wow,” Charlotte said, staring. She ignored the hot surge of desire at the raw sadism on display. She similarly ignored the sympathetic twinges in her own nipples. This was hardcore. “Is he . . . is that man . . . ?” She turned to Martin. “Clothespins can be really tight. He could be seriously hurt.”
Martin watched her. Charlotte suddenly realized he’d been watching her the entire time rather than the man in the ropes. “Things are safer than they appear. At least one DM—dungeon monitor—always keeps an eye on things. Also, Kam there is an expert with ropes, and the tension on those clothespins have of course been loosened. Only slightly, admittedly. Looks like they’re still pinchy enough to command one’s full attention. Wouldn’t you agree?” Martin smiled at her with a speculating look that went right to the heart of her psyche.
Charlotte quickly changed the subject.
“This place . . . how big is it? That bar upstairs, does it serve alcohol?”
He looked at her intently for a moment. “Thought you didn’t want a tour. But since you ask, the bar serves beer and wine. There are five dungeon spaces down here, connected by unfinished tunnels made of concrete, wood, and bracings of roughened metal. Four spaces are fully functional. Three have adjacent private play spaces. Upstairs there’s a bar, a dance floor, and even a small bath and shower area reserved for patrons who pay a premium for the privilege. The oldest dungeon space is more for historical display, except for special occasions. The tunnels have been around for more than a century, but they’re safety-upgraded in case you’re worried. Would you like a drink?”
She digested all the info. “Not right now. Thanks.”
“Would you like a tour after all? You seem intrigued.”
“I am,” she admitted. After all Cory’s talk about these sorts of places, she’d envisioned a meat market of oversexed men dressed in leather and groping anything female as if entitled. A porn-shop vibe. A décor of latex, cheap bondage gear, and sticky blow-up dolls.
Subspace was bigger. Weirder. Cooler.
Classier.
If whips and chains and dedicated dungeon furniture could be considered classier. The décor and equipment here actually seemed to fit the description. So did the people, to her surprise.
She wondered what Gail had thought of it all.
The reminder of how she’d been distracted from her purpose made her round on Martin. “Will one of the other dungeon spaces you mentioned be less distracting?”
“You’re distracted? Interesting.”
“Stop analyzing me.” She said it with a smile.
“No.” He didn’t smile back.
The shifting colored light played on faint smoke at the mouth of the tunnel at the far end of the room. He led her to it, through it, the narrow passage rough-hewn as if left close to its original excavated state. But when she touched the wall, her fingertips slid along hard plastic resin rather than real rock and earth. “Nice,” she commented, but Martin was already through the tunnel.
She followed, emerging into a darker, narrower room. Its ceiling soared far above. On the ceiling, stars twinkled. She saw a ball similar to a disco ball perched high over the dungeon equipment. It created celestial pinpoints.
“Star room.” Martin looked around. “It’s an accurate representation of the night sky. Some submissives say subspace feels like flying into space.” Martin nodded to someone. “A smaller room. Less furniture.” He looked at her. “Less distraction.”
She barely noticed the stars, or his words. She’d recognized one piece of furniture behind its velvet rope, a large X with tie points.
Cory had owned one of those.
“Less distraction? Okay. Please fasten yourself to the St. Andrew’s Cross, there.” She pointed to the X. Unlike the painted black T-cross in the first room, this one was raw, unfinished wood.
She remembered rough wood under her palms. She remembered splinters, and bruises, and pain
Martin watched her. Charlotte suddenly realized he’d been watching her the entire time rather than the man in the ropes. “Things are safer than they appear. At least one DM—dungeon monitor—always keeps an eye on things. Also, Kam there is an expert with ropes, and the tension on those clothespins have of course been loosened. Only slightly, admittedly. Looks like they’re still pinchy enough to command one’s full attention. Wouldn’t you agree?” Martin smiled at her with a speculating look that went right to the heart of her psyche.
Charlotte quickly changed the subject.
“This place . . . how big is it? That bar upstairs, does it serve alcohol?”
He looked at her intently for a moment. “Thought you didn’t want a tour. But since you ask, the bar serves beer and wine. There are five dungeon spaces down here, connected by unfinished tunnels made of concrete, wood, and bracings of roughened metal. Four spaces are fully functional. Three have adjacent private play spaces. Upstairs there’s a bar, a dance floor, and even a small bath and shower area reserved for patrons who pay a premium for the privilege. The oldest dungeon space is more for historical display, except for special occasions. The tunnels have been around for more than a century, but they’re safety-upgraded in case you’re worried. Would you like a drink?”
She digested all the info. “Not right now. Thanks.”
“Would you like a tour after all? You seem intrigued.”
“I am,” she admitted. After all Cory’s talk about these sorts of places, she’d envisioned a meat market of oversexed men dressed in leather and groping anything female as if entitled. A porn-shop vibe. A décor of latex, cheap bondage gear, and sticky blow-up dolls.
Subspace was bigger. Weirder. Cooler.
Classier.
If whips and chains and dedicated dungeon furniture could be considered classier. The décor and equipment here actually seemed to fit the description. So did the people, to her surprise.
She wondered what Gail had thought of it all.
The reminder of how she’d been distracted from her purpose made her round on Martin. “Will one of the other dungeon spaces you mentioned be less distracting?”
“You’re distracted? Interesting.”
“Stop analyzing me.” She said it with a smile.
“No.” He didn’t smile back.
The shifting colored light played on faint smoke at the mouth of the tunnel at the far end of the room. He led her to it, through it, the narrow passage rough-hewn as if left close to its original excavated state. But when she touched the wall, her fingertips slid along hard plastic resin rather than real rock and earth. “Nice,” she commented, but Martin was already through the tunnel.
She followed, emerging into a darker, narrower room. Its ceiling soared far above. On the ceiling, stars twinkled. She saw a ball similar to a disco ball perched high over the dungeon equipment. It created celestial pinpoints.
“Star room.” Martin looked around. “It’s an accurate representation of the night sky. Some submissives say subspace feels like flying into space.” Martin nodded to someone. “A smaller room. Less furniture.” He looked at her. “Less distraction.”
She barely noticed the stars, or his words. She’d recognized one piece of furniture behind its velvet rope, a large X with tie points.
Cory had owned one of those.
“Less distraction? Okay. Please fasten yourself to the St. Andrew’s Cross, there.” She pointed to the X. Unlike the painted black T-cross in the first room, this one was raw, unfinished wood.
She remembered rough wood under her palms. She remembered splinters, and bruises, and pain
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