The Haunted Dungeon Ch 04

This is the fourth and final installment of The Haunted Dungeon. I am planning a spin-off detailing the adventures of the B&B's guests, so stay tuned. In the meantime, enjoy the finale of Saffron and Tony's story.

********

One month later...

"Saffy? Are you ever going to tell me what actually happened?" Pammy, my too-intuitive friend interrogated me at the tiny café just down from the museum where I worked.

I had studiously avoided this probing conversation from Pammy, knowing, ultimately, that it was inevitable. Luckily, the rush at James Joseph Designs, where Pammy worked, had prevented us from meeting up—until now.

But how could I possibly tell my best friend in the world that I was a masochistic submissive and that it was fear of what I would do, not what Tony would do to me, that forced my hand in leaving? I couldn't.

"It just got too intense, too fast. I had only met him on Friday, and my pattern is NOT to have a one-night stand."

Pammy grinned wickedly. "So, you did have sex with him, then? How was it?"

I needed to change the direction of this conversation—fast. "It was, as I said, intense. Can we please talk about something else now? How's work? How's that sexy boss of yours?" If there were one subject that could cause Pammy to go off on her tangent, it was her disgust at James Joseph, owner and head designer at the house she designed for.

Pammy harrumphed, and I knew I had distracted her enough to steer her thoughts away from Tony. As she launched into a tirade about his unfair criticisms of her newest designs, I inwardly wished that I could cause my own thoughts to cease their focus on Tony.

Not a waking—or sleeping—moment went by where I didn't think of him.

********

It probably did not help that the nature of my job was studying the academic and anthropological history of BDSM. My days were spent cataloguing primary documents—pictures and narratives—that focused on the depictions of BDSM.

Before meeting Tony, I had pictured myself as the submissive in those documents. Now, the Dominant in everything I viewed and catalogued was superimposed with Tony's face and body.

My dreams were not free of him, either. Hazy images, full of my darkest, most illicit fantasies, made sleeping comfortably an impossibility. I awoke several times each night wet, needy, and yearning for more of Tony's domination.

It was if my unconscious and subconscious were trying to fulfill my submissive cravings that would never be realized in my waking hours.

I didn't just miss Tony, though. The ghosts were frequently in my thoughts, especially Michelle. The intimacy that she and I shared from her melding with my brain caused her to know me as no one else ever had or ever would.

For the past month, it was these thoughts and emotions that made me a sluggish heap at work.

So, that's why, when my boss, the curator of the National Repository of Human Sexuality, Tamara Grover, summoned me into her office, I groaned inwardly.

Tamara had previously held my position as assistant curator of BDSM studies. I was in awe—and a bit scared—of the Amazonian Domme whose height exceeded mine by several inches before adding her trademark boots with a four-inch heel.

With a sigh, and hopefully a stronger showing of confidence than I felt, I tapped on the door of her office and entered at her sharp directive.

Tamara's red-slicked lips were curved in a smile directed at the dark-haired man opposite her at her desk.

"Here she is," Tamara grinned, gesturing at me. She was almost purring at this visitor. "Peter, meet Saffron Gray. Miss Gray is assistant curator of BDSM studies. She's exactly who I thought of when your client and you contacted me with his unusual proposition. Saffron, this is Pete Daniels. He's representing a client with an exciting idea for a private venture. I think you would be perfect to serve as our liason for the project. To give us some positive PR."

I gulped as I felt Mr. Daniels envelop his hand in mine, his eyes a visual caress. "So nice to meet you, Miss Gray. Call me Pete."

"And I go by Saffron—or Saffy," I clarified. He was very handsome with expertly styled dark hair and warm hazel eyes, but, despite his winning smile, he wasn't Tony.

If anything, the grin widened. "Saffy, then. I've heard so much about you; I feel as if I know you already. I'll tell you what. I need to contact my client briefly to hammer out the particulars. How about you and Saffy discuss some of what we've talked about, and I'll pick her up at 11:30 for lunch to schmooze her into accepting." This he spoke to Tamara before taking her hand and lightly kissing her knuckles.

She sighed, nearly cooing as he left her office. "That man is sex on a shingle. If it weren't for the fact he is extremely dominant, I would tear off his clothes where he sat. He almost makes me want to turn switch."

My eyes widened as I tried to visualize Tamara submitting to any man. The idea seemed as laughable as me becoming dominant.

