Twelve Maxbridge Street by AG31..,

FORWARD

This is a record of a fantasy, not an attempt to describe a real life dungeon, about which I know almost nothing.

Also, the story is heavily influenced by classic French erotica and so does not dwell on the main character’s inner thoughts and feelings. It may not be for everyone.

THE BEGINNING

He looked around his spacious, sparely furnished, perfect office. One of the perfect things was the large picture window overlooking the park across the street, just now leafing out for spring. Another perfect thing was the executive bathroom, roomy enough for a closet and shower.

Life was good. He relished his job. He had enough money to comfortably pay for a new, strange experience. And it was five o’clock, time to get ready for that experience. He stood up from his desk and went into the bathroom. A shower was required just as it was before a physical. Only this time, presumably, there would be many strangers examining him.

He soaped well, front and back. He looked at his reflection in the large mirror as he toweled off. His looks were another perfect thing in his life. Tall, but not grotesquely so. Well muscled, but not bulky. Masculine hair in all the right places, and in none of the wrong places. The suit he put on was, of course, perfect.

He chuckled silently to himself. Then there was his modesty.

As he left his office he looked over to his right where there was a large open plan area of desks. Pederson was, as usual, at the front desk. He was always struck by the misfortune that Pederson was the first employee the public saw on this floor, with his straight bangs, dumpling face and soft build. A good worker but not a good image. He couldn’t even remember Pederson’s first name. A defect in his character that he should attend to.

At the bottom of the wide curved stairway to the lobby was another slightly less than perfect employee. Stephanie was a good receptionist, but it always seemed to him that she was chewing gum. She wasn’t, of course. She just seemed that way.

He took some comfort in the knowledge that neither Pederson nor Stephanie would suspect he entertained such petty thoughts about them. He was well liked by his staff.

When he opened the door to the street he inhaled wonderful late afternoon spring air. The faint aroma of car exhaust added piquancy. He’d experienced a heightened sensuality all day and took pleasure from the feel of his suit along the length of his legs as he strode down the sidewalk.

He’d never been inside The Association’s building on Maxbridge, but he’d passed it often. One block up along the park and then another block and a few more paces. Three steps led down to a massive wooden door with a shiny brass handle. It opened easily.

A short carpeted set of stairs led down to a reception area defined by the same red carpet. On the left its curved edge marked the beginning of the parquet floor of a large hall. Just how large was impossible to tell because the lighting left the edges in darkness. Three sizeable round tables, about fifty feet apart, sat in circles of light, the table on one edge of the light, and mysterious structures on the other. Ah, those, whatever they are, are for me. The muscles between his legs contracted in a pleasant way, and his breath briefly became a little rapid and shallow. He paused for a moment to savor the sensations.

On the right of the reception area was a counter, a little above waist high.

There were a dozen or so people in the area, mostly couples, dressed in suits and cocktail dresses. He took in as many faces as he could without being caught staring. These were the ones. He stepped up to the reception desk where two were talking with the receptionist behind the counter, a young fresh faced woman, girlish. The woman patron said, “We have tickets for the bondage station, but we’d like to switch to punishment, if there are openings.”

“Are you certified?”

“Yes, we both are.”

“OK. Yes, there are two openings. I’ll switch you.”

Bondage. Punishment. The muscles between his legs contracted again. Ever since he’d begun the process of signing up for The Association, his body had begun to give him these pleasant little gifts. Muscles would contract… his sphincter, his thighs, various places in his abdomen or lower back when he reflected on what he was up to. Now it was no longer reflection, it was real.

The couple moved on and he stepped up. “Hi, John Faranger. I want to check in.”

The receptionist typed on her keyboard and scanned her screen. She brought her brows together. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t see your name for any of the stations.”

“I’m the subject,” he said. Following him in line a short woman in startling black framed glasses nudged her companion. She was looking at Faranger like a child who had spotted a much wished for Christmas present under the tree.

“Oh. Yes sir! I’m sorry. I don’t know how that happened. Of course.” The receptionist reached under the counter for a clipboard. “Here are just a few things we need to go through.” She checked her clipboard again, seeming new to the task, and brought a tape measure from under the counter. “Now can I measure your forearm, please?” He extended his arm and she measured from inside his elbow to his wrist and then wrote the measurement on her clipboard. The woman beside him was fascinated. “And what will your safe word be?”

“Armadillo” he answered, having no idea why he chose it. It was the last time the word entered his consciousness that evening.

“Of course, there will be no refunds, should you choose to use it.” Faranger nodded his understanding.

“OK. Great. Now, just a couple more things. You must do whatever an Associate tells you to do. And you may not touch yourself unless an Associate requires it. If you’d give me the contents of your pockets, we’ll keep them in the safe overnight. Now please remove all your clothing. You can leave it on that chair over there. They’ll be valeted for you before morning.”

A wave passed through Faranger’s torso as he looked through the gathering of people at the wooden armchair at the edge of the carpeted area. OK. He had stripped many times in locker rooms. He had a good body. And, of course, he was naked many times with desirable women. But that didn’t allay the weakness he was feeling. Doing this alone in a crowd of clothed people would be a challenge.

She continued, “When you’re naked, those two gentleman over there will take you to the first station.” Faranger looked where she was gesturing. Almost in shadows were two young body builder types dressed in khakis and yellow collared tee shirts. One was dark, Mediterranean looking, and one was blond with curly hair. “They will be your handlers for the night.”

When he reached the chair he took off his jacket and draped it on the back. He removed his tie and hung it there too. He started to unbutton his shirt when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the woman with the glasses. “Would you turn around and face us while you take off your clothes?” He turned around. “And look at me.” He raised his eyes to hers and finished removing his shirt. Most of the other people continued conversing among themselves, looking at him casually now and then. He sat down on the chair and slipped off his shoes and socks and then stood up, looked her in the face again, and put his hands to his buckle.