The Visit

by Sean Dunne

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© Copyright 2003 - Sean Dunne - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; D/s; cd; bond; dungeon; cage; cons; X

Thank goodness I’ve actually found the place and I’m on time as well! The photocopier in the library had been broken, so I’d just made a sketch map of this particular town's roads. The trouble was that when I got here, I picked up all sorts of one way streets and had got completely lost. It was pure luck I’d found the place. A good omen? I approach the front door carrying my huge bag full of submissive gear. A movement behind the curtains and the door opens as I reach for the bell. A vision appears before me. Gosh! Mistress Velda is just like her photo, very attractive and wearing all the fantasy mistress’s gear: the black leatherwear, the black high heeled boots, the long leather gloves – matched with long dark hair and perfect make-up. Wonderful – what a start!

Now I am fairly clear as to the setup here, as I’d had a conversation with her on the telephone and so I’d devised a simple two act ‘fantasy play’ the text of which I’d sent her by post so as not to waste time explaining my needs when I arrived. It was nothing too complicated, I made sure of that in the light of previous experiences.

Here we go – Act one: the bedroom scene. I have stripped naked and I’m ordered to start dressing in the lingerie I’ve brought and is now laid out on the bed. With my foundation garments and nylons donned, I reach for my satin slip. She grabs it and the negligee before I can put them on.

“Oh what lovely things– I must show them to my TV.” So saying, she dashes off out of the room.

Damn! That wasn’t in the script. I hear them chattering in the next room.

I look at myself in the large mirror. I'm recycling my fantasies again. A couple of unpleasant, painful and unsatisfactory sessions with my bound naked and torture fantasies have propelled me into my rather less painful 'humiliation' fantasies. And as I don't care much for the usual mistresses interpretation of humiliation, (the last one actually pissed on me for Christ's sake!) I usually request an agenda something like this one. I'm not instantly submissive in the presence of a mistress but being compelled by her to dress up as a female certainly changes my mental attitude very rapidly. Dressed in lingerie, I become very docile, compliant, weak and vulnerable, how could one feel otherwise dressed up like that. Being a bit of a perfectionist though, I do try to get the end result looking as authentic as possible, hence the expensive lingerie - and somewhat to my surprise - I also get quite a kinky sort of erotic thrill when I feel the texture against my skin and view myself bound up wearing my female underwear. I suppose that must make me a TV of sorts, but I have little interest in that field outside of using as an additional reinforcement by which a female can humiliate and enslave me.

Velda comes back, “They’re gorgeous, we’d both like to wear them,” She becomes Velda the mistress again – “Now let’s see what you look like in your wife’s frillys!”

I soon realize I’d made a mistake sending her a fantasy longer than a few lines. She’d obviously read it, but must have given it a mere cursory inspection and then discarded it. She’s remembered enough though, to get it completely mixed up and turn my carefully reasoned drama into quite illogical farce. Fair enough, I’m not that disappointed, my expectations are always low, but one does lives in hope.

But whatever she gets up to, nothing can ruin Act Two I figure, as by now, I am fully dressed up in the lingerie, with high heels, seamed nylons, wig and make up. My wrists have been handcuffed together in front, with a leather strap pulled tightly at the back, pinioning my elbows together at the back and my ankles are manacled together with a short chain, my own suggestion and equipment, I'm secure in the knowledge I can’t wriggle out of these bonds.

There’s a noise in the yard outside. “Those bloody builders – I want to have a word with them!”

Velda dashes off and I can hear her berating the builders. Hell, she must be dominant, I’m not sure I would dare talk to builders like that and they sound very conciliatory as well. What on earth do they make of her attire? Surely it must be obvious as to what she is – or is it to non scene people? Maybe they just think she dresses eccentrically. Where exactly are they? I’m suddenly a bit worried I know in the script that Velda is to compel me to hobble from this bedroom down to the ‘dungeon’. Could I be seen in a window? I suspect Velda wouldn’t bother too much, but heavens – the embarrassment – I’m not into that sort of humiliation.

Luckily I make my very clumsy and inelegant journey to the dungeon without any alien observation. I thought I would have trouble with the short chained ankle manacles and the high heels, but actually it’s the very tight long satin slip I’m wearing that causes most of the problem getting down the stairs. I finally arrive and look around in some admiration. It’s one of the best equipped dungeons I’ve ever seen. I’m starting to feel better about the situation.

