Subterraneanspace

1761 words. After we graduated from high school we rented a house together near the Junior College in Llano. Jamie, Lisa and Lillian were 18, Eva and Kristin were 19, George and Paul were 20.

How and why we built a dungeon in our basement - 1980

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It was so wonderful to just "be," to passively experience and not to actively plan. I much prefer to come up with a loose "script," or a guide and use it to improvise. Sex play is the one time in life that I can just turn my big brain off. Humans have HUGE brains relatively speaking. I can just be an object used by my lovers for their selfish enjoyment. I was a runner in high school and beyond. I understand pushing yourself. It is true: no pain - no gain. Our bodies were not made to sit in a five wheeled chair between dividers in the day and then on a sofa all evening.

I know my playmates and trust that no matter how much they hurt me, how much they push me into the new and unfamiliar, they will never intentionally permanently injure me. I have already given permission for them to use me. I said that I wanted to play rough. I want Paul to just use my body to get himself off. I don't want George to ask me if he should do something, I just want him to go ahead and do it. I know Eva and Jamie watching me as we play, that Lillian and Kristin are aware of my physiology before they shove their hands up my twat or ass and fist me.

When Kristin ties me to the padded table and Jamie squeezes my buds really hard to make me open my mouth wide as George sticks his penis down my throat and Paul simultaneously pushes his magnificent hardness mercilessly into my soppy wet vagina, I can easily pretend that I am just a lump of inanimate clay spinning around. Spinning just like my head was spinning, formless clay being transformed, manipulated by six skilled potters on a wheel into a beautiful magnificent artistic creation.

Paul and George both love riding on roller coasters. They know it's statistically safer to ride on a coaster than it is to drive the car 100 miles to the amusement park to ride that coaster. But our brains don't compute the true risks. They aren't programmed that way. So like in a magic trick you know the secret to, when they break character to behave or speak - or to play act something that would be awful in reality - the older reptilian part of my brain is reacting to the given stimulus. That 'ole "fight or flight" reaction is dumping endorphins and endocannabinoids into me making me fly high and feel no pain.

The newer part of my brain is buffering that stimuli, converting pain or fear or both into delicious quantities of sexual excitement. At some level I know I am not being physically injured, raped or having parts of my body sliced off of me. I understand that I won't be mutilated, crippled, strangled or left bound to expire from exposure. But just as the roller coaster aficionado knows that the car always pulls way up before it hits the rapidly approaching ground, his brain reacts to the visual stimuli of impending doom as well.

Keloid scars are slightly raised and slightly different in texture and color than the surrounding tissue. I have quite a few of them from the whip on my buttocks, a few on my breasts, and three small ones from flash brands on my pubis. I love those marks. When l look at them and when I touch them I start to lubricate involuntarily. They hurt when they were being made like my muscles hurt when I ran the two races I actually won in school. Those marks are my ribbons, trophies that nobody can ever take away from me.

I understand how people who don't know their partners inside out like safewords to give themselves a small measure of control. Why they play with those they don't trust, on the other hand, is totally inexplicable to me. But if you can just stop the game, then it isn't real. I trust that my lovers know what they are doing and they won't permanently injure me. I specifically don't want to think while I am being tormented, I want to be abjectly subject to their whims. I enjoy being tied up with George or Paul's penis deep in my throat cutting off my air supply. I know they will let me breathe, eventually.

I enjoy being tied to the padded wooden bench face-up, having my vagina slapped hard with a hand, riding crop, paddle, strap or flogger, and then immediately being penetrated and fucked hard. The sensations imparted by each tool are deliciously different. It would be great fun to do a doctoral dissertation in physics studying the different forces exerted on different erogenous structures from different impact play implements and the resulting stimulus received, I wonder who I should send my grant proposal for the research to, and I find it equally fun to be tied face-down and whipped before being buggered.

