Out of the Dungeon (31 page)

It was a blueprint. For a dungeon.

"I can't sub, Roman," I said. "Not now. Maybe
not ever."

"I know," Roman said. "You made it clear. But
we could still have a life here. You, me, Vanessa, the baby.
There's enough room. And there's a wood shop in the basement. I can
build things."

I wanted to shake my head. Violently.
No,
no, no.

My terror of dungeons was about as rational
as my terror of needles. Except I was no longer afraid of
needles.

I inhaled and counted to five. So many things
had been out of my control since that day in June, the day I
thought to break my contract. I could almost laugh, recognizing
that I blamed my thoughts for the accident. I rarely considered the
delivery truck, or to the driver who, for whatever reason, veered
into me.

Ah. How could I think my mind was that
powerful? The truth was the accident gave me an excuse, which I
built into a phobia that ultimately has nothing to do with bondage,
submission, or dungeons.

Roman loved me, and no matter what our life
looked like before, he would never force me into anything. Was it
fair to take something he loved away from him? Something as
intrinsic to his nature as being dominant?

My emotions were stuck. I had always shared
him, physically, with others. He took people's money, worked them
over, played out their desired scenes. It was his job, yes, but it
was also part of who he was, his identity.

"And the dungeon?" I asked, trying to hide
the quiver in my voice.

Roman's eyes lit up. "I can hardly wait to
show you. There's a passage off the basement that leads to a secret
room where my great-grandfather made hooch during prohibition. It's
very dungeon-ous."

He was almost boyish in his excitement. Roman
boyish? That in itself was bizarre, but I was interested despite
myself. The erotic stories I wrote often contained secret passages
and secret rooms.

"The room needs cleaning, carpet, and
drywall, but it's dry. We'll have to haul out the old distillery
barrels. Jason and I were mapping out the space, trying to figure
out how to make it useful. I don't know if it's even big enough
dungeon party, but it would work for private use."

"I could ship your favorite furniture." My
voice snapped out like the lash of a single tail. "You and Jason
can set it up and try it out."

The silence was huge.

I'd meant it about shipping the furniture,
but I hadn't intended to whip him with my words. My resentment of
the Halo and all the things I couldn't do was bleeding onto others.
That was partly why I came to Minnesota. My mother's syrupy
caring-for-a-sick-person voice threatened to drive me out of my
mind. And if she called me 'Sweetie' one more time – but I knew it
wasn't fair of me to resent her care.

It also wasn't fair of me to resent Roman for
starting over. What did I expect? He gave up everything for me.
Everything but a couple pieces of furniture.

I blinked back tears. "I didn't mean it that
way, Roman. I'm just tired and scared and sick of my parents, and I
don't know where else to turn. You're still my home, aren't
you?"

"Yes," Roman said. "I'm still your home. This
is your home. Everything that I have, I will gladly share with
you."

Jason cleared his throat. "I think I should
go."

Roman looked at me, and the question was in
his face.

I wanted Jason to go. Maybe not forever, but
right now I wanted Roman to myself.

I turned my upper body so I could see Jason.
He looked fresh and sweet, his hair a little too long, his eyes
flitting from Roman to me and back to Roman. He smiled at me, a sad
smile, like he knew he was losing something, and I felt tears
again, because I couldn't hate him at first sight. "No. Stay," I
said, surprising myself. "It's just...well, Roman and I have been
partners for a long time. It's not something that can be let go of
lightly."

"If at all," Roman said softly, and even I
couldn't interpret his expression.

I took some careful deep breaths, and
imagined the conversations Roman and Jason would have about safety,
limits and trust. Maybe coming here was a mistake.

"Come see the space, Jeff."

He said the words like a command. You can
take the Master out of the dungeon, but you can't take the Dungeon
Master out of Roman. Instinct and years of habit urged me to go to
my knees and offer myself for service, and part of me longed for
those simpler times. But the part of me locked into the Halo seized
up with dread.

But like my fear of needles, with enough
exposure, I could overcome this. I was a rational, logical being.
Seeing the space wouldn't hurt me.

