In The Bunker

I had occasion to visit a dungeon in the company of friends, old and new; for kinky fun and games. It was AWESOME.

You wait, trembling slightly in the darkness. Against your palms, painted brickwork is cold and irregular; beneath your bare feet, gritty concrete grinds and nips at your winter-softened soles. It’s cold in here, a chill of subterranean damp and stark, functional surfaces.

You removed your clothes and knelt for inspection on the footstool, arched and purring beneath the warm hands that gripped, and stroked and squeezed. Good girl, so eager to please. So hungry for appreciation. A note of disapproval. Your clothes are heaped untidily on the nearby chair, go and fold them up properly. Six stinging, reprimanding slaps with a leather tawse, and you took them with a beautific smile below your blindfold, ouch and ah and mmm, it hurts so good.

Come with me.

Wrists clenched together in heavy leather cuffs, you are led one way and another in short, shuffling steps, trusting your guide to steer you safely to an unknown destination; here, against the wall, waiting to be worked on.

With a tiny, stealthy movement, you lean forward slightly and brush your jutting nipples against the bricks; here I am, it’s real, it’s here and now. In your fantasies, you stood here cowed and afraid; but this is reality and you’re not afraid, you’re having fun. Nipple-pinching, cunt-throbbing, breathless fun.

Hands reaching and roaming across your backside; breathing against the back of your neck. You melt against them, enjoying their warmth and confident power, thrilling to the feel of submission, placing yourself willingly under control; hoping for reward.

Later, when your throat is dry from yelping, and your jaw aches from gritting your teeth around a grin of pain and ecstasy; you study yourself in the mirror and admire the livid imprints of dragon’s tail and cane. You can believe, for a moment, that you might be beautiful – you feel beautiful and so does every burning welt.

Picturing yourself from the outside, roped to the bench with your hair tied to the falls of the dildo-ended flogger in your arse, head up, thighs spread, howling with fierce joy and pain-shock, wondering how many more strikes you can take, and hoping the answer is lots; gorgeous.

Recalling the clink-clatter of hefty chain and the ironic realisation that the quietest impacts hurt most. A rubber flogger snaps against your nipple with a whisper, ouch. Red-sore buttocks kneaded with a firm grip just a wink shy of cruel. Ohhh. Cold stripe of iron scaffold pole against your spine and wrists as your tits ache and leather falls slap a sensuous rhythm at your clit. Stunning.

There aren’t enough words; glow, rush, bloom; for the way your cunt clenches and you subside into a puddle when you hear good girl and well done and you’re amazing murmured warm and intimate from inches away; sincerity in every syllable.

Thank you, my friends, for giving me joy and safety and togetherness. For making me feel beautiful.

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