The Arsenal

(The following story is a work of fiction. Everyone is over 18, completely consenting, and probably having a hell of a time.)

I like to think I grew up on "the outskirts of town." Sounds so much more Americana than saying “the suburbs," doesn’t it?

My father worked in the city, ran his own business and taught me how to do some basic bookkeeping for him by the time I was ten. Year around, but especially in the summer, we’d drive the scenic route past the reservoir, through the quote unquote new developments built in the 70s, past warehouses and old ice palaces before pulling up to his building in the center of this constantly changing metropolis.

The city’s rich architectural past had just started being gobbled up by industry and replaced with concrete, metal and a new wave of Herman Miller office furniture. Liquor stores became coffee houses and coffee shops became film locations. At age ten I may not have understood what the city was gaining - or losing, depending on your perspective - but I was keenly aware of the concept of impermanence. And I hated it.

I found myself attracted to, in fact clinging to, those few majestic landmarks that month after month and... oh, y’know, yada yada... they never changed. They never really got a facelift either, but they assured me of a constancy and a reliability. Buildings like city hall or the music halls or early-century (I mean last century) museums. The poster child for these buildings, for me, was The Arsenal. And I loved it.

The Arsenal was operated by the military, as you would expect, and I begged my father to take me inside. I just assumed a decorated war veteran could go anywhere he damn-well pleased, and I would be his practical, smartly-dressed if slightly young, assistant. The answer was no, but not because he wouldn’t have taken me but because the building was being decommissioned and sold. More change. And I hated it.

Flash forward through growing up, leaving home, maturing - mostly - and now being a visitor in the city of my youth. But the city of my 10-year old self is unrecognizable, save those handful of buildings now on the national registry. The Arsenal has been sold many times over but still retains its hefty footprint and foreboding exterior.

And last week when I was in town, I got a big bug up my booty and I decided to see if I, with no credentials whatsoever, could finally get a tour.

“Yes! You can! Most definitely! Absolutely!” I was told by an effervescent young woman on the phone. “But are you familiar with our operation?” I wasn’t.

Over the course of the next 90 seconds, at least that many different thoughts and emotions ping-ponged a full Olympic-class showdown in my noggin.

Was I familiar with BDSM?

Would I be offended or embarrassed by frank discussions of sexuality?

Had I read Fifty Shades of anything?

Hmmmm.

The Arsenal was now a film studio catering to a certain... audience, with specialized tastes. And the tour would certainly show off the building with its thick walls and catacombs. But it would also take me into a world of “...deviance and decadence and degradation," she chirped.

And I loved it!

I text John. I’m not sure what to call John yet. I’ll just say he’s really, fucking sexy... and open-minded, and I find myself equally open-minded and often open-legged - quite wantonly I might add - when I’m with him. I mean, look, if I’m going to tour an icon of my youth that just happens to house a den of iniquity, I’m taking a well-hung fuck buddy with strong hands, tight little nipples I can’t stop playing with and superior oral skills that transform me from mild-mannered accountant to cock-hungry slave girl in 2 point 8 seconds.

So, this is gonna work out better than expected.

We meet for coffee at 3:00 in the afternoon. By 3:08, we are seriously flirting. And by 3:30 two fingers of an aforementioned strong hand have worked their way under my skirt, past my thin, lacy, not mother-approved panties and are making squishy sounds that I’m sure are neither subtle nor unnoticed. By 4pm we find ourselves slightly disheveled, a bit unhinged but remarkably upright in The Arsenal’s lobby, checking in with the lovely, if slightly too perky, Heather.

Heather explains while bouncing on the balls of her pink, tennis-shoed feet that, “This is an especially large group! And we’ll need to take extra care to stay together. Follow me as quietly as possible. Multiple scenes are being shot on this holiday weekend. I estimate thirty of us - of which John and I are at least 20 years their senior - are guided across the hall and down the wide stairway to the basement.

Shit! Oh, my God! Photo ops abound. Brick and concrete, thick walls and narrow bars, the unforgiving floors and swinging hooks and chains all conjure scenes in my head of another world. Oh God, swinging hooks and chains! Well no... ok... not swinging per se. I mean, I’m certain that some form of swinging and/or suspension had just happened and had been hastily cleaned up right before we entered! I mean isn’t that exactly what you would imagine? Oh, my God!

