Nola took out her phone and called the dungeon. She confirmed that it had a room open for the next couple hours.
"OK, we're on," she said, writing down an address in West Hollywood. "Peter and I need about a twenty minute head start to set up. Why don't we go now, and you girls can finish your drinks?"
Peter kissed me and headed off with our new friend. I saw Nola grab his ass on the way out the door, and hang on.
This was going to be a good afternoon.
Lara, Val and I finished our drinks and paid the bill. We got in our rental, and they helped me navigate LA traffic and get on the 405 Freeway. We took that to Santa Monica Boulevard and took that to West Hollywood. We found the building, an old, Art Deco-style business building. The dungeon occupied all of the top floor, above a gym and a yoga studio.
I found that a little weird.
We took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on the door. A sign read "Fleming Consulting." It looked completely inconspicuous. The lock buzzed open and we walked in.
And my jaw dropped.
Dungeons in New York are vaguely shabby affairs. They're hidden in industrial buildings, and they're always the chance that neighbors will complain and you'll lose your lease. So the owners, who don't tend to be rich, don't put a lot of money into their places.
This, though, was different. They spent money here.
We walked down a small, dark hallway. The walls were completely upholstered with black leather. We turned the corner to find a phone girl sitting behind a small glass desk. It held a new looking iMac and a vase of flowers. A black leather couch sat against one wall. Electronic music played softly from somewhere.
The phone girl was gorgeous, and fully done up in fetish gear. When she stood, I saw she was well over six feet tall. She had on heels, but I bet she'd be just as tall as Peter flat-footed.
We told her we were here to see Nola, and she opened up a door (covered in red leather) and led us down to another hallway, past their rooms. Some of them were opened and I peaked in. They were huge, each done up in a different theme, each done beautifully.
There was a schoolroom, with adult-sized school desks, a blackboard, a globe and old-school posters depicting the male and female reproductive systems. There was even a stool in the corner with a dunce cap.
There was a Chinese torture room, with a throne, a series of suspension devices, a whole lots of canes, and cases and cases of acupuncture needles
There was another room lined that was painted to look like the inside of a castle. I recognized most of the equipment — St. Catherine's cross, a rack, a pillory, even a wheel. I'd never seen one before, but I knew how it worked. The wheel is about six feet in diameter and is hung from the ceiling. The slave is tied backwards to the wheel at the wrist and ankle, which is already an uncomfortable position. At the bottom was a large wooden trough, which would be filled with water. The wheel would rotate slowly, and the slave would experience a drowning sensation as he was dragged through the trough.
These guys played hard. And I wanted to try out the wheel on myself.
But there was one item I did not recognize. It a triangular piece of wood (equilateral, to be precise), about two feet per side and six feet long, which had been lacquered to a high sheen.
"What's that?" I asked.
"It's called the Spanish horse, or the wooden horse," explained the phone girl. "The slave is suspended above, then lowered onto the top point of the triangle. He — or she, I think it actually works better with women — has all of his weight on his perineum., which is very painful. So he will try to support his weight by pressing his thighs against the horse. That will work for a minute or two, but soon his thighs will give out.
"If the slave is persistent, we'll tie small buckets to his feet and toss stones into them," she continued. That usually breaks him."
OK. Maybe I was out of my league here.
We passed a couple of rooms that were occupied. But I could hear screams coming from one, and sobbing coming from another. A woman sobbing, actually.
"Do you have many female clients?" I asked
"A lot," she said, "but they're almost always part of a couple — gay or straight. Sometimes they just play by themselves, and sometimes they use one of our pro dommes. But a lot of people are looking for a safe, clean place to play, and they're willing to pay a premium to get something nice. Room rentals are the bulk of our business."
Wow. That was completely different from New York. But these rooms looked like movie sets. I began to think Peter and I might need to make a return trip.
"And here we are," said the phone girl. "Enjoy."
We opened the door and walked into what looked like an operating room. Tile walls, tile floors. A drain in the middle of the floor. Huge surgical lights overhead. In the middle of the room was Peter, strapped into a medical chair.
