The Haunted Dungeon Ch. 03

Instead, we descended a set of stone stairs. My stomach clenched. I knew where we were headed. The dungeon.

I had seen pictures, read descriptions even, of dungeons. My dreams had been filled with them. But I had never stepped inside of one, never let my inhibitions free.

I remembered my resolve of earlier today. When faced with the temptation of serving Tony within the confines of a dungeon, could I possibly bring myself to refuse?

Tony guided me to the entrance of the dungeon, and I stopped dead, unable to move forward further. He was equally stymied. "I should have known," he growled.

Michelle and Auguste stood before the entrance, Michelle with eyes full of that same unspoken plea. Auguste's eyes were shuttered, battened down as the iron door behind him was.

The bolts glinted in the soft light of the sconces.

"No," Tony spoke in a tone to invite no argument. "I'm only showing Saffy the dungeon."

"And then she's going to leave. And Auguste and I won't be able to touch until you have paying guests or another submissive." Michelle uncharacteristically glared up at Tony.

He turned those eyes on me, and I felt myself softening, my resolve melting into a puddle.

As if Tony felt me becoming more agreeable to the idea, he stiffened further. "Now, Saffy..." he protested.

"It would be okay, wouldn't it? I've always wanted to experience the exquisite torment to be had in a dungeon. And this will be my only chance. And, possibly, the only chance Michelle and Auguste have to be together for a while. As Michelle said, until y'all have paying guests or you get a submissive," I finished, stumbling over the last four words.

"Fine," Tony gave in with ill-grace. "But remember your colors. I won't gag you for this session because you need to be able to call out safe words, if necessary. Today's session will make last night seem like a cake walk."

For a moment, I had a crisis of misgiving. The "what have I done?" and "what have I agreed to?" thoughts pounded through my mind, almost paralyzing me.

But, then, I felt Michelle's spirit merge with mine again, and she led me down this path she knew so well.

"Follow him in," she whispered in my mind. "Keep your eyes cast down. As you step inside, strip, not to entice, merely to rid yourself of covering. And kneel."

I did as she bid, figuring she knew Tony better than I did, and I was rewarded with a light stroking of my hair.

The rough concrete floor reminded me instantly of my place beneath him, a sobering reminder to submit fully to him. Tony—Sir, I corrected in my mind—tapped beneath my chin with two fingers.

"Look up, Saffy, my pet," he commanded. When I did, my eyes drank in my surroundings.

Stark bare lightbulbs suspended by wires from the ceiling dully illuminated the implements, furniture, and apparatuses.

Rough stone walls housed cast iron-linked chains and anchor points. A metal steamer trunk in one corner hid who-knows-what from sight.

Along one wall, punishment implements of all kinds littered the surface. Canes of all lengths, diameters, and materials glinted in the gloom. One that appeared to be a super slender rod of stainless steel seemed particularly menacing.

By contrast, the selection of crops, paddles, and floggers was almost a comforting image.

Then, my eyes catalogued the furnishings. A St. Andrew's Cross dominated one corner, the cast iron shackles contrasting sharply with the rough-hewn wood. A low table, almost like a cot or a doctor's examining table, filled the center of the room.

Stocks made of the same rough wood and cast-iron closures rested across the dungeon.

The dungeon. I felt my breathing and my pulse race. My eyes, as they darted back and forth nervously in my fear, took in other details of the room.

A rack of the same wood. A whipping post with adjustable manacles. And all the while my brain screamed the question: What was so awful that it had to be hidden in that trunk?! My mind and soul wanted to scream "red."

And, then, as she was sensing my turmoil and increasing alarm, Michelle whispered words to calm and soothe. "Nothing Tony does to you will be anything you can't handle. Remember you have safe words and use them."

Tony, too, sensed my growing angst. With gentle hands, he stroked my hair and down my back as if gentling a filly. "Calm, my pet. Nothing too strenuous today. Stand and walk over to the cross. Arms and legs outward, facing the room." The darker tones, those that were present at our first meeting, spilled forth from his lips in a sinful tide.

I walked slowly, as if in a dream, mindless of my nudity, my posture, helped by Michelle, perfectly straight. Facing the St. Andrew's cross, my stomach trembled with dread.

Summoning up all the courage I possessed—and much of Michelle's bravery, as well—I incrementally turned until my back rubbed against the unpolished timbers. With what adrenaline I had reserved, I lifted my wrists even with the top manacles and spread my ankles so they rested against the bottom manacles.

With a clunk heavier than I had imagined, Tony snapped the manacles in place. "Is that uncomfortable?" he asked. "Do you need to use your safeword?"