"Anyway," Tamara intoned, segueing into the work part of the conversation, "Pete's client is opening a BDSM-oriented business, and he needs help making sure that things are accurate. I know you have no practical experience with BDSM," here I flushed and looked down at my hands twisting restlessly in my lap, "but your knowledge and attention to detail make up for any detriments your inexperience may cause."

"What sort of business is it?" was my breathless question. "A club?"

Tamara glared at me. "I will let Pete fill you in on that and his client's expectations. The business is on the up-and-up, however. I privately investigated it. His client has filed for all the permits and business documentation he needs to. And it hardly needs to be said that Pete's client's willingness to pay, not only your expenses, salary, and benefits while you are under his employ, but also a hefty bonus to you and the repository, will go a long way to meeting our yearly budget."

I bit my lower lip and nodded. The researcher's lament—money, money, money. Was it better to be constantly scrambling for money or to be pimped out as a consultant? "You may go, Saffron," Tamara reminded me.

Heading back to my desk, I decided to forget about that job and focus instead on a series of letters a former representative of the Boston area in the Senate wrote to his wife and submissive in the 1890s while she remained home. My job was to catalogue and transcribe them.

The letters themselves were heart stirring missives of love and passion on the surface. But, digging deeper, he referred more than once to her daily tasks—and did not mean housecleaning.

So lost was I in his words and hers of longing back to him, transcribing his messy scrawl and her flowing hand, that Pete had to clear his throat several times to get my attention.

"Wha?" I whispered. I wiped my eyes that leaked tears of perfect beauty of their love, a love that reminded me so much of Auguste and Michelle.

Pete chuckled, a warm sound that welled up from deep within. "You are a romantic, I see," he said, reading the most recent letter over my shoulder.

"A bit. I guess." Great, I thought. Socially awkward me was taking over. Tamara was going to be THRILLED if I disgusted a client with my inability to display even a bit of social poise. "Are you ready?" I stammered.

"Of course," was his gracious reply.

I stood, and he smiled approvingly at my choice of dress for the day—a pale pink A-line, sleeveless, with a white chiffon shawl, pink pumps, and a string of pearls. After returning to Boston, it seemed as if I wore something vaguely constricting around my neck every day.

"We will take my car," Pete offered.

I blushed. "Um, okay," I agreed.

"I'm going to take you to a restaurant I used to go to as an undergrad. They have amazing chowder. In fact, I'm hoping to get the recipe today for one of my client's—employees," he concluded after a brief pause.

I smiled. "That's nice of you," I murmured.

"Nice. Yeah. That's why I'm doing it." He rolled his eyes, an action that made him appear more boyish.

We arrived at the Salty Dog, a restaurant that I had been to before and liked, and the owner greeted Pete by name with a huge hug.

"Remember you promised me that you would give me the recipe on this visit," he reminded her.

"Sure, sure, you'll have it—for your friend, right?" she asked with a suggestive wink. Did she think I was the one who wanted it?

We perused our menus, ordered, and, while waiting for our food, I decided I couldn't wait anymore. "Can you tell me some more about this mystery client of your sand the mystery job I will have to do?"

"You will be responsible for helping to launch his business. Your consult is integral to its success, in fact. You will help design the interior to meet certain thematic experiences for his customers." The description of my work was maddeningly tantalizing.

"But what IS his business?" I pressed.

His smile was secretive. "I really want to draw this out, but I don't think that would be fair to you. It's for a hotel, of sorts."

Suddenly, I had a sinking feeling of who his client was. "Do you represent Anthony Damon?"

"Tony. Yes," he grinned. "He knows you are the best one for the job and sent me here to hire you."

I sat there, mutely in shock, until the owner of the Salty Dog presented Pete with the recipe. "That's for Michelle, isn't it?" I blurted.

His wince confirmed it.

"I have some thinking to do," I whispered as our food arrived.

********

Three weeks later, I stood in the same spot I had stood almost two months earlier. While I had agreed to Tony's generous terms, I was still apprehensive about the feelings and desires he inspired within me.

Since accepting the temporary position, the dreams had not abated; in fact, they had only grown more vividly salacious. Last night, I writhed on the hotel bed fantasizing about the clamps Tony had not used on me that last day together.

I remembered his warning about them. "Don't worry, pet; the clamps aren't in your future—yet."

