and I wanted more.

The last cuff is secured to my left ankle and in my daydreaming again I must have missed how he'd moved behind me, because as he gets to his feet I can feel his hands slide up along my body from behind. His touch traces along my knees and outer thighs to my hips, then to my waist, ribs, and shoulders. My breathing deepens as I feel him gather up my hair in his left hand, gripping it firmly like a leash as his other hand slides around to caress my throat and cup over it warmly. Even that sensation makes me shiver and I lean back against him.

"No." He takes a step back and I stumble, his hands firming their grip until I stand upright again and make damn sure to keep my balance this time. Only when I'm centered over my feet once more does he continue moving his touch, his fingertips tracing the features of my face reverently, lingering at my lips. I want to reach back and touch him but I know I shouldn't. Though as his fingertips slide along my lower lip I caress my tongue over them, tasting him and inviting his digits into my mouth. Only one of them accepts the invitation, his middle finger sliding past my teeth to caress along my tongue. As my lips purse around his knuckle and I begin to suckle on him, I can feel his hips press against the curve of my ass, and his cock twitches and hardens as my tongue coils around his finger.

Very slowly he pulls his digit away from my mouth, and I feel pressure on my scalp as he guides my head to tilt back with his grip on my hair. The mirrored ceiling reveals how his other hand moves down and down, until I feel his touch against the front of my panties. His hand slips inside them, and that spittle-slicked middle finger slowly slides past my clit and in between my smooth, hot lips. I'm wet already, and his touch is firm and possessive as he starts to grope me. I can only see the outline of his moving knuckles in the ceiling's reflection, but even so I watch it, entranced. My hips begin to move against his touch, and each caress is harder and harder, until his wrist curls and his middle finger poises itself to penetrate me.

"Tell me how much you want this, Victoria" he whispers into my ear, and I worry suddenly that my knees are going to buckle.

"I want this badly, Sir" I say, barely louder than a whisper.

"Beg for it" he hisses, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

I'm sure he can feel how my pussy quivers against his fingers, and I whimper. "Please, Sir. Please touch me."

My reward is the feeling of his long, slender digit sliding up into my needy flesh, and his lips press kisses to my right cheek bone. "Good Girl" he murmurs, his middle finger thrusting slowly and sedately.

It's not enough. I squirm and hold my breath, wanting to be good but also wanting to be fucked. "Sir... please... harder. I want it harder."

In response, his hand moves out of my panties and lifts back to my mouth to be cleaned. It's not like I haven't tasted myself before, but tasting myself on him makes me shiver with delight, my nipples tight, dark little buds and my stomach taut as I suckle him clean. Then I'm guided forward to the red wall, and my chest and cheek are pressed against it as my arms are gathered behind me. The cool plaster feels good against my burning skin as my wrist cuffs are locked together with a clip he pulls from his pocket. When his hands slide away from mine I pull at my bonds for a moment, and to my delight they firmly hold me hostage. Cain nudges my feet to move slightly further than shoulder-width apart, and then I feel his hand slide in between my thighs.

My back dips and I duck my head near my shoulder as I feel him press the sodden crotch of my panties up against my swollen lips and clit. I whimper and grind back against him, abandoning shame as I beg with my body for more. A sharp SLAP on my right ass cheek makes me cry out in surprise, and I glance over my shoulder, worried that I'd done something wrong. Cain just looks at me, smiling as his hand caresses over the site of impact, massaging in the sting of it into my hot flesh. And it feels good. My eyes close as I lean my head against the wall and brace more securely, privately hoping that he slaps my ass again.

And oh God, yes he does. SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! I tense, bite my lip, and lift up onto the balls of my feet, squirming with desire and, oddly enough, mirth. His strikes sting, but the pain is just enough to thrill along my nerves without being too much. I feel full of energy as he hits me harder on the ass, and I wail even amidst peals of laughter. For a moment I wonder if I've gone insane, but as I check back over my shoulder and look at my dominant I can see that he's smiling with approval. He moves in against me and I can feel his hard on through his slacks press up against the curve of my ass while his hands press to my shoulders and pin me to the wall.

"Do you want me to fuck you, Girl?" he growls, grinding his hips slowly.

"Yes! Yes, please Sir!" I beg, offering my hips as well as I can in this position.

I can feel the pout in his tone as he murmurs "You'll have to earn it, Victoria. You'll have to be very good."

I'm breathless as I whisper, "I promise I'll be good, Sir."

Cain's chuckle is devilish as he guides me away from the wall, turning me around and carefully helping me to sit down on the bench. He places my feet on the wooden seat such that my heels just hook onto the front edge, and then he uses six-inch lengths of chain to lock my ankles to the eyelet screws. It keeps my ankles parted widely enough so that he can just stand between my big toes. Again I test the hold of my bonds, both at my feet and at my wrists behind me, and find them solid. It makes my thighs tense and the crotch of my panties soak just a little bit more. I shiver as he cups the back of my head and guides me forward to his tenting pants.

"The belt, first" he rumbles, and without the use of my hands I realize that he means for me to unfasten him with my mouth alone.

I shift my position a little, my knees projecting forward to flank his thighs as I sit on my butt to do this, bending forward for a little more leverage. I pull the flap of his belt from the front bar of the buckle, then I dig my teeth into the leather and pull firmly until the prong comes free of its hole. Cain helps by nudging the little spike of metal to the side with his finger, and I release the flap of leather, gripping it on the other side of the back bar to thread it through the metal frame.

His hand caresses through my hair affectionately, praising me for my success, and I close my eyes as I soak it all in. That hadn't been easy. Though of course the next step won't be that much easier. "Now the fly."