Phantom | teslastemptress's Blog

    I always knew when He would be coming. I would feel a strange foreboding excitement rising up inside me that would make my heart speed up. I felt a trembling that was manifested by a mix of fear and apprehension. I knew the ritual of preparation, and mindlessly went through the motions. My bedroom was draped all in white and trimmed with the laciest assortment of accessories. Fluffy, white embroidered pillows with shiny satin ribbons arranged neatly in front of the ornate oak framed antique mirror that served as a headboard. My ensemble would always be white. The pieces sent to me serendipitously, one at a time. The herring bone corset was the key player. I had a hook mounted to the wall so that I could cinch it without assistance. I would watch myself in the mirror, as I tightened the air from my chest. My hardened swollen rosy nipples were fully exposed while my ample milky bosoms spilled crudely and plumply over the top. This I always paired with tiny new white lace thong panties. Full length white lace glovelets covered from my hands to my shoulders, and thigh high white lace stockings cradled my legs. This would leave my shoulders, upper thighs and bottom exposed and bare.

I would then light the candles, each one in a special way. I would begin to burn the incense that was set in vessels around the room. I would pour a glass of wine and sip it as I sat on the eyelet lace coverlet, and read a pre selected poem from the works of a prominent nineteenth century author. I carefully displayed my breasts over the top of the leather bound volume, while my patterned legs hung over the dainty edges that combined with the pleated bed skirt.

          Within a few short moments of my read, the haunting would begin. So ritualistic, so mysterious, my heart would start to pound in my chest. His arrival was felt in the echoing booms from my own heart. I would close the book, leaving it face up on the night stand. I would climb onto the bed and lay face down, my head always pointed toward the mirror.

My legs I had spread apart, and my silky red hair I had swept from the side to cover my face. I always tried desperately to keep my eyes open. I wanted to see him this time. But it was not to be. The force of the door opening shook the walls violently, and the gust of icy wind whipped the curtains and my bare skin. My eyes clamped shut, as the fear in me mounted, and rose along with the goose bumps on my exposed flesh. I lay there paralyzed, I wanted to run, to flee far, but an invisible force held onto me fast. The now brutally cold air had numbed my skin. I felt his presence on the bed, his movement making deep indents that caused my motionless body to rock from side to side. The beating of his heart overtook the beating of my own, and I felt that I would faint from the fright of him. His breath was hot like lava upon my neck, but his painful touch was like hardened ice.

I could hear his growls, I could smell his muskiness, and my body tried helplessly to recoil from his icy steel grip.

As I felt the full weight of his mount upon my back, I willed my eyes to open. His entry was like frozen tempered metal, and my eyes flew open and in the mirror I saw no one. Nothing. His image not captured, only my own panicked eyes stared back at me, frozen in fear. Frozen in his wants. I was his prisoner. The booming explosions rocketed inside my body and continued echoing inside my mind. So intense was it all that I collapsed, and surrendered and left my body to him.

          I would always awaken with my head at the far end of the bed. Left Nude, and in an emotional heap. Gifts he left to remind me of the night were small tender bruises and light scratches upon my flesh. They closely resembled that which is left by close encounters with rose thorns. These marks would always fade away with time. But then Always to be replaced, in the very same manner on his next illicit visit. My Dark Phantom of the night.