Tales from a Long Island Dungeon

8 min read

part five: coming to terms

Photo by Walid Riachy from Pexels

The Playroom

It was indeed a thoroughly modern . . . dungeon.

The fact that it was in the basement — or perhaps a sub-basement of some sort; we went down a lot of stairs — did something to reinforce the “dungeon” part.

But it was clean, well-lit: two walls painted white, two painted black; there was a king size bed in one corner, what looked like a weightlifter’s bench in another, padding and restraints on the walls of the third corner, what I imagined to be a bathroom in the last.

There were ropes hanging from the black-painted ceiling, along one wall, which put me in mind of a high school gym; there were pillows, pads, and foam “wedges” of various shapes and sizes strewn about, which put me in mind of daycare.

Along another wall there was something that looked a little like an electronic keyboard, which appeared to be on a wheeled stand, with a few cabinets built into it.

The Clitoral Control Board.

I shuddered.

Next to it, there was what looked to be a mechanical tie rack, which held over a dozen . . . implements. The longest looked like a bull whip; the shortest resembled an old-fashioned leather razor strop.

A range of restraints was neatly arranged, hanging on wall pegs — I remembered my father’s workbench, from my childhood home: I half-expected Jason Flood to have drawn marker outlines on the wall, to make sure everything was put back in the right place.

In the middle of the room there was a hot tub, recessed into the floor, with a tile surround that looked like it was straight out of ancient Rome. The water in it was still, fragrant, and steaming.

I had paused just inside the door, taking all of this in.

Only that one door; no windows.

Jason Flood lightly tented his fingers between my shoulder blades, gave me the slightest nudge toward motion.


My thighs were streaming.

“If you would just go over and stand at the foot of the bed, my dear, upright but leaning, fingertips on the mattress. There are things we would do well to discuss.”

I did as I had been told, legs a little shaky, breathing suddenly a bit erratic.

The Grey

It was . . . complicated, which he clearly understood on so many more levels than I did — which, of course, was likely a good part of why I was there: someone who got it; someone who had been there.

The word Master was suddenly in my head with much more clarity and resonance than it had ever had for me before.

Jason Flood was a Master of this situation; he was a Master of this “lifestyle”; he was a Master — perhaps — of both his own fate and mine.

And I was not to call him Master — which somehow suggested that the title was his, but my use of it was to be earned.

“Not as yet,” he’d said. “Sir will suffice for now.”

“Yes . . . Sir,” I whispered.

He had asked me about black and white.

What did I want — or think I wanted, anyway?

What did I — at least for the time being — consider a hard limit?

“But then,” he’d said, pacing back and forth behind me, now and then running the tips of his fingers over the hot, red surface of my buttocks, sometimes just barely teasing the top of the cleft, “the really dicey part — of course! — is the grey. That’s where people often get into trouble.”

Punishment had preceded conversation: after instructing me to stand at the foot of the bed, slightly bent, fingers tented on the mattress, he had taken a leisurely stroll to the “tie rack” and back.

He had shown me the razor strop — perhaps eight inches of leather, about an inch across.

“You hesitated, Maura,” he’d said gently, “did you not? When you were instructed to disrobe?”

“Yes, Sir,” I’d breathed, trying not to make the words a moan.

“And how should one deal with a Bad Little Girl who doesn’t follow instructions, hmm?”

“They should be — ” I had trouble not sobbing in frantic need, “I should be — ” He simply stood and waited. “Please, Sir!” I finally managed, “I need you to make me a Good Little Girl.”

He kissed me gently on the nape of my neck, which made me jump a little, then calmly spoke a single word into my ear.


I knew the answer: “Six of the best, Sir; counted out. Please!

He’d fulfilled my request.

Clamping my thighs together and pulsing them as he lashed me, on the fourth blow I was very close to climaxing.

He paused, then wriggled his fingers between my legs, spreading them.

“Not without permission,” he murmured softly. “You know that.”

I did.

Permission was not granted; he didn’t even add extra for that disobedience — which somewhat puzzled, and slightly disappointed, me.

When he’d finished, my body felt electric and alive in a way that no other punishment had ever affected me — perhaps because he had left me . . . unrelieved.

I felt the tip of a finger on the slick ridge of my taint, as though he were pointing; he moved it neither up nor down and then stepped back.

The grey was the dicey part.


We explored that for some time — me mostly listening, but giving him whatever information he asked for, as honestly as I could.

Then he strode briskly away from me for a few moments; I heard the sound of a cabinet opening and closing; he was back.

He stood flush up against me, his erection tenting his pants, poking at my hot, sore buttocks.

Reaching around in front of me with both arms, he showed me what he was holding: a tube of lubricant in one hand; a medium-sized butt plug in the other.

“That attempt at unauthorized pleasure,” he said, speaking with his nose in my hair, his breath warm on my scalp, “must be addressed.”

I gave a quick, shuddering nod.

“First off,” he said — and then there was a fast prying, greasing, and firm insertion, that jolted a current of pleasure and pain through my body. “Second off,” he said, turning me around to face him, “you have lost the privilege of clothing during lunch.” I blinked at this as his hands on my shoulders began slowly pressing me to my knees before him. “Third off,” he said, undoing the drawstring on his pants as I looked up at him expectantly, “we will find another way to sate that hunger.”

It rather more whet my appetite — which seemed to be his intention anyway.

The Dessert



“When you bring out the chocolate mousse, would you be so kind as to bring me the nipple clamps, as well?”

“Of course, Sir.”

