Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Reluctant, Heterosexual, Superhero, FemaleDom, Humiliation, Slow, .
Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A lady with the power to generate fear meets a person with an unusual reaction to her power.
Feel your heart racing? That's me. Sweating? Breathing fast? Me again. You know the old expression 'you have nothing to fear but fear itself'? That's me, too. My name is Fear Itself.
Almost everybody calls me Fear; only my roommate calls me Phyllis, but my roommate Bambi is a cow. I don't mean she's fat: she's actually quite beautiful in a primping blonde beach-bunny kind of way. When I say she is a cow, I mean that on an instinctual level - the reptile part of the brain that regulates fight or flight - she has all the self-preservation instinct of a masticating bovine.
And yes, I do know I have a semi-permanent chip on my shoulder. I may not respect my roommate, but I'm grateful she exists. When I crank my fear projection down all the way, the best I can manage is unpleasantly creepy. Bambi can take a temper-tantrum inspired horror-fest at full power without pissing herself: she barely flinches. I'm beginning to suspect she's on drugs.
My power may be inconvenient sometimes, but it pays the bills. Some companies will pay well to scare the piss out of somebody they think deserves it. The fact that I don't actually do anything illegal is a big bonus. It's not even technically harassment.
On the day I met Kyle, I was working. Ben Benson, a fairly wealthy owner of a large local company, had borrowed a large quantity of money for upgrades on his factory, had somehow talked the bank into accepting an unsecured loan, and then stopped making payments. There was nothing the bank could foreclose on, so they hired me to encourage Mr. Benson to start making payments again.
As is usually the case when I am visiting a target for the first time, I had a pair of bodyguards with me when I walked into the office adjoining Mr. Benson's factory. I can sense fear, and I can project it onto everybody around me, but I can't predict how people will react. Some people attack what they fear, and not just veterans having flashbacks.
Ben Benson's office was little more than 2 rooms - a large cubicle farm with a wide aisle between row after row of identical desks, and a smaller room for Mr. Benson at the end of the aisle. As soon as I walked in the door I cranked up my power a couple notches, and heads shot up all over the room. Along with the fear, I caught a few other whiffs: mainly curiosity. I've picked up the same fear mixture from people driving by car wrecks - too afraid to stop, but not afraid enough to keep from slowing down and looking. I also caught a new scent, but didn't have time to stop.
I was dressed in my usual work clothes: black patent leather pumps with a wicked stiletto heel, black and grey herringbone pencil skirt cut just above the knee, white silk shirt, and a fitted black leather bolero jacket. My shoulder-length, naturally spiky, purple hair was slicked down and tied into a tight bun. The spikiness is natural, not the color. The bodyguards were both big guys and wore matching uniforms: black suits with a security company logo on the breast pocket. Even without my power we were an intimidating sight.
As I walked past the cubicles toward Ben Benson's office, people found an excuse to head away from me. Some of them decided to leave the building. I cranked up the fear another notch, and the feelings of curiosity vanished. The exodus from the building increased. One of my bodyguards, the younger of the two, started to sweat.
"Is he going to be okay?" I asked the older bodyguard.
He looked at his partner critically, the younger man nodded, and the older replied, "He's new, but he'll be okay. If he's not, I'll take care of it."
"Are either of you carrying weapons?"
The older man said, "We read your instructions," but I caught a spike of fear from the younger man that I didn't generate.
"Go home," I said, speaking to the younger man directly for the first time, "If you take my rental car, I'll find you. Find another way."
I caught a whiff of bravery, as if the younger guy was thinking about saying something, but I cranked up the fear another notch and he fled instead. The new scent in the room increased, mixed with embarrassment, somewhere off to my left. I still didn't have time to check it out.
Mr. Benson may have sensed something through the wall, because by the time I reached his secretary's desk, an intercom buzzed and I heard a deep masculine voice say, "Susan, please hold all my calls, and tell anybody who comes in that I am not available."
"She never got the message," I said, as I stepped into Mr. Benson's office. The secretary had been one of the first people to flee the building.
It was less than a minute before I left Mr. Benson's office. I explained that I would be back tomorrow morning to discuss payment arrangements, and that if he did not have a payment plan to the bank, along with material proof of his sincerity I would be back tomorrow afternoon - and again the next day, until we had something worked out. He was pitifully eager to explain to me that I wouldn't need to come back at all. I fully expected my client to be paid off, in full, by the end of the day ... even if Mr. Benson had to mortgage his factory to do it.
I caught embarrassment mixed with the new scent. Now that the greater part of my work was done, I had the luxury to track down that new emotion. The source of the scent turned out to be coming from the same person as the strong feeling of embarrassment. He was hunched down low so that I couldn't see his head over the top of the cubicle, sweating heavily, and trying hard to concentrate on his work. Everybody around him had long fled.
"Boo," I said. The guy in the cubicle jumped like he had been electrocuted. My bodyguard was calm enough to chuckle. I made a mental note to request him again next time I was in Chicago.
"What do you want?" he asked, while trying to look back at me without turning fully around in his seat.
"Stand up and face me," I said.
He blushed beet red but did as I requested. I expected the guy was embarrassed because he had pissed himself. I was wrong. He had a stiff boner instead.
It was my turn to blush, and I felt my power cranking down. Fear makes men shrivel up, not get hardons. People just didn't get boners around me.
I tried to look him in the face, but my eyes kept flickering down like some kind of teenager. With both me and my bodyguard looking at him, he didn't need my power to keep his fear up ... or other things.
"What's your name?" I finally asked, when the silence stretched out uncomfortably. It was at this point that I noticed that his hands were balled in fists at his sides, instead of trying to cover his erection.
"Kyle, Mistress," he replied.
I pulled out one of my business cards and wrote on the back.
"This is my hotel and room number," I said, as I handed him the card. "Be there at eight tonight."
He didn't reply, but he took the card. Out of respect for my new bodyguard I didn't crank my power back up on my way out the door, but I did have a bit of extra wiggle in my walk as I strutted out the door. I'm certain Kyle was watching.