My slutty dungeon boy

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Please, ask john about the dungeon…..

So, my boy has been back for well over a week, and he has yet to blog about his trip away.

He went away for a week. Had all sorts of sexy adventures. Did you all know that??

He went south, DC area.

To a kinky event that holds thousands of kinky people.

He was in service to another Mistress there. A Lady, actually. A very fine Lady, if I don’t say so Myself.

He helped build a dungeon. A really really cool dungeon.

And sex spaces! Lots of sexy sex spaces. He helped build those too.

He got to be a bottom that took orders, dropped to his knees, and did what he was told.

He got to wrestle naked with a naked woman. The only reason they were naked was because they started fully clothed. The object of the wrestling was to wrestle one another naked. He did that. Did you know he did that?? Probably not, because he has not written about it. Bad dog. You should ask him who won. Go ahead, ask my dog john.

He got to cane a pussy. He got to cane a man made of military steel. He got caned himself. He had all sorts of adventures, but hasn’t shared by writing about it. Bad boy.

How should he be punished for this neglect?? What’s the point of an alternative kinky blog called Exquisite Dungeon if he isn’t going to blog about being in one of the biggest and best dungeons we have on the east coast? Doesn’t that sound like a very Exquisite thing to blog about??

Comments welcome. Verrrrry welcome. And if there are some good ones, I’ll blog about the results of those suggestions.

:-)

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Once upon an abduction… Part 1

Gagged and bound girl

Gagged and bound girl

This post is part three of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.

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I was the very happy recipient of a beautifully orchestrated, magnificently executed abduction for my birthday around 6 or 7 years ago. For a kinky person, it was the stuff of dreams. Nightmares too, in that dreamish sort of kinky, nightmare way that only kinky people can love.

But before I share that tale, I must tell you another story first. A story within a story.

John had told me once, in confidence, that when he was in high school, he had taken a senior trip to Switzerland with his classmates. One of the touristy things to do at the time (the 1980’s) was to open a Swiss bank account. All the kids were doing it, he said, and John opened one as well, putting in a few bucks.

He went on to tell me that for the next twenty years, he dumped extra money in that account; birthday checks, tax refunds, side job money. For two decades, he added money to that account and the total was substantial.

He told me that I was only the second person in the world to know about this account, and he was telling me this because he felt someone else should know about it if anything ever happened to him.

Important side note: John is a very cautious and calculated man. By nature, he is very careful with privacy, he is more suspicious than trusting in a lot of things, he is a quiet investigator, and always looks before he leaps. Me? Total opposite. That is why we attract, I think.

So, back to the story within the story…..

John told me that he was sharing this Swiss account information with me because he trusted me. This trust was a very big deal. I remember that my heart felt swollen with pride. He considered me a part of his inner circle, and considering how small and selective his innermost sanctions were, I felt enormous responsibility to safeguard his secret. All he asked me to do was to memorize the account number. He didn’t want it written down anywhere. He’d rather I commit it to memory in case I ever needed it, and that was that.

I did as he asked. I memorized it like a phone number and promised I’d never forget.

4,8,15,16,23 and 42. Those were the numbers I had committed to memory. Good thing for John I was never a big TV watcher.

He’d quiz me about it once in a while, for a couple of months, and he’d smile with pleasure when I recited them correctly.

Now…..back to the abduction story:

John had taken me out to dinner for my birthday. We had parked in the garage he used for work, with the parking pass they had issued him. John had mentioned something about hoping it was OK to use his work parking pass on a weekend, but figured it would be fine, so we parked and headed to dinner.

We followed up a lovely dinner with a cocktail at a sultry, dimly lit Irish pup close to the parking garage….a night cap before we headed home. At one point, a man came to the bar and sat near us, and seemed to check us both out, but I didn’t think anything of it. I went to the bathroom and when I came back, the guy was gone.

We headed to the garage, arriving at the floor where we had parked. We were deep in conversation, and at one point, John stopped and looked around, puzzled. Were we on the right floor, he wondered? Where was the car??

We were certain we were at the right spot. Level 3, against the wall. We were both certain of it. John began to wonder if perhaps he had been towed because he was using the pass for a non-work parking event. I also wondered if it had been stolen.

