The girl arrived at his home at the scheduled time. It was late—almost 2 a.m.—and sneaking out of her own house without waking anyone proved difficult. But it was worth it. To see him was always worth it to her.
His home was modest on the outside, but within it was like some sort of twisted museum. He had a job that netted him quite a substantial amount of money (he never told her what it was, and she would never dream of asking—personal details were against the rules), and he spent that money acquiring the strangest objects conceivable. Glass jars containing tumor ridden fetuses floating in formaldehyde; ordinary looking objects that were in fact items related to grisly homicides, purchased (illegally, of course) from police evidence lockers; human skeletons; Satanic tomes; an extensive collection of Ouija boards; shrunken heads—on and on the list went. Each object was in its own glass case, lit from the inside with hidden lighting. It would all be rather beautiful to behold, if it weren’t all so ghastly.
Usually he would great her at the door, and then their “session” would begin. But tonight, as she climbed the steps, she noticed a small white index card taped to the antique door knocker. With slightly shaking hands, she pulled the index card down. She took out her cellphone and read the card under the pale blue glow of her phone screen. In his carefully crafted scrawl, he had penned:
“Enter. Go to the kitchen. Drink from the cup—all of it.”
And that was it.
She shuddered, her mind racing with a million thoughts, all of them nasty and wonderful. She always tried to imagine what wonderful torture he would inflict on her before the session began—and even the most twisted, deviant thought that sprang to her mind was not even close to what he actually performed.
Pausing to catch her breath, the girl folded the note and placed it into the pocket of her jeans. She then stepped out of her black flats—no shoes in his house was another of his rules. It only applied to her, of course. He wore his shoes if he wanted to. With a quick push of the door, she was in the house, then she shut and locked the door behind her. The interior of the house was dark save for the gloomy glow from the glass display cases positioned about, illuminating their twisted objects within. Her bare feet padded against the cold floorboards as she made her way into his modernist kitchen, complete with black stone counter tops and stainless steel cabinets. There was a single hanging light on directly above the kitchen counter. Placed in the dead-center of the beam of light on the counter was a coffee mug. He must have just prepared it, because steam was rising from the rim. This sent a little thrill through the girl’s body—she had mistakenly assumed the man was not here yet. The fact that he was somewhere in the house, waiting for her, made legs feel as if they were suddenly composed of nothing but water.
The girl lifted the cup to her lips. A sweet aroma drifted up to her nose—it was some sort of tea inside. She hesitated for a moment, and then drank. The tea was warm, but not burning hot, and it slid down her throat soothingly. She drank until the cup was empty, and then daintily set it down. Almost immediately her head began to swam. She was not surprised—deep down she had been expecting something like this. And if she were being honest, deep down she had been hoping for it.
Her vision began to blur. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. Her senses dulled. Sound rushed in her ear as if she were sinking beneath a huge, monstrous wave.
I’ve got to make sure I don’t hit my head, was the last clear thought she had, and then she fell to her knees. It would’ve been painful—the floor was cold marble—but she didn’t feel a thing. A slight trickle of drool ran down her chin, and then she fell face-forward onto the floor and was still.
The waking world came slowly trickling back to the girl. It was as if she were swimming through murky, inky water with her eyes wide open—only seeing liquid darkness rolling away. It all faded into spots in front of her eyes, which eventually cleared completely. She knew exactly where she was: the dungeon.
It was really his basement, but he had spent a significant amount of money to turn it into his own private torture chamber. It wasn’t the cheap kind of sex dungeon someone might throw together on the cheap; it was almost elegant—as elegant as a sex dungeon could be, at least. The walls were polished stone, and he had installed lamps mounted along those walls. Edison bulbs burned within, casting pale light from their ghostly filaments. And then there were his devices—some purchased from auction houses and antique dealers, shipped in from all over the world. There was a rack; there was an iron maiden; there were things she didn’t even know the names of. All of them kept in pristine condition, illuminated with their own individual spotlights, just like his twisted museum upstairs.
The girl was in a chair; it was a chair with a surprisingly high back—the back stopping just at the base of her skull. He had stripped her of her clothes, which was no surprise. Her full figured body was exposed and her flesh prickled up in goosebumps as she slowly became more and more aware of her circumstances. She was acutely aware of a sharp, pleasurable pain within her ass, and she realized he must have slid a plug up into her before sitting her in this chair. The seat of the chair was not padded, and she felt the rough wood press against her bare ass as she shifted uncomfortably.
Leather straps were cinched tight over her arms wresting on the arm wrests. Her ankles were strapped to similar straps at the base of the chair. And a larger, thicker strap ran from around the back of the chair, tight across her large exposed breasts—so tight that it almost cut into the soft flesh.
“Hello,” she heard him whisper from the shadows. She clenched up, startled slightly.
“H-hello, Sir,” she said, her mouth feeling as dry as a sun scorched desert.
