The Dungeon

[Ar****]

After months of discussion, he’d agreed.

Months of dating. Months of perfect make out sessions and titillating discussions, some deep into the thick blanket of velvet night. Months of that suave, crooked smile.

Months of fucking yourself when you came home. Months of tying yourself up in secret, of pinching your nipples, of crying his name into your pillow. Months of new perfume, new dresses, new plugs you mentioned casually; all seemingly without effect.

And now you’re sitting at his table. His ordinary, modern kitchen.

Because—at the pinnacle of months—you’re listening.

“I’m sure you’ve enjoyed our time together, or I wouldn’t be doing this,” his low voice is lifted a rift in the river. “You cannot imagine the full extent of my desire for you…. And so, against my better judgment, for you are young, you’re here. Tender. Malleable. My little plaything….”

And he takes your hair and kisses you. Your entire body, starved, shudders at his unexpected roughness. You whimper as he steps away, his eyes searching yours.

“Safewords are honored,” he said simply. “Choose one now. If you say it, the scene ends without consequences or punishment of any kind, including mental or emotional manipulation. Choose carefully.”

You consider.

“Library,” you say. Your heart knocks at your throat, frantically, desperate for entry as you are.

“You will follow me,” he said, and you do.

Down the steps for the first time, to an ornate wooden door. Iron lion heads decorate the handle.

“For the last time, I ask you to be sure,” he says. “You grasp that handle, and there’s no going back. From the second we enter my dungeon, our love removes gentility. You will simply be my slave, my object. You will be mine to use as I see fit, only freed if I hear your safeword. Mine to kiss, fuck, suck, ***, regardless of your tender, supple skin.”

His glinting eyes scorch yours.

“If you’re sure, open it.”

You take a shaking breath and pull it open, albeit with some difficulty; it’s a heavy door.

He’s behind you immediately, kissing your neck, taking your wrists. He drags you to an iron bar, tying your wrists safely, then hoisting it above your head. You can’t move, even if you sag. Your ankles, he cuffs to iron hoops in the ground. In every case of bondage, he inserts a finger beneath the ties, ensuring they’re not too tight for your body.

He cuts off your clothes as he plays with you, his tongue in your mouth, his fingers pulling at your hardened nipples. Before long, only tattered bits of pencil skirt and pantyhose remain.

They’re visibly soaked.

“Beg,” he says. You raise your head proudly. You won’t.

The flogger hits your naked breasts.

“Beg,” he repeats. “Slaves beg their Masters.”

The flogging begins in earnest until the *** transcends. It’s unbearable, it’s everywhere—and then, it’s pleasure immemorial.

“Please!” You cry out. “Please, Master!”

He pushes the handle against your swollen clit. You moan, desperate.

“Good slave,” he says. The flogger hits the ground as his fingers tear your pantyhose, your cheap thong. He fucks you with those fingers, his second hand rubbing your clit.

Two, three fingers; four, until your body is so soaked his entire fist sinks inside you. His second hand puts two fingers in your tight, clean ass. Your legs begin to tremble.

“You will be mine when you come,” he says. “Come on, you filthy little slut. Come for your master. Now!”

And you do, and it’s explosive. Before you can pull away from subspace, he’s gagging you, attaching clamps to your nipples. He puts a vibrating toy inside you and tapes it in place. He pours hot wax on your body, and you scream, but the *** only adds to the endless sensation.

Hours. You’re there for hours. Oh, there are breaks—a maddening foray to a mini fridge of water and food, careful tests of your body—but they’re nothing next to the might of his will to seemingly drive you insane.

“Mastermastermaster,” you groan, overcome, and the hard edge in his eyes vanished.

Carefully, oh, so gently, he lets you down from your bonds. He tenderly carries you to his own bed, wraps himself around you. You drink cold water and manage food, and sleep threatens.

“I… like…” you whisper.

“Mm? What’s that?” He’s attentive, careful.

“…your… Slave… I like…being…”

“Hush, my dear,” he says. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Rest.”

And you do.

My god, you do.

[Gentleman_E]

A most provocative tale. Thanks for sharing...

[Mi****]

"Your heart knocks at your throat." Great writing.

[Do****]

Omg I have never wanted to be a slave more...

[Deleted Member]

1 - loved the safe word
2 - loved the door opening consent
3 - loved the care of checking restraints
4 - loved the initial defiance
5 - loved the ultimate surrender
6 - loved the aftercare
So well done! More please!!

[Idk242]

That’s how I wanna be with someone right now