The hallways are bustling with activity as our group parts like the Red Sea for each plastic rolling cart rattling past us on its way to break at least 6 of the 10 commandments. On the carts, whips, dildos, white and black wands, lube - so much lube - and latex gloves form quite an enticing potpourri. And then following the toy carts were racks of... I’ll call them costumes but each item was soooo tiny I could have fit them all in my backpack. Men of all ages in jeans and T-shirts navigate the halls with light fixtures, electrical cables and microphones while younger women procure makeup supplies, round up talent and distribute contracts.

Our group, millennials all, are a mixed bag of mostly straight couples and some single men... all ethnicities... and multiple, questionable fashion choices. The smartly dressed 30-something African American couple stand out from the rest as perfect specimens of classic beauty; he with his football player physique in a white, immaculately tailored linen suit with shiny shoes and she in a short floral sundress that accented elegant, ample curves, flawless skin and endlessly long legs. On the other end of the spectrum are the Rebels, as I think of them, each with black angular hair, dyed with complimentary colors on the tips, that in no way hide the multiple piercings and tattoos that creep up necks and down cleavage to parts unknown. The youngest of the couples, they are also somehow the most endearing; clearly in love, overly giggly and adorably hormonal.

The rest generally look like tech industry escapees on a lunch break.

Our little crew does as we are told and we’re remarkably well-behaved... though given that we’re in this world of swift discipline and consequences, perhaps that’s to be expected. Heather comments cheekily that unlike most of the rest of the people in the building, we aren’t “HARD to work with at all!”

“Speak for yourself.” John whispers in my ear as the others chuckle.

I glance down to see that all of the passive but suggestive teasing the tour provided was having an effect on my sexy man. Not only can I make out the outline of his tasty hard-on but a small wet spot has appeared where I knew the tip to be.

“And what brought this on?
“You mean other than the hour of groping and fingering your cunt?
“Yes. Other than that.”
A thoughtful silence, then: “I think it was the iron bed.”
“Seriously? That’s like... so vanilla!”
“You would think that. Might change your mind after the tour.”
“You gonna be sportin’ that an hour from now?” I teased, pointing at his obviously hard tool.
“Hell, kitten, I’m still licking your sweetness off my fingers.”
(sign) Yeah. He actually talks like that.

I was about to tell him how much juicier those words just made me when Heather announces that one of the scenes is going to be quickly shot down this hallway and we would need to move into one of the adjoining rooms to wait for “just a few minutes.” The scene required a young, barefoot woman to run the length of the hallway trying to elude her two captors. As we’re ushered into the small-ish but exquisitely decorated sitting room I see the girl, naked except for white cotton panties, walking towards us, checking the ground for imperfections while two shirtless hunks, presumably her captors, are laughing and hydrating at the other end of the hall.

We find ourselves ushered into the middle of the posh little room. Instead of closing us in while they shoot, though, the doors are left open so we can see the action. Heather reminds us to be very, very quiet before she slips out.

As we settle in, some standing, some sitting, I notice how John seems to be slowly moving us towards the back of the room. Since we first met at 3pm, John’s hand has barely left mine, except to snap the occasional pic of cages or harnesses or Medieval-looking accoutrements. He never just holds my hand. His fingers are always stroking, always teasing, reminding me that his tongue wants to worry endlessly at my nipples and my clit. Even here in this sex-drenched environment, I am hyper-focused on his fingers.

By the time we hear the director call “action” we are at the far back wall behind a crimson, rather gaudy, fringed chaise lounge. The young girl begins screaming and sounds of a struggle are heard. As her voice approaches, I notice couples moving closer together, tucking in to each other’s bodies, but whether it’s from an awkward discomfort or arousal I can’t quite tell. The girl darts past our door with the men, mere feet away, in pursuit. It’s immediately clear that she is quickly caught, though, from her muffled screams and their “Shut it, slut!” “Pull her up!” “On your feet, you dirty, little whore!”

John’s fingers are now on my wrist. As the girl is dragged backwards, he draws my hand to his crotch. As she’s thrown down in front of the doorway, he’s dragging my fingers slowly across his pole. And as her head is quickly straddled and her open mouth violently filled with what is clearly a cock not to be taken lightly, he thrusts my hand into his open fly.