She remained standing next to his chair, his hand under her skirt, stroking and kneading her bottom, as he sipped his wine.

“The red clips or the black, Sir?” she said presently.

The kneading paused.

“The red,” he said to me, “have serrated edges. That’s a little harsh for after lunch I think. The black for now, Genevieve; you may go.”

Off she went, on impossibly high spike heels — which were of a piece with the rest of her attire: she was dressed like a pornographic parody of a French maid.

I was in . . . something of a state.

Jason had escorted me up from the dungeon on his arm, as though we were strolling into an opera house, placed a linen napkin on the chair, before encouraging me to sit, then — as if an afterthought before he sat himself, said, “If you could pull the chair away from the table just a bit, and angle it toward me? Perfect! And I’m sure you’ll be a good girl for me and keep your ankles on the outer edge of the chair legs, won’t you?”

Bottom sore, red, and . . . stuffed, thighs still wet, flustered, humiliated, and entranced, I flushed a little, and managed to say, “Yes, Sir,” which clearly pleased him.

Why was I excited by pleasing him?

Well . . . perhaps that wasn’t the oddest part of lunch, or my situation overall.

That I was nude and positioned as I was fazed Genevieve as little as the petting and massaging of her bottom that punctuated her serving of the meal. There was a little bit of discreet background bustling about, servants of various stripes going about their business, my condition apparently entirely invisible — or just completely unremarkable — to them.

Genevieve returned with two ramekins of chocolate mousse, a little flourish of whipped cream, and a single strawberry topping each. She landed one in front of me, depositing at the same time a doll-sized spoon. Next to Jason’s portion, she placed a small, black, crushed-velvet box, of the sort that might contain an engagement ring.

This particular box held a pair of black nipple clamps.

“Genevieve is going to attach the clamps,” he said softly, no element of question there. “I would very much like — as a dessert entertainment for both of us, if you will — to watch her bring you to climax, while we . . . finish up.”

Genevieve strolled toward me, clamps in hand, knelt and attached them to my already distended nipples, drawing a little chirp and a gasp, as each one bit into me.

She remained on her knees, her small cool hand resting casually on my leg.

Women were, for me, a . . . grey area.

And he hadn’t expressed that part as an order; he was asking; this was something he “would very much like.”

Would I?

Could I?

“If you would find this . . . entertaining, Sir,” I heard myself murmur, “then . . . by all means.”

My heart skipped at the radiance of his smile.

Then I felt the soft curls of Genevieve’s hair on my inner thighs, as she lowered her head between my legs, gave the faintest tickle to the lowermost part of my slit, with her tongue; I could feel as well as hear her voice, faint but sounding both amused and happy, as she said, “What a wet little kitty, we have!”

Then, as we dipped into our desserts, she began to simply devour . . . me.

The Debriefing

“And I came back!”

This seemed to impress Devya not at all.

“No, no, no!” she tutted. “That you survive a bad decision does not mean that it is suddenly a good decision. It means only that you have been lucky. Good attorneys, I am informed,” she said archly, “do not rely upon luck.”

There was still a painfully sweet burning in my nipples.

“I see no ring,” Devya continued, looking pointedly at my hand, then back at my face. “Neither on your finger nor through your nose.”



No, she didn’t see them; and I didn’t mention them.

I didn’t think she’d understand — and I didn’t want to be judged.

Piercings . . . they had been a grey area as well.

And . . . Jason had asked — not pressured: asked.

When I assented — in truth there was not much of anything against which I rebelled throughout that entire (glorious!) weekend — he had done the piercing himself: donned gloves, swabbed me with alcohol before, antibiotic ointment after, worked with impressive concentration and precision.

“Pure gold,” he’d said softly. “You will rotate them, morning and night; dab them with alcohol before and after; this will hurt.”

I’d felt myself smile shyly at that.

“Yes,” he said, smiling as well. “I thought you’d like that! This will give you something to remember . . . until next weekend.”

“Surely you are not going back!” Devya cried, when I told her. “What fresh madness is this?”

I shrugged.

“Ah yes,” she calmed only a little. “Rather this is the old madness — of course! Showed you his little dungeon, did he? Proved to be an adept spanker or . . . whatever? Better than Teddy Bear, your ex?”

Oh, infinitely better than Teddy!

Dear God!

Teddy punished me as if it were something between a favor and his job, something he might have wanted to do for me, but not something he needed to do to me — as I needed it done!

Teddy had been sweet.

Jason Flood was . . . real.

Just the thought shot a shiver through me.

And now, after all these years, after — I was pretty sure that — I had finally found someone to fulfill those needs, I was suddenly saddened by the feeling that I needed to be careful what I said to Devya — to my oldest and best friend!

Because — even if she didn’t reach a point where she might feel compelled to organize an intervention of some kind, have me kidnapped and sent to Vanilla Camp to be de-programmed — I was pretty sure that . . . she wasn’t going to, that she didn’t actually want to, really understand.

As long as my obsession with being disciplined was mostly unrequited, she’d been happy to listen to me, as I listened to her prattle on about vampires; largely, I suppose with the same attitude: I had been mooning about unicorns; what was the harm?

But Jason Flood wasn’t a unicorn . . .

I grasped both of Devya’s hands across the sticky diner table, squeezed until she blinked and was on the point of complaining.

“Listen,” I began urgently, “if you genuinely believe in choice — ”

Excerpted from Zoë Zelig’s:

A BDSM-HEA Romance: Tales from a Long Island Dungeon: The Jason Flood Chronicles

Want More? https://zeligmedia.wordpress.com/

Catch up with the story here

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