When I returned to the living-room, I found Charles standing, wearing his dressing-gown--the same one he had worn on the night of nights that seemed so long ago now. I found myself thinking of one of what I always think of as the terrible books, The Captive, with the trainer who is so accomplished at degrading proper young women, and turning them into compliant sex-slaves.
"Come with me, Miss Tilton" he said, and turned and led me down the stairs to the basement, which isn't dank, but is unfinished, and was at that moment completely dark.
"Charles?" I said, "dark scary places make me think about tropical fruit that you make upside-down-cake with. . ."
He put his hand out, and took mine in it, and led me carefully down the stairs until I was standing at the bottom, on the basement floor. It was very warm, because the furnace was down here. He switched on the light, and I realized that he had at some point cleaned the basement up dramatically; really, it wasn't so bad; it was the kind of place now where we could have some. . .
Then I saw the most important modification: in a corner, cleared of anything on the floor or the walls to an extent of about ten square feet, I saw a chain, hanging from a large bolt set into the floor-beam above, with a ring at the end of it.
"Oh my God," I breathed, softly.
"Welcome to your training-room, Miss Tilton," said my trainer, equally softly, in my ear, putting his hand on my bottom, naked between my garter-belt and my stocking-tops, in that possessive way that only he knows--or perhaps it's simply that I could only ever feel truly possessed by him.
Dungeon. Charles had actually made a dungeon for me. Part of me wanted to break the scene so that I could hug him and thank him, but the stronger part cried out for what happens to girls hung from chains that dangle from above.
Charles' hand still possessed my ass. There was a pause. He whispered, as if not intending an audience to hear, "Do you want to keep going?"
"Glug," I said, nodding.
"You will learn, Miss Tilton," he said aloud, "that your basic position in this room is always the same. Please place yourself under the chain, and raise your hands."
I obeyed.
He had my cuffs, and he put them on me, holding my hands above my head and refusing to let me rub against him as I was so desperate to do, and desperate to be punished for. Every time I tried to bring my hips close to him, he gave me a bare-handed spank, which made me whimper all the more, until I was at last as I had imagined myself since the first time I had read such a scene (I don't think the first chained-from-above scene I read was Story of O--I mean, it's just such a staple--but I can't think of anything I would have read before that that had it; I read The Captive, whose anonymous author raises it [as it were] to a sub-genre, long after.)
Then things really got intense, though in an unexpected way: Charles took a picture. He came around in front of me, holding his digital camera, turned it to portrait aspect, and took the shot.
I couldn't contain myself. There was something so incredibly violent and transgressive, in its own special way, about that simple photographic act, that it pushed me into a strangely defiant attitude. "Oh my God you fucking asshole" I yelled at him, without really even thinking about it. I might have yelled "Pineapple," actually, if I had thought of it at that moment.
Then he showed me the picture, on the back of his digital camera. "This is you, Miss Tilton," he said.
Gorgeous black lace garter-belt and stockings. Shaved, pink pussy. Long auburn hair in a submissive's french-braided pony-tail down my back. Tiny breasts with erect pink nipples. Green eyes looking at my trainer with defiance. Arms helplessly, helplessly held above my head.
Half-expecting that the bolt wouldn't hold, but unwilling to part with the possibilities if it did, I slumped down in submission at the sight, letting my knees buckle beneath me. The bolt held.
Out-of-scene, again, Charles began to whisper, "Are you--"
"Shut the fuck up, Charles," I groaned. "That's what the safeword is for."
This made him actually angry (I couldn't quite tell at the time, but he later confirmed it). He grabbed my paddle, and started to beat me, hard, on my garter-belt-framed bottom. To my surprise, and submissive delight, I began doing all the things the girls do in the books when their hands are bound above them: dancing around to get away from the paddle, turning to take it on the front of my thighs, above all saying, "No, please. . . Sir. . . I'll be good--I promise."
My dungeon was my new favorite place in the whole world.
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