I turned my trunk so I could look at Roman.
He grinned, and it was a very non-masterful grin. "Now that you're
here, I want you to be part of this. I want you to be part of
everything."

Who was I, if I wasn't Roman's slave?
Certainly not my mother's weak and injured son – that brand of
helplessness was intolerable. Damned if I was going to sit
miserably in the dark, angry and bitter, turning into someone who
used to be a man.

I would have to face Roman the Dungeon Master
at some point. Might as well meet the challenge head on. "Lead the
way."

The space was rough, rough enough that I had
to move very slowly to navigate with my apparatus. The stairs to
Gigi's basement were steep and narrow, and the passage that
connected the regular basement to the hidden rooms was not much
better.

Jason and his flashlight went ahead of me,
and Roman behind. Passages and secret rooms. I used to write
stories with bookcases that revolved, and rugs that concealed trap
doors. My fictional secret rooms were well-kept, not at all like
this dreary basement, but there was something magical about hidden
spaces, even this one. We came out of the dingy hallway into a
dusty room with an uneven brick floor. The walls were roughed in
with simple timbers.

It wasn't a dungeon; it was a storage
area.

Roman fleshed out his vision with words.
"I'll have play spaces separated by walls about waist high, and
then bars the rest of the way up. Like box stalls. Or prison
cells." He flashed me a wicked grin. "There's room for what, maybe
three spaces?"

"Give me a light," I said, and Jason handed
me his flashlight. I checked out the space, turning carefully,
shuffling my feet so I wouldn't trip over the uneven brick. It was
so not the huge clean space of the dungeon at the club. We'd
separated stations for parties, of course, but there was always
plenty of room. "Maybe four," I said, "and then a sort of central
area, maybe for bondage or some other kind of non-impact activity.
They'd be small spaces, though. Are you thinking multi-purpose, or
specific activity?"

"A combination," Roman said, his voice coming
alive. "Each cell would have some kind of fixture, a spanking
bench, or a bondage chair, and an instrument cabinet. And then we'd
put up rings and chains and so forth for improvisation." His
flashlight bobbed as he moved five paces to the left, bent to pick
something up – a braided rope, and tossed it over a large nail that
protruded from a ceiling beam. "Over here, for instance, there
might be a trapeze bar. Jason, come here."

Jason snickered and went over, letting the
fingers of one hand explore the rope. "Grab it with both hands, as
high as you can reach," Roman said, and Jason obliged.

Roman handed me the second flashlight. "Here,
keep Jason lit up."

Jason grinned, stuck his tongue out, then
wrapped the free end of the rope around his neck like a noose. I
almost laughed at his antics. I half-turned and let one of the
lights find Roman. He'd knelt down on one knee and was fiddling
with the pant leg of the other. I watched him pull the handle of a
single-tailed whip out of his boot, and uncoil the tail that was
wound around his boot. "You won't be goofing around for long," I
told Jason.

"All right," Roman said. "Imagine two chains
instead of the rope, with a bar between them. His wrists are
secured to the chains, but turned so he can hold on to the chains,
too. He's not just hanging there; he's ready."

"Yeah," I said, seeing it in my head.

"He's naked, of course," Roman said. "None of
this shirt and jeans crap."

"Of course," I agreed. "And there are steps
on the floor, further apart than shoulder width, and one in the
center, too, but that one's a cheater. He's supposed to keep his
feet on the outer blocks so his legs are spread, and his naughty
bits are vulnerable."

I ran the light across the floor, and damn if
there wasn't a pile of cinder blocks right there along the wall.
Before I could say anything, Roman was there, lifting one block
with each hand. I lit his path while he put them in place and went
to get another one.

Jason, playing along, stepped onto the
blocks. He had to struggle more for balance with the rope than he
would have with the dual chains in our fantasy, but he managed.

"You start off nice and easy," I said. "If he
were naked you'd probably start with a heavy-tailed flogger. But
maybe he's being punished, for being bratty or forgetting to submit
himself for service. Or maybe he spilled your drink all over your
lap, right in front of company, so you strung him up for a quick
rebuke."

