Caribbean Dungeon

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The Caribbean island of St. Croix was wonderful. Parts were still obviously ravaged from the hurricanes but signs of rebirth and regrowth were everywhere. My best friend and I were visiting friends, and slept in the guest house of friends of these friends….two wonderful men who offered up their extra nest during our stay.

We spent a good part of each day sitting lazily underneath their deep, wide patio, covered in deep shade, which was needed as the sun was strong. Before us was a sweeping view of the sea, and we were lucky enough to be able to look out over the bluest of blue parts of that long stretch of island coast. Usually, we spent morning and late night hours on the patio talking and drinking coffee or other spirits. Early in our stay, we were told a story that I find myself thinking about a lot. Here it is:

We were told that the guest house we were staying in was once a dungeon. The former owner of the house had build the guest house as a place to keep her male slaves. After quickly determining that these were consensual slaves, the story became much sexier to me, and I was curious to learn more without seeming toooo interested. They know I’m kinky, and live a FLR with my boy, but I keep the details vague around the vanillas.

It seems that this Mistress lived happily on the island and was well known and liked by the locals. She built her dungeon to fit in, so from the outside, it gleamed no additional attention. But the inside was a vastly different story. I wasn’t able to get too many details, as our friends didn’t really know her personally, but the stories proceeded her.

I laid in bed during those mornings, the french doors wide open overlooking the sea, and would lounge in sleepy daydreams about this woman, wondering what her world was like. I looked around at the brightly colored, stucco walls, speculating what it must have looked like as a dungeon. The guest house wasn’t a large space, but it was certainly a creative space. The main living area was two stories, with a bedroom loft area off to the side.  Sturdy beans once held chains and bondage devices. Steel rings were built into the walls that now held local art, but once upon a time, they held local males, locked in shackles that confined them to this space.

I was told that these boys….men, toys, slaves…..would work nearly naked on the property, working the lawns, gardens, patio areas. I could picture them in my imagination, making a beautiful place more beautiful, their tanned skin glistening in the hot sun, the vibrant sea blue as the backdrop.  I would then picture them at night,  serving their Mistress, her friends, stepping into the night shadows when their service wasn’t immediately required.

Everything about this property seemed happy, joyous. It just had that energy about it. Everything about it flowed. The inside of the main house transitioned seamlessly to the outside spaces when the shudders and sliding doors were open wide. The patio encompassed the house, and a short path lead to the slave quarters. Everything was open and connected. Lush greenery created a natural fence affording all the necessary privacy. Twinkling lights and large candles cast soft lighting. Magical, to say the least.

I came home after that trip and shared the tale with my boy. But it was a hard story to share, because most of what I could tell about that dungeon was what I created in my own imagination. I find myself drifting off in fantasy about this place, about what it might be like to live like that. And in many ways, I DO live like that Mistress. I live in a sweet place, with a lovely slave. He serves me, he serves friends, he works the yard. I know from private messages I get that others are curious about us, about the way we live, and express a harmless jealousy that my boy and I get to do the things we do.

Imagination is a wonderful thing. Especially when it is built on real life pillars. Now, if I could only have that Caribbean blue outside my front door….

 

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Bad dog

My boy forgot about the rule last night. Simply forgot. We sat down to an easy, simple meal and he dove right in, completely forgetting the “first bite, last sip” rule that had been made into law only 5 days ago.

Sigh. Five days.man on plate

He knew it, too. All of the sudden, he put his fork down and looked at me with what can only be describes as remorseful guilt. As we were not alone, I simply nodded in his direction, saying without words that I was acknowledging his admission. And that he’d pay for it later.

Later came. He knew. He simply walked into our bedroom as we prepared to retire for the night, took the cane that lives next to my dresser, and placed it on the bed.

He was told to present. And of course, he did. Naked body, across the bed. Waiting.

He was given 10 hard strokes that had him silently writhing across the bed. Not allowed to yowl when roommates are present. This, I like.

After that, he was told to count backward from 100. He did. I started canning him rapidly. Not as hard, but no pause in between strokes. No time to process the separating seconds. But certainly time for me to grab a second cane and start drumming.

Quite honestly, I have never seen anyone count backwards from 100 so quickly and so accurately. Lucky for him that he  made no mistakes, for surely, I would have made him start from the top.

Cause I’m the top. I can do such things.