Introduction
For the sake of our story, let us suppose that somewhere there exists a special, a very unique resort catering to a very particular clientele. The clientele are possessed of certain needs and desires which they don't generally share with their friends and neighbors, much less strangers. Most likely this establishment is located in a region with an equitable climate, not to mention a tolerant social climate. It might be housed on a sizeable estate, for insulation from the outside world is most desirable, and it probably has vineyards and olive groves between the main house and the county road, masking the buildings quite effectively from passing traffic.
The main house is, of course, a rambling Tuscan style villa, though it will long predates the current fad for all things Tuscan. There were other reasons than the whims of society at large that dictated the design of the main house. In keeping with the Italian theme, the resort might be named something like, shall we say, the "Villa di Dolore."
The estate itself stretches for a good distance beyond the villa, accommodating a substantial buffer zone between the areas used by the resort's members and the neighboring properties. There are long standing agreements with those neighbors to aid in preserving the privacy of the members. The neighbors hear nothing, see nothing and say nothing, for which they are suitably recompensed.
A glance at the clientele strolling the grounds would also lead one to believe that this is not an ordinary resort. One might think, at first, that they'd dropped in on a costume party. On second thought they might wonder just what sort of costume party it was, where so many costumes consisted of full leather or merely straps, or shiny chain, or were cleverly designed to expose those parts normally concealed. And the number of costumes that consisted of nothing but a coating of sunscreen and bits of body jewelry might be a bit surprising as well.
And if one were to observe the clientele at their recreation it would quickly become obvious they were not visiting the Marriott Scottsdale. Because the Villa caters to clients who have very special needs. For some it is a sort of mental dog run where they can let the hidden demons of their innermost beings off the leash in a safe manner. For others it is a place for getting in touch with their inner barbarian, which coincidentally is the title of one of the more popular classes offered by the Villa. For still others it is a place to explore their long suppressed fantasies and shed light on the dark corners of their psyches.
If this resort existed and one were to drop by on a typical summer weekend...
*
Jen reported to the Villa at the time instructed. The Handler took her down to the slave quarters and turned her over to the Preparers. They undressed her, bathed her and shaved her superfluous body hair. Then she was dressed in a loose smock of coarse material, undecorated and poorly fitted, a garment that might have come from any time period between the Middle Ages and the Reformation. Then they notified the Handler that she was ready.
The Handler entered the room where Jen waited and walked up to her. He carried something in his hand, something made of black cloth, apparently formless.
"Are you ready to enter your fantasy?" he asked. "Once we pass that door there will be no stopping until it's over." He paused. "Or until you give the safe word. Will you repeat the agreed upon safe word for me?"
Jen paused for a moment, briefly uncertain at what she was about to undertake. Then, having come this far she determined to go through with it.
"Any phrase indicating a confession, such as 'I'll sign', or admitting I'm a heretic," Jen said.
The Handler shook out the article in his hand. It was a hood. Gently he slipped it over Jen's head.
"This will help you make the transition," he said. "Just hold my hand and I'll lead you."
With that he grasped her hand and led her through the door. She felt a tug to the right and followed him. They went straight, turned again. Then straight again. Twice he slowed and warned her of stairs.
The loose smock with its rough fabric made her very aware of her naked body. With each step it brushed against her bare flanks. Her unsupported breasts swayed back and forth, her nipples beginning to harden from the stimulation. And also from the anticipation.
Jen was both proud and a little embarrassed of those breasts. At 35 and a mother twice they weren't what they had been. Before the children they'd been high, full and proud. Though they hadn't lost much of their fullness they hung lower than she liked and had a slackness that allowed them to flop around uncomfortably when unsupported. Still, the nipples, enlarged by nursing, stood out nearly level.
And her butt, once so trim and tight, now had that extra bit of fat that she'd never quite been able to loose. When she complained of it, her husband merely gave her a playful slap and said it gave her a feminine roundness.
Another set of steps and a turn to the right. They stopped. Jen heard the creaking sound of old metal hinges, then felt a tug on her hand and took a few steps forward. Her hand was released. Then the sound of the hinges again and other metallic sounds. She suspected it was the sound of an antique key turning in an antique lock.
"Please count slowly to a hundred, and then you may remove the hood," the Handler said softly. Jen heard is soft footsteps retreating. She counted. With hesitation she slowly removed the hood and looked around her.
In the soft light coming through a small, high barred window she saw that she was in a stone cell. There was nothing else in it, no chair, no bed. Not even a pile of straw. Rusty bars blocked off the only exit, through a stone arch.
"What have I done?" she thought. "What will they do to me?"
All her life Jen had found images of ancient and medieval tortures strangely arousing. If the nuns at school had only known what images flashed through her mind when she read of the horrors inflicted on the martyrs, especially the female martyrs, they'd have been shocked out of their habits! Not that Jen really wanted to be shot full of arrows or boiled alive. Far from it. She was genuinely appalled at the horrible things people could think of to do to each other. And considering her Catholic upbringing it was particularly ironic that she should have developed such a fascination with the torments inflicted by the notorious Spanish Inquisition.
As terrible as they were such things had that horrible fascination of a traffic accident where you have to look, or the lurid tabloid account of some atrocity where you go back and reread the seamiest parts again as if you can't believe the monsters actually did such and such.
And there was another aspect to it. As she reached puberty and became more aware of her body and all the strange confusing things related to it, especially the sexual bits. She began to notice how often the victims were stripped and their most sensitive parts exposed to abuse. It was frightening, the idea of being so helpless and vulnerable. But there was an undeniable undertone of excitement, a very sexual excitement, to the images the stories of dungeons and torture chambers brought to her mind.
It was years after her marriage, and after the kids had arrived, when her husband had finally coaxed her into revealing her fantasies. She was afraid he'd be shocked and appalled but, thank God, he'd been mildly surprised and somewhat amused. He had his own peculiar fantasies that he hadn't dared tell her about. They had a good laugh at their deep, dark, dirty secrets that night before engaging in one of the steamiest of their love makings.
For a while they had played at some scenes, very mild, when the kids where away at the grandparents or at camp. And then he'd told her of a private club he'd heard about. A place called the Villa. Members went there to fulfill their darker fantasies. After finally making all the connections to the right people they'd gone a number of times as guests, observing some of the public sessions. After joining the Villa they'd gone to some of the frequent social functions which turned out to be mostly like any vanilla social function, except for the conversation occasionally turning to discussion of someone's new whip instead of his new chainsaw or her aerobics class. They took some classes, went to a few informal seminars. And one memorable Friday night they reserved a private torture chamber.
Then, with a little urging from her husband, Jen had gone to the Planners to discuss playing out a fantasy she'd long had.
"I want to be tortured by the Spanish Inquisition," Jen had said to the Planners. It sounded really strange, spoken aloud like that. Did I really say that, Jen thought to herself. And her next thought after that was "are they going to laugh at me?"
But they didn't laugh. Instead they asked her questions. How much did she know about the Spanish Inquisition? Were there any particular aspect, certain tortures that particularly excited her? After about twenty minutes and copious notes they penciled in a date. And this day was the date and Jen duly found herself waiting in a dungeon cell.
It was probably no more than ten minutes, but seemed much longer, when Jen heard the creak of a door opening. Two burly men, dressed only in short, tight leather pants and hoods, approached her cell. One fumbled briefly with a ring of gigantic keys, then opened the cell door. The other entered, holding out a pair of antique iron manacles.