We stood together, touching, in a near empty parking garage, looking around, wondering what to do. It felt like a total buzz kill after a lovely, romantic evening. His car was gone. I could see him getting upset. The glow from dinner was quickly fading.

A vehicle started on what seemed to be the floor above us. No doors had been opened or had been closed, but an engine started. I noticed this, as though it was some dim recognition that tried to poke at my brain, but I was too distracted by the missing car and John’s upset. Besides, near empty parking garages are creepy places. I wanted to leave.

The vehicle on the floor above us started its descent. It rounded the corner, headlights off. It was a mini van, harmless looking, really. I pulled John over to the side, our arms still linked, so the van could pass.

Instantly, it sped up to where we were standing, it slammed on the brakes, and all doors suddenly flew open. Four masked people jumped out, all dressed in black, and came running towards us. A scream got stuck in my throat, my brain seized, my arm tightened around John. Within two seconds, they were upon us, ripping us apart from one another. I remember John being pushed to the ground, and him yelling up for me. I saw someone in black lean over him, and it looked like they were going to punch him. They knelt upon him, keeping him pinned to the concrete  floor.

A black hood was thrown over my head, a hand was roughly clamped over my mouth, and I was manhandled into the waiting van. I did every single thing I could to get away. This was no joke. Seeing John on the ground like that did something to me that made my brain react and not think. A part of me thought, “This has to be a scene. It has to be”. But I don’t know….something about seeing him treated so roughly made me question myself. It felt real, and therefore, it was real.

I didn’t know anything at that moment.  Portland is a pretty quiet little city. But stuff like this happens all over the world. The reality was, I was being very roughly dragged into a car, by 4 or 5 very aggressive people, and I was not able to get away. I could tell by how quickly they got me in the van and sped away that they were in a hurry to get out of there. I heard John from outside the van screaming “CHLOE!!!!!!” but it didn’t matter. I was gone. The van was gone.

I was on the floor of the vehicle, and I had boots, hands and legs holding me down. I still tried to fight, and at one point, I grabbed the skin of someones leg and pinched as hard as I could. I was immediately slapped very hard in the face and was told that if I did that again, I would be hit so hard, my brains would come out of my ears. That got my attention, and I was more subdued.

It was the most fucked up thing ever. I could not wrap my brain around what was happening. I could not tell with absolute certainty what was happening. I think I started to cry; I was scared out of my mind, and I wanted John, and I had no idea where he was. Or, where I was, and where I was going. How could he come help me if he didn’t know where I was??

We drove for what seemed like a very long time. The van finally stopped, I was hauled out, my upper body was tied with rope and I was roughly escorted into a building. I could see nothing, and no one was talking.  Except me. I remember finding my voice, knowing that once I was inside of wherever they were taking me, I’d pretty much be screwed. So, I gave it one last huge effort….fighting with my brain, my body and my vocal cords. I cursed every curse word I could think of. I spoke like an irate sailor. I threatened, hurled insults, begged, laughed. I wanted them to think I was a crazy person so they’d let me go.

It didn’t matter. They did not let me go.

Within moments, I was tightly secured to some sort of interrogation chair. My hood was never removed. I could tell an intensely bright light was pointed very closed at my face because I could see it and feel the heat, but I could see nothing except occasional, blurred shapes. The direct light was oddly blinding despite the hood. I had to keep my eyes closed in order to not squint.

I was left alone for a while. I could tell that people were around me, and I was ungagged, but no one touched me, no one talked to me. I was left with my own building of fear.

And then, out of nowhere, someone started to talk to me. I knew the voice, but the accent was completely wrong. It was German. It sounded like good German. It was smooth, calm, even, quiet. It had no emotion I could detect, except something I could describe as empathy, but not exactly.

This voice went on to acknowledge that I must be very uncomfortable, and he explained that he was very troubled by my situation. He was very sorry to have me in such confines, and he certainly hoped I could be released soon. My release was really in my own hands, he assured me with his heavy accent, his face uncomfortably close to mine. I could feel his closeness. It was ominous.

He explained quietly that he was going to ask me a question, and that as soon as I provided the answer he sought, I would be released with no further harm. It was one easy answer. He assured me of this. He even reached out and stroked my face where I had been slapped, feeling the heat of my skin through the hood.

