Her Secret Dungeon

by Aster Zhen

  Her Secret Dungeon

  By Aster Zhen

  Copyright 2013 by Aster Zhen

  Table of Contents

  Her Secret Dungeon

  Bonus Content

  About the Author

  Summary

  Her Secret Dungeon

  She knows what she wants. Today, it’s time.

  She’s never met a girl she couldn’t break, and her newest prize is no exception. She’s beautiful. Spirited. Will this new girl be a keeper, or will she become just a toy, like all the others?

  This erotic story is 3500 words (14 pages) long, and is suitable for reading in a single session.

  Warnings: lesbian kidnapping fantasy, female domination, bondage, strap-on, oral, anal. Contains very strong language and explicit sexual content between adults aged 18 and over. Adult-only themes may offend or disturb some readers.

  Her Secret Dungeon is recommended for daring readers who love lesbian kidnapping fantasies.

  Her Secret Dungeon

  She’s seated at a café, hair swept back, strands twirling around her fingers as she talks, her gaze earnest and direct. Her friend laughs at a joke she’s made, and leans in, crumbs of cake dripping from his fork as he raises it forward. She parts her lips, and takes the offering, sugar dusting the corners of her mouth.

  She’s holding his hand on the porch, planting a kiss goodbye on his cheek. Her lipstick stains him, a plum-coloured splodge of lines and whorls. Her door opens, and I step out from behind its frame. She opens her mouth to scream, and my hand closes over her jaw. Now I, too, am marked; lipstick smears across my palm as she struggles to breathe, fingers curled into claws and scratching at my face.

  Her nails are like razors, acrylic and painted purple, the edges deceptively sharp. Blood trickles down my cheek. It’s nothing.

  I shift my grip for a better angle, and stab her in the neck. Liquid fire fills her veins as I squeeze down on the trigger, a pinprick of blood welling up as the needle leaves her skin. The effects happen slowly; her eyes mist over, hands falling limp by her sides. She collapses into my arms, her body slumping forwards.

  She’s in the back of my van, hair falling over her face, her chest gently moving with her breath. I sweep her fringe to one side, and she sighs in her sleep.

  When we’re home, when we’re safe, she opens her eyes and inhales to scream, her voice muffled and incoherent.

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “You’re going to be all right.”

  She doesn’t believe me now, but she will.

  *

  It took me a while to find her. I’m always looking for certain qualities. It wasn’t so much a look that had to be specific, but her needs, her expectations. A certain amount of malleability was essential, but too much would bore me.

  I’d watched her for months, but she’d never seen me, I think, before the accident.

  I was late on the scene. The police came first, lights blazing on their cars, traffic cones blocking the street. I stepped out of the ambulance, and my heart stopped when I saw the drivers.

  I reached her before anyone else, ignoring the other bystanders. “Are you hurt?” I asked. She was standing, tears making wet paths down her face, hands shaking and streaked with blood.

  “She’s gone,” she kept repeating, as I sat her down and tweezed shards of ceramic from her hands.

  “She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.”

  A drunk driver had swerved into her passenger’s side, damaging both cars. No fatalities, except a single urn of granny’s ashes that she’d been bringing home from the crematorium.

  Her car was a mess. The police had to drive her home, helping her with the seat belt as she fumbled with her bandaged fingers. Ash clung to her dress, and grains danced in the air as a breeze swept along, raising her skirt until I could see the inner line of her thighs.

  There’s something so stark about grief, so beautiful. Watching her, with tears and snot dripping down her face, hands clutching at the flakes of ash and skin, I just knew it:

  She was the one.

  “You’ll always have your grandmother,” I told her as they closed the door, sealing her into the police car, “in your heart.”

  She looked at me, and said nothing.

  *

  She is wet. Wet enough for me to slide two fingers into her without meeting much resistance.

  “Are you comfortable?” I ask.

  She can’t respond, but blinks, hard, tears welling at the corners of her eyes.

  I remove my fingers and taste her, running my tongue over the smooth satin of her slit, finding the gentle rise of her pearl. She hisses at me, like a cat, but I tease and tease until her little nub is hard and swollen, exposed to my touch.

  These are the good times.

  *

  At first, she pleads.

  “Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. Please let me go. Please, please, please.”

  After a few days, she gets on to the screaming, shouting abuse that makes me colour on her behalf.

  “Don’t you know who I am? The police will be looking for me, you sicko! I hope you rot in prison forever! I hope you get cancer and your tits fall off and you die of fucking aids from the fucking dykes who fuck you every night in your sad little cell, you monster!”

  It’s okay. I’ve heard it all before.

  *

  Wednesday is story time.

  “How old were you when you first had an orgasm?”

  She looks at me, eyes red.

  “Use your fingers,” I say.

  Her index taps against her thigh. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  “Were you at home? One tap for yes. Two taps for no.”

  Her finger moves, once, then stills.

  “Did anyone catch you?”

  She tries to move her head. Strands of her hair catch on the metalwork surrounding her, and I have to free them, before they rip loose from her scalp.

  “Two for no,” I remind her.

  She makes a gurgling noise in her throat. Sometimes the most innocuous question can set them off.

  “You have to be honest with me. Have you forgotten?”

  It’s too late. She screams around her gag, twisting in her bonds, skin growing red where the ropes rub, knots pulling tight.

  I wonder, briefly, if she might choke on her own spittle, but decide that it’s worth taking a risk.

  “We’ll continue this next Wednesday,” I say, before leaving the room and shutting the door behind me.

  I’m not going to leave her for a whole week, of course, but she can’t be sure. Right up to the moment the door swings back open, she’ll be waiting, wondering if I’ll return or if I’ve doomed her to a cruel and lonely death.

  I’ve read all the textbooks, and I’ve assessed my methods. They’ve worked well for me so far.