I shook my head slowly. In the back of my mind, I was screaming to safeword. Tony reached around behind me, grasping two ends of a belt, the middle attached to the back of the cross. He cinched the belt around my middle so that I was tethered to the cross at five points.

Tony turned away from the cross and me and headed in the direction of the chest. Lifting the lid with a loud creak, Tony removed two trays. He carried them back over to me, placing them within my line of sight.

One held coils of colored nylon rope—and some rough hemp. Tony selected a length of narrow hemp rope, almost twine.

The other tray held clamps and clips. From this tray, he chose, not the nipple clamps with a chain, but a y-shaped chain with clamps at each end. Nipple and clit clamps!

Terror gnawed at me. His eyes, when they turned to gaze at mine, held a hint of challenge. He was trying to force me to safeword. Why? To test my limits?

I forced myself to meet his eyes almost defiantly. For some reason, Michelle was silent within me as I dealt with Tony on my own. When I silently questioned her, she said, "This is your time. Auguste and I will merely be the 'feelers' of what you and Tony do, instead of the reverse which usually happens."

I smiled innocently at him as he gritted his teeth only a foot away from me. When I didn't react in the way he predicted, I saw him falter. Then, he gathered himself and growled, "I think we will further practice the effect of restraints on other parts of your body, more localized areas."

Hmphing with more gumption than I felt, I tossed out, "I'm game if you are."

"Then, we begin with breast bondage," Tony grimly replied. An odd light appeared in his eyes, and I realized it was grudging respect. With hands more sure than what I felt, he wound the rope in coils around my breasts, at times focusing on one breast, only to loop it in a figure eight a few moments later.

The constriction of blood flow made my breasts grow pink, then ruddy. I watched, fascinated, as something I had witnessed only on video or in pictures was actually happening to me.

Part of me wanted to crow with pride that I was able to take this torment. Within minutes, under Tony's focused glare, my breasts grew tingly, then slightly numb. With a casually sadistic flick of a finger, Tony sent first my left nipple, then my right to a highly sensitized painful state.

The sound that emanated from me was more grunt than anything else. Having never had my breast bound with rope, I had no frame of reference. I glanced at the nipple clamps and started panting to imagine the sensations of those on my poor nipples.

"See something that interests you, pet?" Tony's voice held an edge to it, close to his voice last night, but more cutting, more remote.

I shivered, and the fine tremors of my body rubbed my skin against the rough twine enough to start the sensitive tingling anew. Now, I was the one to grit my teeth. My bravado had escaped me.

"Don't worry pet; the clamps aren't in your future—yet," he said, his chuckle now insidious, midnight-dark.

As my bravado escaped me, some deeply hidden—until now—part of me struggled to break free. This part of me felt fear, trembled with it in fact, but also trembled with excitement and need.

The newly discovered part of me craved what was going to happen at Tony's hands just now. So much so that it was my voice, not Michelle's, who whispered throatily through the waves of pain, "I can't wait for them to be, Master."

Taken aback, Tony's eyes widened slightly. Only that small sign revealed his shock at my reaction.

Meanwhile, my pussy pulsed with desire, coating my lips with moisture that signified my arousal for him, for this. "Please teach me how to please you, Master," I mewled softly.

Fingers skimming my stomach, tickling there, before dancing lower, Tony groaned when he plundered my lips and found proof of my need for him. My eyesight blurred slightly, making it difficult to focus on anything.

After I blinked a few times, I was able to again focus on Tony—Sir—Master. Just in time to see him reach for a strip of bamboo fashioned into a cane about 30 inches long.

Oh, fuck, that part of my mind that craved this sang with near-delight. And Tony's sadistic self grinned.

"So, Cinderella, do you know what this is?"

"A bamboo cane, Master," my voice not much more than moving my lips to mouth the words. "An implement to bring exquisite pleasure pain to a masochistic submissive," the rational librarian within me took over briefly.

Tony twirled it in his fingers for a few moments, as if pondering my descriptions. "And are you a masochistic submissive?"

He was teasing me, toying with me, and my body—my traitorous body controlled by the pain slut part of my brain that seemed to offer up myself on a platter for Tony's sadism to binge upon—responded in a convulsive, unbidden, screaming orgasm.

When I returned to myself, realizing that my juices now slicked down my thighs and stained the wood beams beneath me, I looked up into Tony's face...glaring. "I believe I mentioned last night that I would not curtail your orgasms yesterday, but that today you would learn to climax only as I wished it."

I winced, trying to hide from that omniscient stare. "I'm sorry, Master," my tone beseeched him for a mercy that I knew, ultimately, he would not show. And for a mercy I was not sure I wanted.

"Ten thwacks of the cane, pet, for that transgression." Implacable.

