Tuesday, December 12, 2017

A Christmas Story In The Dungeon by Mark

A Christmas Story in the Dungeon

The light of the red candles flickered as he glanced nervously around the gloomy dungeon. Piled against every wall were festively decorated boxes – some large, some small and some medium-sized. He was tempted to investigate, but heard bolts being drawn back, and the creak of the dungeon door as it opened. He hurriedly fell to his knees and kept his eyes fixed to the floor in front of him, although he could hear the sound of her heels as she walked across the stone floor. He became aware of her standing over him.

‘You may look’, she said.

He raised his gaze to see her before him, clad in black heels and stockings and a long, close-fitting leather coat.

‘We are going to play a Christmas game’, she announced. ‘I will give you two chances. I will ask two questions, and if you get either one wrong, I will select a Christmas present to open. It is only fair to warn you: I do not think you will enjoy my Christmas present choices.’

He felt the familiar trickle of sweat in his hairline and the churning of his stomach

‘I understand, Mistress’, he said.

‘Good’, she said. ‘Then here is your first question. According to the Christmas carol, what did my true love send to me on the sixth day of Christmas?’

He frantically rehearsed the Christmas carol in his mind.

‘It was the partridge, Mistress!’ he cried. ‘The partridge in the pear tree’.

She sighed. ‘And yet you claim to love me. You are wrong. It was 6 geese a-laying.’

She walked across the room, and opened one of the medium-sized boxes. Inside, a coiled leather whip lay glistening in the candle-light. She strolled over until she stood above him, and began to whip him, each stroke landing in almost perfect parallel to the preceding stroke, His cries filled the air of the dungeon. After 10 strokes, she began again, this time criss-crossing her blows so that each one landed on already welted flesh. His cries grew louder as he sought to sink down into the stone floor to escape the pain. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the whipping was over.

‘Time for your second question’, she said. ‘How many ghosts visit Scrooge in Dickens’s story ‘A Christmas Carol’?

He almost laughed with relief and, somewhere inside, felt a smug satisfaction that he could outwit his Mistress and avoid more punishment.

‘Three!’, he said. ‘The Ghost of past, present and future!’

He kept his gaze fixed downwards in case she noticed the rebellious glint in his eyes.

‘Wrong’ she said.

He was about to cry out in protest, but some inner submissive sense held his tongue quiet.

‘There were 4’, she said. ‘The Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come …. And the ghost of Jacob Marley.’

He moaned as the realisation set in, and watched forlornly as she strode across the dungeon to the piles of presents. He watched her select the smallest box in the room, and inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. But after she tore the wrapping paper away, and opened the box that was revealed, he felt the fear rise in his throat as he watched the dim candle-light flicker on the cold steel of the pin-wheel device the box contained. Every fibre of his being told him to scuttle across the floor away from his Mistress as she advanced, the harsh metal of the implement barely warmed by the candle light. But his training kept him fixed. Slowly, she rolled the pin wheel across his chest and back, along his inner thighs, against the soles of his feet. Soon enough, the dungeon once again echoed to his cries of pain. Eventually, she stopped.

‘You know, in all this excitement I almost forgot’, she said. ‘We have all week to play with the rest of these presents’ – he flinched as she gestured at the piles of packages stacked around the dungeon – ‘but we must not forget your stocking fillers’.

She slowly unbuttoned the leather coat and slid it from her shoulders. She stood before him in high heels, black stockings, and black leather basque, her weight on one leg, her other stretched languorously before her. She slowly trailed a red finger nail up the outside of her leg as she watched him.

‘Do you like your stocking fillers?’ she asked.

His eyes travelled up from the spike heels, across her nylon-clad ankles and calves, to the full swell of her thighs, and stopped at the sensual divide between the lacy pattern of her stocking tops and her smooth creamy skin. He swallowed nervously.

‘Yes Mistress. I love my stocking fillers. You are the most beautiful woman in the world.’

He gazed up into her eyes as she smiled her secret smile down at him. Holding out her hand, she slowly led him to the bedroom and whispered: ‘Then a Merry Christmas to us all, and God bless us everyone.’

Christmas Shopping by Dash

Christmas Shopping by Dash

We've been at the stores for hours.  You walk ahead, a few steps. I follow behind.

We a drive at the jewelry store.  The bell rings. The woman behind the counter waves as you enter.  The counter near the back of the store has the earrings.

