Dungeon Crawl – Nervous?

Welcome!  This weeks dungeon crawl I’ve not chosen a passage from either published or unpublished works, but simply written a brief original story…..

***

The wooden stairs creaked.  Each step, one after the other, groaned. Her three inch heels hardly made a sound as she stepped cautiously down. A hand held the rail, ensuring her steady pace did not falter.

Descending always made her nervous. There could be no more than twenty steps, but it felt like a hundred. The crimson brick walls, without rendering, made the narrow staircase ominous, almost suffocating with their blood red shade. There was nothing else to do but calm her thumping heart and keep going down, carefully placed footfalls accompanied by the painful creaking.

At the bottom, she paused in front of the door. Unvarnished, slightly cracked in places and solid. Very little sound escaped through the thick oak panels. More deep breaths, and then she reached out to touch the brass knob. Ice cold. That is what if felt like after the warm wooden rail. Clutching it, she twisted, turned and heard the mechanism sliding backing. The latch lifting.

The clunk echoed up the stairwell, back up towards the daylight. She nudged the door forward a little with the tip of her shoe. A heavy door, which required weight behind her hand to move it. The draft excluder on the bottom edge dragged along the granite flagstones, bumping over them until the door was sufficiently ajar for her to enter.

He was crouched down, screwdriver in hand and eyes firmly fixed on his task. From his mouth, a low curse of annoyance as the screw refused to budge. He gave the wooden leg a smack with the palm of his hand. She jumped. His smacks always made her jump.

She waited. It was something she was accustomed to doing down there. Waiting, being still, unmoving, mute and virtually unseen. Her arm ached. Holding it out, keeping it steady, made her wish he would hurry up with his little DIY job. Mending the bench – the wobbly leg.

Instead, to keep her occupied, she familiarised herself with the room. Not hard. She knew it well. The red bricks had followed her down. Left bare, they darkened under the solitary shadeless light bulb, which swung barely perceivably from the ceiling. White polystyrene tiles insulated the ceiling, reflecting the low wattage light source about.

He had been polishing, she noted. The cross, fixed to the wall, shimmered in the dim light. Ebony black wood, smooth and intimidating. She imagined her naked flesh pressed against it, her arms outstretched above her head, legs spread wide, eyes blindfolded. She squished her thighs closer together; it did not help. She had started a train of thought and it was hard to banish it.

She shifted her eyes left, to the hooks on the wall. She counted the implements hanging there…. One, two, three…. Twelve, thirteen. He liked variety. She liked some, but not all. It was never her choice, so she had to take what he gave her without complaint.

There were many more things hidden away. Things laid out neatly in drawers – all his contraptions, restraints and tools. Things to tease, torment and delight her. She swallowed hard. Her pussy clenched and her ankles shook slightly, balanced on her high heels.

Eyes shifting right, to the other side of the room, to where two solitary posts stood two metres apart. Plain, thick posts with iron rings attached at varying heights. He preferred the simple approach when it came to entertainment. The gilt framed mirror behind served its purpose – watching her wriggle and squirm, gyrating her hips, angling her bottom away from him sometimes, until he reprimanded her with a soft voice.

“Don’t do that, pet,” he would say.

Sometimes he would hover so close, close enough for his warm breath to mist over her tender flesh. Then he would trail kisses, one at a time, down her quivering body, lingering for a while in her secret places and driving her mad with frustration. She could almost feel the curl of his moist tongue as she stood waiting.

Her arm trembled, the handle was growing hot and sweaty, she was starting to lose her grip. He had to relieve her soon, or else she would drop it. It didn’t bear thinking about: making a noise in his personal sanctum, a mess to be tidied up. Even the hessian matting he had put down to dampen down the fuss she sometimes made (“good job we don’t have neighbours, pet”), would not mask the sound of a breakage. She tightened her knuckles around the handle and gritted her teeth.

Finally, he stood up, strong fingers still holding the screwdriver in his fist. A hairless hand, one she adored – most of the time.

He smiled at her. Her lips curved upwards, unsure why he was smiling. Was it because she looked so uncomfortable, both physically and emotionally? He could tell. She knew he could see right through her and to what lay beneath. Her flush of skin, pink and spreading about her face and neck. One arm tucked neatly behind her back, the other bent at her elbow, cramping and struggling to keep still. A little suffering pleased him.

He put down the screwdriver on the bench. She didn’t fear it. There were plenty of other things in the room that made her heart pound and her adrenaline boil over into a frenzy of trepidation.

“I should take that off you, shouldn’t I, pet,” he said. “You look like you’re about to drop it.”

“I’ve been very careful,” she said quietly.

“Did you spill any?”

“No, not a drop,” she said with a smile.

“Good,” he said reaching out with his hand. “We don’t want any spillages. Accidents happen when things get spilt. We don’t want anyone getting hurt down here, do we?” His low voice made her knees wobble. The liquid sploshed slightly at the edges, so close and still he hadn’t relieved her of her burden.

“Turn it around, so I can take the handle,” he instructed.

Her fingers clawed around the slippery rim, allowing her to let go of the handle and she rested the object on the palm of her hand. It felt scolding hot. She offered it to him, handle presented, arms outstretched, head lowered and eyes dropped.

“Sir, your coffee.”

***

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