"Ten?" I wheezed, unable to contemplate that measure of pain. And to be forced to receive them on my tender front? My bound breasts, even?

"Don't worry, pet," he responded, sounding almost like the Tony who had shared his business plan with me. The cane whistled through the air, and I unfortunately glanced down as it struck my tender belly, stripping it a dull pink immediately. My howl almost drowned out his next words. "You have only nine left, after all."

Tears sprang to my eyes at the thought of those next nine. I felt Michelle's mental presence steadying me, murmuring, "He will not give you anything you can't handle, Saffy."

The next strike slashed down on my right thigh. A third thwack landed solidly on the left thigh. "Now, normally, I focus on the breasts next. The buildup to the final strike on the pussy, you know. But, for now, your breasts are far more sensitive than even that tiny clit pulsing still for what I'm doing. Isn't it, Cinderella, my pet?"

I mustered enough focus to meet his eyes. My face was now a tear-stained, snot-streaming-from-my-nose mess. Still, some—insane!—part of my mind cooed, "Yes, Master. I need it!"

"Kiss it, pet. Show the cane some love." With eyes steady on his, I kissed it, soft, sensitive pecks along the ridges of the bamboo rod. And, then, I squeezed my eyes tight as I felt and heard the whistling of air lower to crack against my clit.

The white-hot agony almost destroyed me. How is it possible to handle this much pain? Logically, I knew in masochists—like me, it seemed—it provided a high equal to orgasms or drugs or an endorphin overload.

And there were six more to go. Practical knowledge, the masochist sing-songed to the logical part of my mind. Shut up, pain slut, I told myself, and Michelle snort-choked with laughter.

My breasts were now purpling in places. Using the tip of the cane, Master nudged my chin up to look in my eyes. "The last six are meant for these beautiful breasts, pet."

The first caught the upper curves of both breasts. My voice, grown hoarse from my involuntary reaction to the last four strikes, could only yelp.

My right side boob caught the edge of the second strike. If I had been standing, my legs would have buckled beneath me. I thanked Master silently for sparing me that humiliation.

The third, predictably, cut into my left side boob. Logically, I knew it would be painful regardless. But the built-up constriction for the last several minutes made what would be agonizing nearly impossible to withstand.

Strikes eight and nine peppered the underside of my breasts. My cries were now voiceless.

"Close your eyes, my sweet Cinderella. You will not want to see this one." Obediently, I closed them, wishing I could also shut out what I knew was coming.

The tenth and final strike, cut into both nipples, making them, with the lack of blood flow, feel as if they were being ripped and torn from me.

Mentally and emotionally, I fell into a deep meditative state. Only at the back of my mind did I realize that Master was almost tearing at the shackles to release me from the cross.

My mind supplied the term, from years of reading and research. Subspace.

I felt his hand moving caressingly over my body, and, with my last vestiges of rational thought, I realized that he stroked me just as he had stroked Old Blue's fenders.

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I awoke several hours later to the near darkness of the curtains drawn in Tony's bedroom. His arms held me protectively against his chest, and, for a few minutes, I wallowed in that comfort.

My body, especially my breasts, were still sore, but, looking down at my breasts, I realized Tony had massaged salve into the welts.

Then, the realization of my behavior the last few hours struck me, and the pain of those minutes in the dungeon was nothing compared to the painful knowledge that I craved it again. And again.

One thought rocketed through me: I could not be that person. That masochist. That pain slut.

And one more thought: I had to go.

Scrambling carefully away from Tony, I glanced down wistfully, already missing the warmth of his embrace.

I grabbed at the phone beside the bed and dialed Pammy's number from memory. When she answered, I whispered, "Pammy? It's me. Can you come get me? I left my car at my grandparents' house. And there's an emergency back in Boston. I have to get home."

"Saffy? Are you sure? If you need me, I'm there; you know that. But why isn't Tony driving you down?"

Again, I looked down at Tony, mutely memorizing his face. "He's sleeping right now, Pammy. I'll leave him a note," I spoke the inspiration that just sprang to mind.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Pammy spoke in my ear.

"See you then," I whispered.

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"Are you sure you're okay?" Pammy asked me in a voice full of concern as she navigated her car down the hill.

"Yeah, sure. I just don't want to talk about it," I muttered.

By now, Tony was probably reading my "Dear Tony" letter that I left on the pillow beside him.

I thought back to what I had written.

Dear Tony,

It's better this way. I don't belong in Arkansas anymore; my life is now in Boston.

I don't think I have it in me to be a full-time submissive. Today was just too intense for me. It proved to me I'm not ready—or not submissive enough.

I'm sorry for being a disappointment to you. Please send my love and regrets to Auguste, Michelle, and the rest of the ghosts.

-Saffy

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To be continued...