"Oh, the horror," Roman said, "twenty-five
lashes for clumsiness." A chuckle rumbled from his throat.

I could picture the scene in my head. "So,
you start with a soft lash across each thigh…" Roman flicked his
wrist and the crack of the whip was loud. Jason released a startled
cry.

"Are you okay?" I asked, training the light
on his legs.

"Yeah," Jason said. "Just didn't expect it to
hurt my ears."

"You'll be all right," I assured him.
"Roman's good. He can shred your jeans, if he wants to, without
ever marking your skin."

The next fifteen lashes were like a dance. I
narrated, Roman moved, and Jason reacted. Somehow it wasn't
awkward; it was perfect.

By number fifteen Jason started crying out
more, writhing a bit. His feet slipped off the cement block, and it
was a bit of a struggle for him to get back into position.

Roman was going into top space, and Jason was
fighting for self-control.

"It's hard for him to hold the rope, " I
said. "His hands are slippery with sweat, and his arms are so
tired. His shoulders are aching, and even his neck has a cramp. The
part of his brain that can still think is hoping desperately that
this will end soon."

Roman rolled the whip low from his waist,
where it stretched out and just the tip of it curled up to lick the
crotch seam of Jason's blue jeans. Four times. Five. Six.

Jason's feet fell off the blocks again, and
this time he didn't even try to recapture his stance. He got his
legs back under him and stood on the cheater step, the one in the
center.

"Even through his jeans," I said, "the curl
of the whip has bite, and the poor sub isn't sure if he can bear
one more taste. His ball sack, and even his taint, are throbbing
and tender. But despite the pain, he wants to spread his legs,
because inside his head he wants to be good. He wants to obey. He
wants you to love him.

"He forces his legs apart, and the whip comes
again, harder this time, and he cries out from the pain."

Jason cried out. I'm not sure if he was in
pain, or just playing along.

"His legs snap together again, resting on the
cheater step. The Dominant coaxes him to submit."

"Twenty-three," Roman said, his voice a low
growl. "Two more. Show me your submission. Spread your legs."

"The boy is crying, desperate, yes, he wants
to submit. But it's so hard to obey knowing with one hundred per
cent certainty that the pain will come. Mind over body. He takes a
deep breath in, and lets it out slowly.

"Calm settles over him. He is here for the
pleasure of his Master. He will accept the pain, embrace it even,
if that is his Master's will. He accepts his position, and spreads
his legs."

The real sub, Jason, stood on the ground,
unable to maintain his balance even on the cheater block, and
unable to grip the rope.

"Hands behind your neck, boy," Roman said.
"And offer yourself."

Jason stepped around the middle block and
stood on the ground, trembling legs marginally apart.

Roman's arm flicked out, and the whip wrapped
itself around Jason's waist. Roman followed the single-tail forward
instead of snapping the whip back. He stopped a foot away from
Jason, arms open, waiting. Jason fell into them, and Roman crushed
Jason against his chest, holding him hard. He kissed Jason's mouth.
I burned with envy.

But only long enough for Roman to look
around, and gesture me close with his arm. I went as close as the
Halo would allow, then rested one hand on Jason's head and the
other against Roman's cheek.

"That was something," Roman whispered.

There was a sound from Jason, a laugh or a
sob. I couldn't tell which.

"Are you okay?" I asked him. It seemed funny
that I kept checking in, because he would certainly be Roman's
before he'd ever be mine.

"Yeah," he said. "Oh, my God, yes. Fuck yes.
That was fucking amazing."

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

"Profanity will be punished," Roman said. He
turned his head, looked at me, and let the corners of his mouth
creep slowly into a smile. "What we do is beautiful, not
profane."

I laughed, because we had come so far, yet
still had so far to go.

***

Roman was on Gigi's hard leather couch, one
arm around Jason, holding him close. Jason, wrapped in a blanket,
seemed content to be quiet. Jeff sat rigid on the edge of the
couch, and Roman stroked his back with his free hand, wishing he
could see Jeff's facial expression. What he wouldn't give to have
the Halo gone so he could hold his boy.