Velda has other plans though. Obviously proud of her workplace, instead of opening the curtains on ‘Act Two’, she now proceeds to take me, I don’t believe this, on a guided tour of the dungeon!

She seems quite unconscious of the grotesque absurdity of the situation as I hobble from one item to the next, unsteady on my stiletto's and my shackled ankles, trying to seem keen and interested as the enthusiastic Velda points out the gruesome torments that can be developed with the various bits of equipment. She's chatting away as if I'm a colleague or a close friend and I'm still desperately still trying to view her as my fantasy cruel, man-hating lesbian!

Eventually, thank goodness, Velda runs out of items to display, and becomes a mistress again. Velda not at all bad in her mistress mode and I can see why she is said to be very popular in this business. I go though the routine of begging for mercy and acting as if I’m genuinely terrified of her as she comes out with the usual mistress patter. All the time I’ve been eyeing Velda’s cage, I wish she'd get on with it and get me into it. She’d described the cage on the phone and I had decided it would be the major item in my fantasy. It was an evil looking contraption, with thick steel bars. It was designed, so Velda told me, to give maximum discomfort to any normal sized male imprisoned in it.

Velda finally finishes with what for me had become totally unnecessary ‘foreplay’ and motions me to the cage. Good I think, clear my mind, start the ball rolling, I can still get into the mood and get something out of this session. I’m about to enter the cage, when…Ring, Ring, Ring… Velda has switched the phone extension down to here. She walks over to the phone on a corner table. I try to block everything from my mind but the fantasy, but I can’t shut out Velda’s shrieks.

“Are you on your knees? Why not! Get on your knees before your mistress this moment you pathetic, miserable worm!”

I look over and catch Velda’s eye. She grins and gives me a conspiratorial wink. Oh God, I’m starting to lose the scene again. I stand, patiently waiting for Velda to finish her tirade.

“Two o’clock tomorrow then and you’ll really feel my whip this time.”

Velda slams the receiver down and strides back to me, “Right now, you helpless, pathetic apology of a man - get into that cage!”

She’s back in her mistress mode, I struggle to get back into the mood. Hold on a minute though, she’s forgotten the gag! Absolutely essential to this fantasy.

“I’ll scream,” I feebly whine. I hope she takes the hint, I am still trying to hang on to my battered fantasy and it wouldn't help it to actually ask right now to be gagged.

The hint works as Velda suddenly remembers – but she’s left my pristine, disinfected gag upstairs and she’s not going to bother going back up for it.

She searches around and finds one amongst the large pile of miscellaneous bits and pieces lying around. A huge penis shaped gag is forced into my mouth. Ugh – it tastes horrible – how many mouths has it been in? Could I catch something vile? Oh well, nothing much I can do about that now. I try to say something but I can’t form any words or make much of a sound at all. The gag may not be that clean, but it's remarkably effective.

I’m forced into the cage and then Velda actually does something on her own initiative. She eases up my slip above my knees and straps my nyloned knees together with one of the many leather straps hanging from the wall, taking several tight turns and fastening it securely. I’m feeling a lot better now, being gagged and further bound – that’s just what my lesbian would get up to.

Velda closes the cage door and padlocks it. She was certainly right about the lack of comfort. It’s too low to be able to stand upright, so one is awkwardly crouched and the rest is so tight for space that even if one wasn't bound up, a relaxed position wouldn't be attainable. Being bound in the way I am now adds considerably to the distress as any natural movement to ease discomfort is just not possible. This is absolutely great, just what I’d envisioned in my fantasy.

Velda does some ritual jeering and mocking me in the cage, but eventually, thankfully, leaves, slamming the dungeon door and now I’m alone in here. Now at last, free of distraction, my vivid imagination can take over and looking at my abject predicament in the mirror opposite and struggling helplessly in the cage, I can really begin to believe that some beautiful lesbian has trapped me into this situation and I know that will produce one or maybe more very acceptable orgasms.

I’m just getting into my act when I hear the doorbell ring. I hear Velda’s footsteps walk along the hall to open it.

“Hello Velda, I must tell you, I’ve had a great game at Cortonwood. Got around in eighty nine.”

Albeit that he has a loud voice, I’m still surprised I can hear quite so clearly from down here, I would have thought this place was virtually soundproof.

They walk along the hall and exasperatingly settle in the room above me. Damn, damn, damn…I can barely hear Velda’s voice, but although I can’t make out his words, blabbermouth is noisy enough to really distract me from getting into the necessary mood. I simply can't fantasize with that background. I’ve no alternative but to put my fantasy on hold until the noisy sod goes.