I put some of the bags I'm carrying on the floor. You point to a pair near the top of the display case.

"How about these?" I nod, smile.

"And these?"

"Hmm. Those seem like something my grandmother might wear. Those may not be the most flattering on you."

"Then I'll have to go with these. More carats!"

I laugh. You smile.

"Good choice," you continue. "Go ahead, honey, sing the song. Only two more times." The corner of your lip curls.

I sigh. "…two more times."

"Twelve iTunes gift certificates,"

"Eleven imported chocolate bars,"

"Ten designer tops,"

"Nine pairs of socks,"

"Eight visits to the spa,"

"Seven pairs of jeans,"

"Six pairs of shoes,"

You laugh, "That's right, including those sling back pumps you seemed to have a physical reaction to."

"Fffiiivvvvveee new lipsticks,"

"Four bottles of wine…"

You nod, and laugh.

"Three running tees,"

"Two pairs of diamond earrings...  That sparkle."

You smile. "Pay the woman."

"Yes Ma'am." I hand over my card. The earrings are given to another clerk to wrap. You step in beside me.

"We've got one more stop, baby. Now we'll get something for YOU." You smack my ass. "You might have to sing a little louder after that. You know how the leather muffles everything."

Who Are You Calling HO? by Sub #43

Who are you calling "ho?"
by miscellaneous sub number 43

With a grunt and a weary chuckle, Santa stuffs himself into the chimney and zips himself down and out, warping time and space in his festive way.. Before him is a lovely room, with an elegant Christmas tree with presents at its foot. He steps forward to do his work, unslinging the huge bag of non-Euclidean geometry on his shoulder.


Santa lands on his face, smashing his red button nose hard into the carpeted floor. He was tripped. Having trouble turning over, he is baffled to see that some kind of rope snare is around his ankles, cinched tight. He ponderously sits up, and takes off his mittens to try to get it off.


A tug on his neck pulls Santa back flat onto his back. He is dragged along the floor by his neck, a noose of sturdy rope tied around it. He hears the grunting of a woman, struggling to haul his bulk, and tries to look up to see her, but he can't pivot his head. He is pulled until he is stretched out, the rope on his ankles fastened to some fixed anchor, and the rope on his wrists now pulled taut and tied off at the other end somewhere.

Santa is not afraid, per se. He has seen extremely naughty behavior before, and has had some close calls. But this is new and alarming. He grunts, straining at the ropes, his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly. He listens now, but no one is stirring, not even a mouse.

He hears her breathing as she steps into view. A woman in pajamas. Of height, middle build, early middle age. She smiles, but her happy face is not the face of an expectant innocent hoping for a new bike. It is something...different.

"Young lady, I insist that you--"

"Shut up. Do not speak." she says with such finality that he finds himself falling silent, if only to hear what could motivate this woman to speak to him in such a tone.

"Good boy," she purrs, and Santa can feel his face redden with anger.

"Now see--" he begins.


His thigh stings as though cut. She has struck him there with something long and thin that moved to fast to see. The pain is surprising...burning and throbbing and seeming to spread through his whole lower body.

"You will not speak," she informs him. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, but--"


It hurts more this time.

"You will not speak," she repeats, slowly and clearly. "Do you understand?"

Santa nods, cringing a bit, worrying that even that might get him whipped again.

"Good boy," she purrs again. His relief at not getting hit again makes the phrase sound like a thank you, or an apology.

"We have a lot of work to do," the woman explains. "So let's get started. You will address me as Beloved Miss. Say it."

He hesitates.


"Say it."

"Be...beloved Mistress..." he stammers.

"Good boy. This is going to go just fine. Just relax and listen and obey a few simple instructions, and in time you'll find everything falling into place."


Bleeding For You by Anonymous

Bleeding for you

If I told you that I needed you would you understand
What if I said I desired you, would you feel the same
The yearning inside me was not preplanned
Every day with you just continues stroking the flame

Under you heel is where I have always belonged
Lying in wait for your next sharp command
Down at you feet my pride so very strong
I am here I was meant to be for so very long

Your whip marking my flesh is what I desire
Feeling so proud to bear your simple mark
Every sound of you voice sets me a fire
Wanting to have you lead me out of the dark

Where this is leading I have no real clue
Working into the unknown following you lead
I only know my submission to you is true
While every ounce of me is for you to bleed