Spicy Hot

Elara

The paper slips between my fingers, thick like velvet, imbued with a scent that makes my head spin, a mix of black rose and something darker, almost animalistic. The golden letters gleam under the trembling light of my candle, as if hypnotizing me. The Academy awaits you. Dare to cross the threshold. No signature. No seal. Just these words, traced in ink so black it seems to absorb the light around.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my thighs pressed tightly together, already feeling the damp heat building there. What is this place? My free hand traces up my leg, brushing against the silk of my robe, too light, too sheer. I don't even realize I've parted my thighs, but my fingers are already sliding beneath the fabric, seeking the relief of contact—any contact—against that dull throbbing between my legs.

“You’re losing your mind, Elara,” I mutter in a raspy voice.

But I can’t tear my eyes away from this letter. It smells of danger. The kind of danger that makes you squeeze your thighs together in public, that makes you want to be pinned against a wall, no matter who is watching. The kind of danger that promises you that if you dare touch it, you will never be the same again.

I jump up, clutching the letter in my hand, and pace back and forth in my room. The floorboards creak under my bare feet, each step echoing like a countdown. Going there would be madness. And yet, the thought of not going makes me want to scream. I can already picture the walls of this Academy, dark and glistening with wax, the muffled whispers behind closed doors, the intertwined bodies in the shadows… My nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of my nightgown, two painful points begging to be pinched, to be nibbled until I moan.

“Fuck.”

I drop to my knees in front of my vanity, my fingers trembling as I open the bottom drawer. There, beneath the dusty perfume bottles and jewelry boxes, is what I’m looking for: a small, tongue-shaped vibrator, soft and cold. I turn it on with a click, the dull sound of the vibrations filling the room. Without hesitation, I lift my robe and part my lips with two fingers, already swollen, already soaked. The smooth plastic slides against my clitoris, and a raw, desperate moan escapes me.

“Oh, fuck…”

I arch my back, one hand gripping the edge of the vanity while the other spins the toy in tight circles, pressing hard, too hard, as if I could punish myself for this weakness. But the more I hurt myself, the more my body reacts, twisting, begging. My hips lift off the floor, searching for something bigger, thicker than this piece of plastic. I imagine hands on me—his hands, perhaps. Theirs. Fingers spreading me without mercy, a tongue licking me until I scream, a cock pounding into me until I forget my own name.

“Elara…”

I flinch, my fingers freezing. That wasn't my voice. It wasn't anyone’s. Just the wind against the windowpanes, maybe. Or maybe…

Or maybe I’ve already crossed over.

I yank the vibrator away, tossing it onto the bed as if it were burning me. My pussy throbs, empty, hungry, and I clamp my thighs together with a groan, my fingers shaking with frustration. No. Not like this. Not alone.

The letter is still there, resting on the vanity, taunting me.