As time ticks by, I begin to realize that I'm probably passing the point of no return in this session, it really isn’t going to work today – for Christ’s sake Velda, come down here and release me!

After what seems ages, I finally here some movement up top. But then to my sudden disquiet, I hear both them coming down the steps to the dungeon.

“I’ve brought one of your workmates down to see you!” announces Velda, sounding very pleased with herself.

What the bloody hell is she talking about? Oh no, she’s remembered some tiny part of my fantasy ‘play’ and has taken it completely out of context.

“What are you doing in there instead of being at work?”

My loudmouth golfer is playing his part. As I half suspected, he actually has a red face and is overweight. Piss off you noisy creep! You’ve already ruined my session. What’s that he’s saying now?

“What a lovely creature in there.”

If I wasn’t behind bars, you’d find out this lovely creature had a good right hook, you asshole! Fuck them! I twist around as much as my situation will allow me and ignore them.

Never in a million years would a male figure in one of my fantasies. God, remember the last time I was involved with a male in a session. It was with a mistress in Birkenhead – as it happens, I was again in a TV fantasy mode, dressed somewhat like this and bound spread-eagled on a sort of frame. Similarly on that occasion, someone had banged on the front door and I could hear the mistress having an excitable conversation with some male. There was silence for some time and then the door opened and the mistress ushered in from what I could make out in the dim light, a male dressed up as a female and wearing a huge fur coat!

“I want to humiliate her,” the mistress said, “go over and make love to her as she’s bound, gagged and helpless.”

The TV dutifully came over and started kissing me all over. Now I accept a fair amount of humiliation from a mistress herself in most circumstances, but I was instantly revolted by being kissed by a male and struggling to avoid his 'attentions' actually tore my right arm free from the admittedly flimsy connections on the frame. Instinctively, I swung a punch and as luck would have it, connected with the jaw of the TV. He flew backwards, tripping over a whipping stool and landed on the floor the other side in a big furry heap and lay there not moving.

I’ll never forget that moment; the shocked silence, the openmouthed expression on the face of the mistress as she looked from me to him, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed. After what seemed ages, she got her wits together and helped the by now, piteously whining TV to his feet and ushered him out of the room.

Of course, I was rather concerned as to the reaction of the mistress when she returned, especially as although I was able to remove the gag, I was unable to release myself from the rest of the bondage, so I felt pretty vulnerable.

Amazingly, she was very conciliatory! And even more surprising, she very cleverly and expertly got the session going again and it ended up quite successful in the end.

It later turned out, over a cup of tea, that the jerk, even knowing she was with a client, had demanded a session there and then – and as he was a regular and very ‘generous’ she felt obliged to indulge him and anyway, thought two ‘TV’ fantasies might be better than one. She was actually pleased that I’d thumped him as he was such a ‘creep’ and despite the fact he wasn't into pain, she’d felt like doing that herself many times. Surely he won’t be back? Oh yes, I’m his favorite mistress, he’ll never leave me. I think I was rather lucky in Birkenhead.

It seems that Velda has sensed my hostility and is shooing blabbermouth back out and up the stairs. Surely she must release me soon? I mentioned about twenty minutes to half an hour locked in the cage in my letter, working on the principle that the session overall would be about two hours – that’s what I’d paid for. Already, it’s been a lot longer than that and I’m getting somewhat mystified.

To most mistresses I’ve dealt with, time is money and they watch the clock fairly carefully. Right now, I wish I was with a clockwatcher because now my fantasy is ruined, I’m starting to feel wretched and uncomfortable in here. It’s impossible to find a position where I can ease the increasingly painful condition I’m finding myself in.

The crouch position I’m in is pulling the elbow straps very tight, cutting off circulation to my hands and the steel handcuffs are starting to bite into my wrists. As I'm unable to straighten up, I am starting to ache in muscles I never knew were there, especially in my back and my thighs are starting to quiver with the strain of taking all my weight in this unnatural position. The strap pinioning my knees together however, which I was very pleased that Velda had applied, is now stopping me sinking down to ease my position as it bites into the flesh above my knees and effectively stops me trying to lower myself. I can't kick off my high heels as they fit very tight and anyway are secured with ankle straps. My ankle manacles are restricting other leg movements and being gagged so competently, which again, I was so pleased about – is now working against me as I can’t communicate with Velda. And as I was supposed to be protesting about my plight while in the cage, I'm not sure she'd take any notice of whatever sounds came from my gagged mouth anyway. In the right circumstances this would have been arousing, the thought that I'd been forced into this horrifying situation by a beautiful female, a mere object for her cruel amusement and totally indifferent to any anguish I was experiencing - but I’ve lost the plot today and it’s becoming just very unerotically painful.