Sometimes when we all play together only one of the girls is gagged and tied to the bench. Unable to ask for relief except with her eyes, her pelvis and hip movements. I don't really masturbate anymore, at least not beyond a brief second or two of touching a scar and remembering exactly how I got it. It's a selfish act, my lovers will make me come if they want me to come. There have been many times when they lovingly finger-fucked me in the shower as they gave me an enema preparing me for later.

After drying off I might slip on the apron mom gave me, in order to safely cook naked. Mom, whose breasts and butt have the same keloids but in much greater numbers than mine. We are both pale in complexion, so they are not easy to see. Shortly after I moved here I asked her about them. Where they came from, she smiled and blushed and changed the subject which was probably a very good move. What could she have said about receiving them from my father that their daughter would have comprehended? It was something I would have to experience to appreciate the sublime joy of.

There, naked, but for mom's apron, I might mix a batter from scratch to make us all a sweet dessert. A cookie, cake or a pie that my tormentors would later enjoy as I was tied to the bench in the basement and teased, whipped and fucked really hard. Sometimes we all sat down and had a nice naked dinner together that one of us girls made. We laughed and drank wine and one of us got really, really wet thinking about the fact that after we did the dishes, while our food settled we'd walk down those stairs to the basement and be tied to the bench.

Like no safe words, I believe in no pre-conditions. We are a polygamous family unit. We have committed to live out our lives together, so we don't have to worry about our playmates making poor short-term choices. They will each be here when the bill comes due. If someone wants to, then I am game. Anal sex is a staple of ours. That usually means enemas to prepare for anal sex, lots of olive oil and rapeseed oil used as lube, and lots of additional enemas to clean it all out. Best of all, each one of those intimate acts is deliciously submissive by nature.

As an example of how stable relationships self-level, we tried inverse suspensions where the girl hung upside down. Aesthetically it's a very pretty and seemingly practical position, putting her mouth right at penis level. Not one of us liked it, however. Personally, I got dizzy and sick to my stomach. Buggering your playmate while she is screaming is sexy, face fucking her while she is barfing is not. Once one person rolfs in an enclosed party space that pretty much destroys the mood for the night.

Besides, there are plenty of other things to try out. It's funny, mom told me about the joys of anal sex. She didn't actually say "it's fun you should try it." But it was a focal point of a really detailed sex talk the three of us had just before Jamie and I moved into our own place. That talk was a recognition that we were all adults. The subject was our giving and receiving of sexual pleasure. Growing up we had lived on a farm. We knew where baby cows, sheep, goats, etc. came from. The extrapolation to humans was not a difficult one.

Mom told us that "many people" found that anal sex was an excellent way to have fun without getting pregnant, that an enema before hand made you feel really clean and confident, and that pushing out while being penetrated was the key to minimizing pain. I love the fact that at the appropriate times she told all of this to Paul, George and Ethan too, so they could share the information with the women in their lives. Ethan's wife Claire is the biggest butt-slut that I know, and that is really saying something.

I've spent a lot of time tied to that wooden bench and a lot suspended by ropes holding my beloved polished black leather wrist cuffs over my head. I adore getting fondled, fingered or fisted by one of the girls as I receive an enema to remove the boy's spunk from my ass. Or a douche to remove the lemon pulp from my vagina. For additional fun, sometimes we add a couple drops of castile soap to the enema water. The soap creates a wonderful series of abdominal cramps as your autonomic nervous system tries to get the offending but benign mixture out of you. The old red rubber bags accommodate a tray of ice cubes pretty well too.

That basement was a Holy space, where we learned as much as or more than we did in college. Behind its opaque window coverings and soundproofed by the other objects we had moved away from the centered floor drain to line its four concrete block walls. We placed the padded wooden bench on one side of the drain in the concrete floor. The enema station was located directly over that drain and a shower head was installed to the side of a column nearest the back door. Four patio chairs on two opposing sides with two little tables between them - for our obligatory drinks and cookies - completed our basement fun room.