A Night in the Sex Dungeon

Picture this, a decaying manor house, grimly clinging to its former grandeur,standing isolated deep in the English countryside, and inside it a dominatrix called Wanda blew smoke rings and admired her skinny behind in the full length mirror nailed to the wall of her modest dressing room. Touching six feet in heels, late twenties, Wanda was a pale beauty with exquisite features, tall and willowy, hardly any tits, with her long black hair tied up into a bun, smokey eyes and crimson lips. She looked good, and felt hungry to inflict pain. Her pussy was already tingling at the thought of splitting flesh with her bullwhip, making the little bitch down in the dungeon squeal for mercy. The boxy windowless room, lit gloomily by a low watt bulb, was sparsely furnished and carpet less, containing a solid oak chest of drawers, crammed with bondage clothing, make up and sex toys, with an armless office swivel chair pushed against it. Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ played tinnily on a pair of little speakers connected to her smartphone, helping Wanda focus on the rituals of degradation she was to perform. She stubbed out her cigarette and checked her outfit, pleased with her minimalist choice of wet look leather thigh high boots with kinky heels, black studded body harness with straps covering her nipples with matching waist band and leather garter. The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke her self-absorption. A hard rap on the door.

“Mistress Wanda, it is midnight,” came the gruff voice of the Servant.

Wanda picked up her bullwhip and cracked it in front of the mirror, feeling her power, heels clicking on the concrete floor as she turned and headed for the door.

The cellar was dank and cavernous, used formerly to house a wine collection it had been transformed into an ersatz torture chamber, with a pillory, a wooden framework to secure head and hands mounted on a steel post drilled into the concrete floor, the centrepiece of the makeshift dungeon. Next to it a robust oak table covered with assorted BDSM paraphernalia including bondage mitts and cuffs, nipple clamps, speculums, floggers, butt plugs, spanking paddles and a strap on dildo. Some of the items were still covered with the shit, piss and blood of their previous victims. The cellar was atmospherically lit by half a dozen candelabras, whose long candles had been assiduously set alight by the Servant. A squat, bulky and powerful man with a shaven head, dressed in a white shirt with a Windsor cut and black tie, blood flecked white gloves, grey waistcoat and black trousers, the Servant had worked up a sweat preparing the Slave for Mistress Wanda and he had rolled his sleeves up his beefy arms.

“You have prepared the chamber well,” said Wanda, her accent cut glass aristocratic, honed at stage school years a decade earlier.

“Thank you ma’am,” said the Servant bowing.

She pointed the bullwhip at his bare arms, regarding him disdainfully, “I appreciate the prepping can be arduous, but really we must preserve our standards…”

“The paddle Miss?” asked the Servant hopefully.

Wanda rolled her eyes back theatrically, “Of course…”

The Servant shuffled over to the table and picked up a studded wooden paddle which he obsequiously presented to his Mistress.

“Well hold this,” Wanda said irritably, holding the bullwhip out. ‘And assume the position.”

The Servant took the whip and meekly bent over. Mistress Wanda gave his buttocks one mighty thwack, eliciting a moan that ended with a prolonged ‘Ooh…’

“That was a rather camp ebullition,” said Wanda, arching an eyebrow as they exchanged whip and paddle.

“Go and tidy yourself up. Return promptly in 30 minutes with a cup of Earl Grey.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you ma’am.”

Mistress Wanda dismissed him with a waft of her free hand. She watched him ascend the stairs and exit out the cellar door. Now for the Captive, groaning on the far side of the chamber. She picked up a candelabrum and went over to meet the flesh.

The Captive was secured to a wooden St Andrew’s cross attached to the far wall, standing on the balls of his feet and facing frontwards in an x shaped position as leather wrist and ankle restraints dug into his meat, moaning softly and rendered mute by a ball gag the Servant had tightened into place.