I’m trying to work out how to attract Velda’s attention when I hear the doorbell ring again. This time I can hear the caller is female, no, there’s more than one. They chat for a time, then I hear movement and oh, no – I hear high heels clattering down the steps to my prison. Jesus!.. is she selling tickets?

I recognize them as soon as they enter the dungeon, their pictures have been in contact magazines for years advertising their services. They’re two professional mistresses from the London area. What on earth are they doing here? This is really weird.

Velda, now in her element, becomes imperious and dominant as she motions to me in the cage.

“What would you do with that pathetic creature if you had her in your power?”

The other two dutifully come up with suggestions which are calculated to fill me with terror. Oh, Lord!

Do they really think I’m taking them seriously? I study the two with interest. I’d never contacted either of these two for a session as looking at their photos, I didn’t think I could relate to them in a session. Now I see them in the flesh, one of them has possibilities, certainly not the other. They’re dressed in their dominant mistress gear, they must have traveled like that – it must be the uniform when dominants visit dominants. I wonder if they called into a motorway café - they’d have caused a sensation if they had.

They finish mocking me and now Velda takes them on the tour she has recently given me. This must be their first visit. Suddenly the penny drops. Of course… now I know why I’m getting this prolonged session. Velda, knowing they were arriving, obviously had no more clients booked today – but it would give the dungeon more atmosphere were a slave to be imprisoned there during the tour. The cunning bitch – and all that superb make-up and gear – it wasn’t really all for my benefit at all.

I watch the tour, at least it takes my mind off my predicament for a time. I suppose it’s experience, but it’s amazing how quickly the visitors comprehend the working of the more bizarre and complicated pieces of equipment that I hadn’t understood at all. Velda demonstrates the purposes of some of the equipment by climbing on them and assuming the position of the victim. The shape of one piece had mystified me until I saw Velda on it – it forced her backside temptingly upward. The others murmur appreciatively, no doubt imagining the hundreds of bare bums to be thrashed in that position in the future.

The tour comes to an end and they make their way to the exit. I start struggling and trying to shake the steel bars at the same time making as much noise as the gag will allow.

They all turn and look at me.

“Look at her, begging for mercy,” mocks Velda. She obviously tries to remember some part of my written fantasy.

“You’ll stay in there until tomorrow morning when I’ll be down to inflict some real pain!” So saying, she eases the other two out of the dungeon, closes the door and they go back up the stairs.

Bloody hell! What a mess I’ve landed myself in. I’m not worried about the tomorrow morning threat, but once they get gossiping up top, it might be ages before Velda remembers to come down to release me. I feel angry at Velda, but I also rationalize that I can hardly fully blame her for my predicament. A mistress used to whipping and torturing willing slaves would hardly consider my, by many masochists standard, mild discomfort a cause for concern. I’m sure many slaves do indeed spend all night in this cage and I imagine Velda feels she’s doing me a great favour leaving me in here all this time.

But those thoughts don’t help much as I really hurt now. If only I could sink down to my knees- but that blasted leather strap stops me trying that. And assuming that I’d only be in bondage a short time, I’d got Velda to ratchet the wrist and ankle manacles really tight and pinion my elbows well back as well. Those decisions are now coming back to haunt me as the steel bites in deeper. God – this is a nightmare.

The playlet I’d sent to Velda involves the lesbian buying photos from a rentboy involving me in the one and only homosexual experience I’d had in my life. Threatening to show them to my wife, I’d allowed her to humiliate me in my own home by dressing me up in my wife's lingerie, wig and make up. When she’d suddenly produced the manacles and secured me with them, I didn’t protest too much as I assumed it was some sort of mild bondage game that she was getting up to. My anxiety and concern grows as she forces me down to my basement and I see a cage I never knew was in there. Now helpless, I’m gagged and forced into the diabolical device. Then the bombshell! My wife is in on it! While I was at work, she and her lesbian lover had soundproofed the basement, put the cage down here and had planned this scenario all along. I’m to be imprisoned down here while they live and party up top. Those photos would mysteriously appear at my workplace and the word would go around I’d left suddenly because I had Aids.