Shivering despite the heat, I rang the doorbell. It was as if I stepped back in time two months. Tony, in the same jeans and white tee, slowly opening the door and the blast of spectral-induced frigid air coming out to greet me.

"H-hi," I stammered again, just as before.

Tony stood there. Mute. Unsmiling. Finally breaking the spell of gloom enough to greet me formally. "Miss Gray. I hope your trip was pleasant."

I had eschewed the free trip on the private jet, opting to drive Old Blue down again, much to Pete's consternation.

To be honest, the formality of Tony's tone chilled me further. With the same degree of detachment, I responded, "It was perfectly lovely. Thank you, Mr. Damon."

No one could imagine from that passionless exchange that our meeting two months earlier had been its exact antithesis.

He stepped back, and I entered, rolling my suitcase behind me, the wheels making a soft clacking on the newly completed checkerboard tile floor of the foyer.

Pete was coming down the stairs; his eyes lit up when he saw me. "Saffy! Here, let me get that for you." He bounded down the rest of the steps and grasped my suitcase. "Michelle's room, right, Tony?" When Tony nodded, Pete began lugging it upstairs.

"Thank you," I called after him, and he gave me a thumbs up.

Leaving me alone with Tony, who looked as uncomfortable as I felt. "If it's okay, I will go upstairs and unpack. I have some ideas I would like to go over with you—afterward."

"That's fine." He seemed relieved to be rid of me for a bit. I slipped past him to scamper up the stairs. Once I climbed the stairs to the third floor, out of sight of Tony, I sighed heavily.

Part of me had been worried that I would not be able to resist his advances or requests for sex. I had not considered him not wanting me any longer. Conceited of me, I know. His lack of interest left me feeling bereft.

I entered Michelle's room and was not surprised that an arctic chill pervaded the room. All seven ghosts looked up at my arrival.

Flashing a wobbly smile at them all—particularly Michelle, I walked resolutely over to my bag and began to unpack.

"Hello, Saffy." The deeper, accented tones of Auguste.

"Hello, Auguste, Sir."

That seemed to break the ice. Michelle approached me, tears in her eyes. "We've missed you."

I bit my lip. "I'm just here to do a job. Tony doesn't even want me anymore."

Seven pairs of eyes stared disbelieving at me. "It's true. I'm not even Saffy to him; I'm Miss Gray. Just another employee. But it's okay. I've got great ideas for the rooms here. I'm going to do an excellent job, and he will be pleased and the B&B will be a success. Then, I will go home to Boston." Alone, I finished, ending the blurting babble in my head.

Dorothy, the one most like me in personality, ventured a question. "What are your plans for the rooms?"

"Nothing too horrible," I answered with a grateful smile to her for changing the subject. I remembered that Tony had mentioned about Dorothy's protectiveness about the library. "For the public rooms on the first floor, it's merely an attempt to fetishize the rooms—tastefully. Pulling the rooms together with a specific theme."

I paused, licking my lips, warming to the ideas. In the three weeks it took to get ready to work here, I thought of little else except how the rooms would look.

Okay, that was a fib. I thought of nothing else but Tony and me within those rooms, experiencing every bit of play to be had there.

"When I was here—before—Tony had mentioned wanting the guest suites to each have a different theme with a unique name."

"Ooo, like what?" Georgia asked. The others appeared as intrigued.

I started to answer, but then I realized that I felt Tony's presence behind me. "If it's okay with Mr. Damon, you could join us for our first business meeting."

The ghosts exchanged uncertain glances, probably more from my subdued tone than from my suggestion that they join us.

"It's fine with me if it's okay with Miss Gray. This is, after all, your home," Tony generously offered.

"I would like that," forcing myself not to remind Tony that it was my idea.

Tony nodded. "Then, let's adjourn to the library."

I followed the ghosts and him out of Michelle's room, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the library.

A massive oak desk and executive chair had been added to the room, so much like the one I had fantasized there two months ago. I thought for a moment that I had conjured it.

Immediately, memories of those fantasies flooded my mind. Of being ordered to bend over his knee or over the desk to receive chastisement at his direction and his desires. I shook my head to clear the image, but it continued to haunt me, making my pussy drip.

"So, Miss Gray, you have the floor." That same coldly businesslike voice. At the rate he was going, my panties would be wrecked from his icy nonchalance within minutes.

"Thank you, Mr. Damon," all milquetoast politeness. "I'll begin with the public rooms on this floor. I envision more the evocative, a light touch rather than a heavy-handed teasing of a kinkster's senses."