His legs were spread as wide as they good go, and beige leather splints on his legs insured he couldn't move. He also had leather splints on his arms, and they were spread out from his body. A beige leather posture collar pushed his head forward slightly, so he could see what was about to happen to his cock. Three wide leather belts held his chest and waist in place. And a bright red ball gag was stuffed into his mouth. He could only move his fingers and toes — he was completely immobilized.
Nola stood in front of him, naked save for a white lab coat. Several surgical trays, covered with white sheets, were at her side.
"Ready, ladies?" she asked. "Why don't you come down her and have a seat?"
Around her were three high aluminum stools, like bar stools. We sat down and prepared to drink in the show.
"This is what's going up Peter's cock," she said.
She removed the cloth from the surgical tray. We saw sixteen shiny steel rods, divvied up into two groups.
"These are the rosebud sounds," Nola said, pointing to one of the groups. "They've acquired their name from the their enlarged tips which resemble, to the kinky eye, a rose which has yet to bloom. The rods are eleven inches long, and made from surgical-quality stainless steel, and weight several ounces each."
"Due to the risk of infection, the sounds were sterilized in an autoclave. And I washed my hands with a sanitizer just before you arrived. In addition, I will be using a surgical lubricant, one which contains an antimicrobial compound. Peter, I would recommend you urinate shortly after our session has ended. And then drink cranberry juice. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded his head slightly. The posture collar was doing a pretty good job of keeping his head in place.
Oh, and his drool was now coming out from around the ball gag. And his breathing was labored. I think he was scared about what he'd gotten himself into.
"And these are the Hegar sounds," she continued. "These have no tips, but are of uniform size all the way down the rod. What makes these different, and kinkier, is the slight s-shape to the sound. This results in a greater contortion of the urethra, and a more intense sensation for the patient. We will use these in the second round."
She took Peter's semi-flaccid cock in her hands and squeezed the head, opening the urethra. Then she inspected the collection of rosebud sounds, and selected one that looked too big to me. She applied surgical lube to the rosebud, then squeezed a drop into Peter's urethra.
She placed the sound onto of his pee-hole, and slowly pushed it in.
It was riveting. I'd never seen anything go into a penis before. Peter let out a loud, guttural moan. And she'd only gone in an inch.
She pushed again, and the sound went deeper into his cock He moaned louder, and his cock began to come back to life. Nola pushed again and again, and the sound was deep into his cock. Then she slowly pulled the whole thing out.
Peter moaned loudly and fought against his restraints. But he wasn't going anywhere.
Nola pushed the sound back in all the way, and slowly began to fuck Peter's cock with it. Bubbles of spit were spilling out from around his ball gag. I saw him try to buck his hips, to fuck the sound himself, but the restraints were too strong. His eyes were riveted to his cock, as inches and inches of stainless steel entered his cock.
My God. This was hot.
I looked at Lara and Val, and they were spellbound. None of us had ever seen something like this.
Then Nola picked up a rosebud that was just a little bigger. Peter's eyes were bugged out. I don't think he was in pain, but he was clearly freaked out.
This was intense.
A little more surgical lube, and Nola finessed the sound into his cock. Peter moaned louder now, and sounded like some kind of wounded animal. His cheeks were flushed, and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. He looked up to the ceiling, and succumbed to the inevitable. He let his cock get fucked.
Then Nola put down the sound and picked up another, slightly bigger sound. I looked down at his urethra. It seemed bigger — a little. But the sound Nola was going to use now looked to be twice of the size of the first one.
A little more lube, and she positioned the sound at the top of his cock. I thought I heard Peter whimper. But Nola was as cool as the proverbial cucumber. She started to corkscrew the sound into his cock, but then I saw her look up at Peter. She was enjoying her own show.
Peter looked at the ceiling and went silent. I saw him tense his body and just hold it. Nola moved the sound up and down slowly, and Peter closed his eyes. A few more strokes, and she withdrew the sound. Finally, Peter relaxed. But then he started twitching against his restraints.
I knew this reaction — he was having an orgasm. But there was no cum — a lot of pre-cum (his whole cock was soaked) — but no cum. He'd had an internal orgasm, like when's he fucked in the ass. But here it was the inside of his cock that got fucked.