The lesbian's chilling last words as she leaves the basement: “In time we’ll let it out you’ve died of Aids. Nobody will be bothered." She turns at the foot of the stairs, "After my visits every day, which I assure you, you won't look forward to, you’ll come to feel that dying of Aids would be a lesser fate than the one I've got in store for you.” If only Velda had acted that scene out. Watching her very curvy, leather-clad body move to the steps, able to move at will and knowing that lovely creature had reduced me to the pathetically helpless, caged, doll-like object I could see in the mirror opposite with contemptible ease, I'd have been having multi orgasms within minutes of her leaving.

What a paradox though – the contradiction between fantasy and reality. I’ve only been in this cage for, what? it must be getting on four hours – and I’m ‘stir crazy’ already. God, the thought of being like this for just a day – I’d go stark raving mad in no time.

I relapse into a semi-conscious state of extreme discomfort and pain and wait. Eventually I here footsteps coming down the stairs, how long has it been? I've no idea of time now - but I suddenly panic, what if she’s only coming down to do a bit more ridiculing and is not about to release me at all right now? I have an inspiration, I collapse as much as I can, Christ! every binding really cuts into my flesh – and act totally unconscious as if I’ve passed out.

“Are you alright!”

A worried Velda rushes over, unlocks the cage and dragging me out, unbuckles my gag.

I come to quickly, “For Gods sake Velda, undo my elbow strap, my hands have gone dead!”

Oh, the relief as I’m able to stand upright and move my unpinioned arms. Velda seems quite mystified at my actions and obvious relief – but I now feel free as a bird as, although still manacled, I climb the steps to freedom.

Not for long though. When I reach the bedroom, Velda is searching for the keys of my manacles – they were on the bed, but not now – it seems they’re lost! Christ! It’s like having a session with a female Homer Simpson! Velda has turned her attention to the floor and despite my bonds, I anxiously join in.

I’m recalling a mistress in Paddington who was reluctant to use my equipment. She had reason to be as when she tried to release the last client who had supplied his own handcuffs, his keys wouldn’t open them. Irritated and, probably rightly, imagining that the fault was deliberate, she promptly marched him down to the local nick and got them to release him.

God, the thought of me appearing in a local police station dressed like this…keep looking.

“What are you two up to?” an amused voice comes from the door.

I look up, it’s one of the London mistresses. She probably imagines this is one of the weirder components of our session.

“We’re looking for the keys of his bloody hand and ankle cuffs,” says Velda.

“Oh those, I noticed them on the bed when I was hanging up my coat. I put them in the jar over there on the table for safe-keeping.”

Phew!…after that fright – I’m going to keep a spare set hidden in my bag.

I must have lost five pints of sweat in that blasted cage and I accept Velda’s offer of a shower. I’m walking to the bathroom with a towel around my middle, when the door opens and out walks a very attractive, exquisitely dressed female who smiles shyly at me.

Amazing, someone in this household who hasn’t been down to gawk at me in the cage. I wouldn’t have minded with her though, I’m sure I could have fitted a pretty girl watching me struggle into my fantasy somewhere - one of the lesbian's other girlfriends maybe. I grin back.

“Hello.” She says in a deep bass voice.

Would you believe it! It’s the TV! I should have known – nothing is as it seems in this house today.

At last, I’m clean, dressed, packing my bag and supping a cold beer that Velda gave me. Look at those marks on my wrists! I hope they don’t take too long to go. All my TV fantasy clothes are soiled and soaking wet, reason enough that I never use a mistress's own outfits. I had originally packed them very carefully so as not to wrinkle the delicate fabric – now I just bundle them in and worry about cleaning them later.

The door opens and Velda walks in.

“Well now, was that alright? Did you enjoy that?”

She looks at me, her eyes wide and innocent, eagerly seeking approval. She’s totally unaware that the session has been a minor disaster for me.

“Oh, it was great!” I even manage to sound convincing.

Hell, I’ve always been very philosophical about unhappy sessions. It’s really my fault expecting any mistress to instinctively comprehend my complex fantasies. I wouldn't fancy their job anyway; I've seen some of the fantasies requested and mine seem quite mild in comparison.

Velda shows me to the front door and thrusts a card into my hand.

“You've been really good, this is my private number, phone me anytime."

It’s turned dark now and I walk to my car. Jesus – I could do with a stiff drink.