“It’s the drugs I used. They tend to dry your mouth. Water?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir. Thank you, Sir.” It was the three sentences he had taught her to say whenever he offered her something. It came out almost on instinct; it flowed from her lips like a mantra. It was always the right answer—no matter what he was asking.
He stepped from the darkness, dressed impeccably as always. A well pressed, spotless white Oxford shirt, the top two buttons open, the sleeves rolled up. Dark gray pants. Heavily polished boots. He was startlingly handsome; a severe handsomeness that conveyed darkness and danger. His eyes were deep dark wells that showed no real emotion. She shivered.
He brought a bottle of water to her lips, and she drank from it greedily, feeling some of the water dribble down her chin onto her strapped breasts. Then he was taking the bottle away and walking over to a wheeled metal cart, something that would be more at home in a sterile hospital operating room rather than this dungeon.
There was a metal bowl on the table. He reached inside the bowl and brought up a rag, which he squeezed and wrung out before shoving it hard into her still-dry mouth. She gagged, fighting her own instinct not to spit it out. It was sour—almost unbearably so. It made her dry mouth ache and burn, and she felt sour liquid dripping down her throat, causing her to wince; causing tears to well up in her eyes.
“I’ve soaked this rag in lemon juice,” he was explaining. “Do you like it?”
“Yef, Fir. Pleafe, Fir. Fanff flu, Fir,” she instinctively mumbled through the sour rag. A brand new roll of clear packing tape was produced, and he began wrapping it around her mouth and the back of her head, the tape pulling and tugging at her hair and squeezing her cheeks in against all that sourness. She squirmed against the straps, her bound feet kicking slightly against the floor. He wrapped nearly half the roll of tape around the lower half of her face, before tearing the piece off.
“I bought this chair at an auction,” he said, walking over to his metal cart, his back to her. She felt the rag burning her throat, trapped within by the tape. She involuntarily squirmed and struggled, helpless against the straps. “It was one of my most expensive pieces. You may have guessed what it is—or was—by now. An electric chair. It was nicknamed ‘Old Sparky,’ and it resided in a prison in Huntsville, Texas.”
She went rigid. Of course, in the back of her mind, hadn’t she suspected that’s what this chair was all along? But hearing him say it out loud made it real, and she felt cold all over.
“360 prisoners died in this chair,” he was saying. “Criminals. Murderers. The worst of the worst. One of the last men to be executed in it was Carlton Crawford. He was particularly awful. He abducted and tortured at least 50 young women. Snatched them right from their homes as they slept in their beds…helpless; vulnerable. He whisked them back to his home, and would torture them for days. Unspeakable acts. He said his goal was to make them beg him for death. Said it made him innocent of their murders—they asked him to do it, after all. Truly despicable human being. Without remorse to the very end.”
He was approaching her now. She nervously glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw he was holding a long, greased metal dildo. Wires stuck out from the back of the phallus, and she was both terrified and excited as to what he had planned.
“Can you feel all that evil?” he asked her as he slid the dildo up inside her cunt. She moaned through her sour gag, trembling with pleasure as he pushed it up as far as it could possibly go. “Soaked into that chair like sweat and piss and blood? Just pure, malignant evil. And your bare flesh pressed against it.”
The wires from the end of the dildo ran into a small black plastic box. Dead center in the box was a protruding red button. The man went to it, held it in the palm of his hand, and stood directly in front of her.
He said nothing, his eyes cold, burning into her. He pressed the button. In a flash, hot searing pain burned between her legs, tinged with pleasure. She was being shocked; it was a mild electrical shock, but when such a shock is being generated inside of a person, even something mild could be almost unbearable.
She squealed into her bitter, tight gag, her hands clenching into fists, her limbs and torso going taught against the straps. The man released his finger from the button and the pain went away. She sank into the chair, moaning, tears welling up in her eyes, her cunt slick and wet.
“More?” he asked.
She desperately shook her head “no,” but he pressed the button anyway.
“GMMMMMPHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” she shrieked. Somehow the shock was worse this time. Her back arched against the back of the chair; her toes curled in. The man held his finger on the button for almost a full minute. He finally released it, and with it she felt a release as well, cumming violently, soaking between her thighs and the chair.
“Good girl,” the man said to her. He removed the dildo from inside her, wiping it clean with a rag before placing it on the metal cart. She panted, her entire body soaked with sweat. The man was pouring clear liquid onto a folded up rag. Before the girl had a chance to register what was happening, he was pressing the rag against her nose and gagged mouth. She smelled something sickly sweat, and then everything was dark.
When she came to, her head was groggy and her entire body ached. But she was no longer in the chair. And she was no longer in the dungeon.
She was fully dressed again, and was slumped over in the driver’s seat of her car. She sat up, groaning, holding her aching head. Her pussy throbbed. She was very, very tired. She looked up and saw she was still parked in front of his house. He had dressed her and placed her back in her car. Her purse was on the passenger’s seat, and she dug around till she found her keys. After getting her bearings, and being sure she could drive, she started the car and headed home, her cunt aching with painful pleasure well into the next day.