“Fuck, John! Seriously? Here???”
“Look around.”
Pause.
“Oh.”
“See what I mean?”

Couples in our group have begun a subtle groping while most of the single men are shifting, some uncomfortably, most with their hands in their pockets, all eyes glued to the scene before us.

The girl is taking a hard mouth fucking from Big Boy, while (I’ll call him) The Lumberjack grabs her panties in a tight fist, holds her legs down and jerks the material up, over and over again, across her slit, in a sawing motion.

John is rock solid. I’ve never felt a more silky cock in my life and it takes all my strength not to get down on my knees behind the chaise and do a little throat fucking of my own.

The girl was quickly turned over, placed on all fours with her knees kicked open wide. Her panties are torn off - or cut off, I can’t tell - and replaced by the swift jackhammering of our limber Lumberjack. Big Boy tells her, “Keep your slut mouth open!” as he feeds her his pendulous balls, holding her head firmly in place.

I’ve never seen anything like this in person and videos don't do it justice. It’s fast and raw and it’s wet and sweaty. And I love it!

John releases my hand from his pants and turns me to fully face the chaise while he moves behind me. The heat of his whole body runs the length of mine. Tapping on my shoulder and pointing to the front right side of the room he says, “Oblivious.”

Tucked away in a little alcove, fully visible to our little crowd but completely unnoticed by anyone, are the Rebels. And they are necking. Chaste kisses move across her lips while he tenderly holds her face with one hand and her tiny waist with the other. Her eyes are closed and her arms limp at her sides as though surrendering to him fully. His one hand moves further down to her ass, while supporting her body with the other behind her neck, to slowly, slightly bend her backwards, completing her surrender and claiming her as his.

It wasn’t clear which scene before me was more erotic. I saw myself in place of both of the women. A surrender given. A surrender taken. John feels the goosebumps on my arms and drops his lips down to kiss my shoulder as his fingers move up under my shirt to stroke my nipples over my bra.

"Such hard little eraser heads.” he says.

My one, newly-pierced nipple throbs under the fabric, each touch sending shock waves to my clit.

The director yells “Cut!”and I jump. John had completely distracted me from noticing much of anything else. As Heather scoots into our room, I press back into John’s muscular arms and feel his fingers tighten and twist on my buds. Fuck...

A tiny pearl of my wetness trails from my slit down the inside of my thigh.

“Ok, friends and lovers,” pipes in Heather breathlessly, “they’re going to shoot some closeups so let’s slip out while we can.” The Rebels gracefully disengage while the others shuffle towards the exit. I start out around the chaise when I feel John tugging on my arm.

“What?”
“Quick!”
“What???”
“Get down!” He crouches down behind the chaise pulling me with him.
“Really, Danger Man, we’re hiding?? In a dungeon???”
We hear the door click, wait, then John peeks out to find us alone in the room.

Heather’s voice and the footsteps of now 28 people heading away from us are replaced by the sounds of “OK! Get her ass higher up in the air.” and “Open more towards me.” and “Can we put some towels under her knees?” coming in under the heavy door.

We’re alone. We’re horny. And we absolutely shouldn’t be in here.

Without the tour group, the room seems larger. Ornate mirrors and kitschy chandeliers decorate the walls and ceiling. While the furniture seems conventional enough, closer inspection reveals padded benches with tie downs and a variety of free-standing wooden frames… the kind I could only dream of being lashed to.

Over the course of the next hour and a quarter, I am taken hard and raw on most of the surfaces before collapsing in a heap next to my lover on the chaise.

“Oh, yeah. I think the young ones coulda learned a thing or two from that show.” John whispers in my ear.

“Hm. Let’s ask if we can teach a class...” I suggest, actually contemplating what the heck that might look like!

“I’m not sure we could repeat that the way we just performed it. Certainly not for the next couple of hours.” John quips, grinning.

I elbow him in the ribs saying, “It’s too bad they couldn’t have just stayed to watch.”

Tucking into his warm body, I close my eyes, the soothing screams and animal grunts and shouts of “Take my cock, bitch! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!!” lulling us to sleep.

At no point earlier had we seen Heather wink in our direction as she clicked the door closed. Nor did we hear the group’s footsteps gathering along the outside perimeter of our room. Nor did we suspect that we were the ones on display behind The Observation Chamber’s ornate one-way mirrors.


© 2018 by me