My brain was rattled. It was on overload. You need to understand that my mind was not used to such complex situations, where so many things were assaulting it at once. I don’t have a lot of experience with trauma. My mind was processing trauma to a certain degree. I knew in my core that this had to be a scene, but there was a tiny shred of doubt that said, “Yeah, but what if its not??”

The accent was creepy. It got into my brain like an oily criminal… your worst nightmare from which you could not wake. This voice had a false sense of compassion, and it rattled me completely. It was purely monotone. The words said, “I am so zorry for your dizcomvort” but the tone said, “I will think nothing of breaking you into a thousand pieces”.

It felt deadly to me. It scared the shit out of me. All I had to do was give him one piece of information and I could go. I believed this to be true.

But what was that one thing he wanted from me?? What did I have that he could possibly want??

And then I found out. Then I learned.

The one thing he wanted, the one thing he was not going to leave without was a small series of numbers to a certain Swiss bank account. He needed and wanted nothing from me other than those numbers.

The moment he said, “Chloe. Be a good girl und just give us ze numbers und you vil be releazed. It is easy. Provide zem to us, und you vil go home. It is zat zimple”, my mind exploded. It shattered. It was though a mama bear rose on its hind legs, defending her most precious and vulnerable things. There was NO WAY I was going to break the trust my John had put into me when he asked me to safeguard his Swiss account, his nest, his youth.

No. Fucking. Way.

Again, my brain….struggling for composure.

Okay, I think I knew that the German guy was really John. I knew that. But I could not see, I could not touch. And not a single thing about him sounded like John except the tone, and even that was distorted. The last image I had of John was him thrown to the garage floor, screaming for me, just as vulnerable and scared as I was. My brain could not compute that he could now be something else, someone else… a torturer, a living nightmare, a grand inquisitor… all focused on breaking me.

I was staring down the very likely reality that my John… the one I loved so much, and felt so good to be around… the one who made me feel safe and cared about, and pleasured… this same John was now someone else, and he was about to do really bad things to me.

John… German John… was going to torture me, and I could feel it coming. He loved me, and he was going to hurt me.

And the harder part for me to comprehend was that while my brain was trying to process all of this and make some semblance of  it, my pussy was swelling with arousal, my nipples hardening in anticipation.

 

Continued in Part 2 tomorrow…

 

The comfort of our kink

There is definitely something to be said for the comfort within a kinky relationship.

I remain confident in several things.

I will come home, turn the heat up, strip and put on my collar. Because that’s what she expects. It’s a bonus that it’s what I enjoy.

I will expect to receive punishment for my failing to put away her clothes this morning. Some of these routine items I am still getting used to. I cannot be perfect and while I strive for it, I’m not able to achieve it all the time. (Really, she sometimes has to nit pick deep to find failures – this makes me smile).

I know that, despite any punishment, despite any treatment, despite the fact that I might even have to spend the night on the floor, she will welcome me back to the bed. She will miss me not being in the bed. She would rather I be in the bed.

 

So…

 

Despite the shitty facebook posts from people who have opinions I cannot reconcile…
Despite work being busier than I can reasonably handle…
Despite work deadlines slipping to months delayed (not completely my fault)…
Despite family pressures that hurt me because I feel so entirely helpless and 2100 miles away (that’s the length of the Appalachian Trail, you know!)…
Despite shitty weather…
Despite frustrations with my volunteering efforts…

I can rely on the above positive things in my relationship with my Mistress.

I can expect her to blister my ass and make me suffer tonight. I failed in my regular duties and deserve punishment. I can expect her to love me and hold me if I cry. I can expect that my skin will be tended to should it break. And I can expect the consistency of being the one to take care of the kitchen in the morning despite tonight’s punishments.

I can count on my Mistress to love me, even if she hurts me. I can expect her to hold me when I whimper and cry. I can expect her to hold me to high standards. And I can absolutely count on her to love me, regardless of any of the crap that life has beating on me. I love serving her and loving her. I am happy to be her toy and slave.

And that’s worth so very much. When the rest is falling apart, I have something consistent to fall back on.