I licked my suddenly dry lips. "For instance, in here, with Dorothy's approval, more of an English country manor feel. The desk and chair make a great start. But I am also thinking lamps, maybe a painting depicting a foxhunt. Riding crops and canes in the drawers of the desk within easy reach."

My breathing grew rapid, and I had to pause briefly to collect myself. I studiously avoided looking anywhere except at my notes.

"For the conservatory, how about adding a fig tree or two? Delicious, syrupy figs can be considered aphrodisiacs. Also, and I know this may be difficult or cost prohibitive, maybe a water feature could be added, a small lagoon or a waterfall."

I looked up shyly and saw that most were seriously considering what I was saying. Michelle and Auguste were actively nodding.

"I envision mirrors around the walls of the dining room, above the wainscoting. The chairs around the table would be specially designed to easily restrain its occupants. The dining room table would also be fitted with restraints in case a body buffet is to happen.

"Now," I said, "my plans for the lounge are not as well-defined, but I keep coming back to a 1950s theme, kind of a swingers' theme. A wet bar and everything. Chaises to allow for multiples."

Flushing hotly despite the frostiness the ghosts wrought, I looked up to gauge Tony's opinion or reaction.

He smiled, albeit thinly. "I like your ideas. We will begin obtaining components of the rooms tomorrow. But what about the guest suites?"

"The themes of these are definitely more obviously a fetishist's delight."

"How so?" Tony wondered aloud.

"Room 1: As a mirror to the lounge, this room will be all swanky dominance and submission. The Master's Suite, if you'll pardon the pun."

Auguste chuckled, and even Louise's lips twitched.

"Room 2: the Gothic Suite, maybe with a vampire motif. Very stark, black, white, and red." Dorothy smiled with approbation.

"Room 3: The Marquis Suite. Do I really need to say anything else?" Louise's eyes lit up, as did Michelle's and Auguste's, and I noticed that Tony's dark eyes flared. Ponder that later, I urged myself.

"For those with an Oriental bent, I offer up Room 4: the harem or the Pasha Suite." Georgia and Alice tittered together over that one.

I cleared my throat. "Room 5 would be another room with a historical bent—the Victorian Suite. Floggers, birch rods, various restraints, and ginger bits for figging would be supplied in that room." Smiling, I felt myself grow more confident.

"Room 6 would be the Blackbeard Suite for those who love all things piratical. For the truly 'knotty' submissive." I held up my fingers to make air quotes for the word "knotty."

A chuckle from behind me made me jump. "It sounds great, Saffy," Pete proclaimed, applauding. "I already have several ideas I would like to try."

"Room 7 would be an over-the-top brothel room. The Crimson Suite. Also fairly self-explanatory. Room 8 would have much of the dungeon feel." Here I paused, gulping hard as memories of two months ago threatened to overtake me. My eyes sought Tony out, and his gaze sharpened on me.

I closed my eyes to escape his intense regard. "The Royal Suite would have a castle or medieval feel. With overtones of rough stone and iron."

Instead, I focused on Alice. The next room was specifically a peace offering after our last discussion. "Room 9 would be for caregivers and their littles. Interest-appropriate cartoon bed linens, cartoons on the TV, bright colors, a toy chest field with boy toys or girl toys depending on the interests of the little, the works. Including a snack cupboard stocked with 'little' snacks and juice boxes. And an optional candy buffet."

I made sure to catch Alice's line of sight. "I would call it the Wonderland Suite." Alice's sky-blue eyes filled with tears, and she smiled quaveringly. Behind her, Louise mouthed a silent "Thank you."

"Room 10 is going to seem a bit of a cop-out, but the Rose Suite, as I would call it, would be the quintessential romantic B&B suite. Pastels, lots of chintz, a romantic getaway for kinksters."

"I can see the need for that, Miss Gray," Tony interrupted.

Pete looked curiously from Tony to me and back again. "What's with the 'Miss Gray' business? Auguste told me what happened before."

Tony turned to glare at Auguste, who stared blandly back.

"It's my fault, of course," I whispered, struggling to keep my breathing even. "I left with nothing more than a letter. Because I was scared of what I wanted to do, what I wanted him to do to me, when I was here before."

"And now?" Pete prompted when I ran out of steam.

"And, now, nothing has changed there. I'm still not okay with it. I'm here to do a job. The best damn job I can."