What follows is a fantasy world. If you find yourself confusing fantasy with reality, even occasionally, please do not read the story.

The reference to black men in Dungeon is not intended as racist, but honors Nancy Friday's observation that white women often fantasize about being raped by black men.

For Elisabeth, who trusted me with her fantasies.

Imagine... A Dungeon (D/s, Mdom/f, s/m, rape)

Imagine... Five large black men bring you, struggling, to a basement room. Wordlessly they strip you naked and leave you alone on the floor. The lights go out. It is pitch black. Slowly, you feel your way around, to see where you are, to look for escape. The first thing you notice is the thick padding on everything, even the floor. Leather. Then that the floor and walls aren't flat. You crawl. There are hills and valleys everywhere. Like a California hot tub, there are places molded into the room to sit. And God knows what else... There is a toilet in the room. And a shower. A sturdy 4 posted bed is in the middle. Hours pass...

A small spotlight comes on. As you struggle to your feet, you see that the ceiling is mirrored and the walls are covered with small recesses. Places to attach ropes...

*****

"She has been left alone and in darkness?"

"For two days with just toilet water, as you directed." I have never trained a woman before, but I have been hired to train you. I was recruited because I developed techniques for breaking wild horses in an impossibly short time. Riding them in hours rather than weeks. I turn on the observation light and examine you through the one-way glass. As you struggle to your feet, I silently admire your ass and your tits. I'm gonna enjoy riding you. I turn the light off, returning you to total darkness...

*****

You have had no human contact for a long time. Your body is beginning to stink, the shower doesn't work, and you're desperately hungry. For days you have been drinking from the toilet, thankful that it flushes. You hear the sound of the outer door being unlocked. Your heart begins to pound as the paddle locks pop and the bar is drawn. Alert like a cat, not even breathing, you catch every nuance of sound as an outer door is unlocked and opened, then closed and locked again. Still no one is in the dungeon with you. He is behind the inner door. You know it. Waiting.

Light blinds you, then a peephole in the door opens with a solid thud. He is looking at you. The peephole closes before the man enters. The diffuse terror you have felt has a form: you are not alone! He carries a whip, and although he doesn't flash it you are very aware of it. You shrink away, afraid of the man and his whip. He closes the distance slowly, so as to not frighten you, but as his hand begins to reach out you back away, then run. Without a word he begins whipping. "No!" You stumble across the room, followed closely by your tormentor. He doesn't hurry, he doesn't have to. The reach of the whip allows him to walk a much smaller circle nearer the center of the room. He keeps up a quick pace, lashing you lightly but often. Especially your ass. Slowly it is pinked, then reddened. Your ass stings and burns badly before you finally collapse, unable to run anymore. You steel yourself for the next blow, but it never comes.

"Stand." He is still carrying the whip, and you do it with caution. Still weakened from running, it is a struggle. But you stand, heart pounding, breath strong and deep. Not even trying to cover yourself, you stand naked before him. "Stay." He moves around you, behind you. Touching your back and pushing lightly, he says "bend." He touches your asshole (No!) and you bolt. He is on you immediately, whipping you like before. It doesn't take long for you to submit this time. "Stand." You do it. "Still." He moves around behind you, and again his hand on your back begins the directive. "Bend." You want to run, but you know that you'll only be whipped. You obey. You bend at the waist as his hand guides you. He greases your asshole, touches a dildo to your ass, then slowly presses it into you. The hand on your back insists that you remain still. You stay very still. He has broken you. In less than an hour. The lights come up in the observation room and you see that the mirrors have people behind them. You can't hear them, but you see them. They're applauding. As the man leaves you hear them through the open door:

"That's incredible. Three commands and a penetration in less than an hour!"
"When will she be ready?"
"$50,000 for one night with her."

The door shuts, and again it is silent, and dark as the inner door is latched, then the outer door. A cold shower starts as you stand with the dildo still up your ass. You are left to ponder your situation. Will you be sold by the hour to whomever will pay?

*****

This day begins as the others. Music wakens you. After toileting is the routine: an hour of yoga stretches, an hour of working out, a long hot bath. The last thing you do is shave. Legs are shaved twice, just to be sure. Your most private place, though, you take much more care with. A very close shave there. Must not be caught with stubble on your sex. You are ready. It is 10 AM.

Music starts and the spotlights come on. It is time. Your heart pounds, but instead of waiting, terrified, as you did weeks ago, you rush toward the door, to the examination table. The table, just feet from the door, faces it. You mount it. Spreading yourself as you've been taught, you wait. Spotlights shine on naked flesh. Alert like a cat, not even breathing, you catch every nuance of sound as bolts pop, hinges squeel, and a door you've only seen once slams solidly shut. Still no one is in the dungeon with you. He is behind the inner door. You know it. Waiting. The thud of the peephole is still loud in your mind as you feel him gazing directly at your private flesh. Lifting your pelvis from the table, you push your sex out. Legs wide, the heat of a spotlight warms delicate flesh. You hold out for your inspection...


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