Downstairs

We breeze into the local dungeon on a Friday night, lugging backpacks and toy bags. We take a moment by the lockers to change into revealing black clothes. We’re late – the dungeon closes at one, which is only a couple hours away. It’s a slow night, and most of the other folks there probably volunteered that evening – we were some of the few who actually paid.

Downstairs, a woman is screaming.

The entrance to the dungeon is on the upper floor, a well-lit social area, where people stow their stuff, socialize on couches, visit a table filled with snacks, or a drink stand with water and coffee. There’s a television playing porn in a secluded corner. The bathrooms are upstairs. Sometimes there’s a DJ, but not tonight, so the music is someone’s custom-burnt CD. There are some crosses and benches upstairs, but people almost never play up here, unless they’re exhibitionists.

Downstairs, a woman is screaming.

The lower floor is set up for play: dark, quiet, with monitors walking through making sure the players are safe and uninterrupted. There’s a plethora of play equipment: crosses, posts, benches, cages, harnesses, beds. There’s even a medical room. Downstairs is where the action happens.

Downstairs, a woman is screaming.

Upstairs, we do the social rounds, saying hi to the various friends and play buddies who are wandering around. We relax into our time at the dungeon, calming down from a hectic day. We take turns going to the bathroom, urinating in anticipation of a possible scene later that evening. We rotate between the couches, snack tables, and an open area where people chat in small groups. We mostly ignore the porn, stealing glances or sometimes cracking jokes about it.

Downstairs, a woman is screaming.

Upstairs, we play our little flirty social games. May I see your cane? How sharply does it burn? We make sport out of our dark desires, hinting and teasing, advancing and retreating. Isn’t that a cute boy? Does he stay on his knees all night? We compliment each others’ black clothing. We giggle over items that in a different era were used for torture, or perhaps driving beasts of burden. But tonight, our frolicking is brittle. The shrieks from downstairs make it hard to pretend, hard for the smiles and laughs to cover up the real reason we’re here.

There’s a woman screaming downstairs.

The screams eat into our heads, putting us on edge. Some of us are uncomfortable, a little freaked out. Most of us are turned on. We are a little quiet, a little distracted, because the screams hit us right in the crotch. We try to imagine her pain, the sort of pain that would make a woman scream for an hour solid, past a throat gone hoarse and any semblance of humanity. She must be out of her mind, lost in a blank land. She may not even know she’s screaming.

When I finally make it downstairs to check out the scene, it is forced orgasm play. She’s been tied down and someone is using a vibrator on her. So she’s not in pain. Or maybe she is. Pleasure and pain blur together in this place. When they finish and she gets up to leave, she can barely walk.

I start taking off my clothes. It’s my turn. I won’t scream much tonight. But maybe I should. This is going to hurt.

6 Comments

  1. Hot story! I love your new site. Thanks.

  2. I like, I like.

  3. Jacky: Thanks!

    Lolita: Thanks, and good to hear from you!

  4. How about another first of May Day. xo Rose

  5. O my. That is so hot, hot, hot!

    Perfect description of what could be any good clubnight, and the anticipation that builds with it. Now really looking forward to the full weekender coming up 😀

    Oh, and hi btw. I’m Ve. Me and Silia just started a new blog, More Inches. Just so you know, there is a link to Poundcake at M.I and well. You are awesome 🙂

    All the best

    Ve

  6. Ve: Glad you liked it! And thanks for the link.


Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s