  After all, my graduation rate is one hundred per cent.

  *

  She’s in the bath. It’s night. Her wet hair slides through my fingers, suds clinging to it and gleaming as their bubbles burst.

  I slide my hand down her body, briefly cupping her breasts before settling at the junction of her legs. She stiffens when I find her, her mouth opening in an ‘O’.

  “Please,” she says, “please not now. I’m still sore.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  She turns her head, with difficulty, but manages to catch me in the periphery of her vision.

  “Let me lick you instead,” she says, her lips pouted as though eager to taste me. “I can make you feel good.”

  We finish the bath. I dry her off, and we adjourn to the bedroom, me in front, leading her on as she shuffles her feet, tiny awkward steps trailing water onto my beautiful soft carpet, he
r knees held almost straight the whole time. My hand is enough to keep from falling, and when she reaches her bed, I unlock the bar around her calves and she collapses gratefully onto her knees.

  I sit on the bed before her, and she hunches, looking up at me.

  “Well? Show me.”

  She leans in, glancing up first for permission, before closing her teeth around the hem of my skirt. She raises it over my hips, the fabric bunching and creasing, etched with her teeth marks. Dental work never lies, but she has no record, nothing to compare to if anyone finds her, years from now, and sees her small white teeth, gleaming in the remains of her face.

  Her gaze meets mine, and I wonder what she sees in me. Her fate? Her destiny?

  I hold my skirt back to give her greater access, and she tugs on my panties, first one side, then the other, sliding them down over my hips and to my feet. Her breath is warm against my skin, almost ticklish.

  “You haven’t done this before, have you?”

  She pauses, then shakes her head. Red colours her cheeks. It’s so easy to make her blush.

  I slip my panties off my feet, and shift my weight on the bed, opening my knees. “Don’t be shy.”

  She presses in, her tongue touching my lips, kissing my clit. Every part of her is soft and warm and wet, her tongue drawing circles on me and tracing up and down my slit.

  It’s not her clumsy touches that make me sigh, that make me clutch her skull with both hands, forcing her close to me. It’s not her sharp intake of breath when my fingers twist in her hair, or the long pause between the strokes of her tongue; gentle flicks, then deep, plunging thrusts.

  It’s not what she does. It’s what she fails to do.

  Every time she presses her mouth to me, warm and soft, gentle, yielding; every time she swallows, as though her throat is parched; every time she presses her kisses on me, she loses a piece of herself.

  Inside, she’s just dying to rip me to pieces with her teeth; bite and tear until there is nothing left but a bloody, gaping hole.

  She pauses and looks up, her lower lip trembling. I tug her head back by her hair.

  “Did I tell you to stop?”

  I hit her once across the face, hard enough that the sound echoes. She starts to cry.

  “Finish what you started,” I say, and pull her back into position.

  She’s still sobbing when she touches me, and the tremors quiver up through her tongue directly onto my clit.

  “Just like that. Suck me, you dirty slut.”

  She doesn’t respond, but I know the hate in her is alive, glowing, growing from smouldering ashes to a roaring fire.

  This is what keeps me warm at night.

  *

  It’s Saturday night, and I’m exhausted. At least I don’t need to go anywhere to find a date.

  “Like this?” she asks, her fingers kneading into the knots in my back.

  “Harder.”

  I lean into her touch as she increases the pressure, her slim fingers working magic on my muscles. “How does it make you feel, pleasuring me?”

  She pauses for a second before correcting herself, her fingers moving in slow arcs. I can almost hear her mind working, trying to produce the right answer.

  “Good,” she says at last.

  I don’t believe her for a moment, but I let it slide. It’s Saturday night. Even God had a day of rest.

  *

  Narrow streams of sunlight glint in her hair, divided by sleek vertical lines. She’s quiet now, barely a whimper escaping her mouth. I touch her shoulders, trailing my hand down over her smooth, sweat-slicked skin. Her hands bunch into fists, bound together in a sheath of rope that extends from her forearms to her wrists, forcing her arms over her head.

  The air is still. Nothing moves except for my fingers, gliding over her body, tracing every red line marked on her flesh.

  The ropes creak. Her hair falls forwards to hide her face, and she inhales sharply when I run my fingers under the curve of her breasts. Her skin there remains untouched, a blank canvas for my questing hands.

  She’s changed since I’ve found her. No longer that girl sitting at that coffee shop, laughing, flirting, twirling her hair around her fingers. My hands close around her ribs, feeling their faint outlines. Every day, every hour spent with me strips a little more away from her, until all that’s left is mine alone. My Galatea.

  The smooth curves of her ass are criss-crossed with lines, narrow and red as virgin blood. She flinches when I touch them, rising up on her toes to arch away from me.

  “Does that hurt?” I ask, running my nail across a welt.

  She tugs down on the rope, and sways on her feet, her bare toes scuffing the concrete floor.

  It’s been long enough. I unhook the carabiner pinning her to the ceiling, and she drops to her knees, arms still bound before her. I take my time, putting away the stepladder; everything in its place. Including her.

  It takes slightly longer to unwind the rope from her skin, the knots pulled tight by resistance and gravity. She doesn’t look at me, slumped with her knees pressed together.

  “Up.”

  She lurches to her feet, hugging her arms close to her, rubbing at the red marks. I stand aside as she regains her balance.

  “Please,” she says. “Please, may I dress first?”

  Her skin was molten when I touched her, but she shivers all the same. I’m not without mercy. “You may.”

  She has nothing but a T-shirt at hand, folded neatly under the rack of my favourite toys. She tugs it over her head, and it hangs loosely from her body, the hem short enough to expose the curve of her ass. It’s a hand-me-down, and the neck gapes, the fabric worn and fraying. Somehow it makes her look younger, more vulnerable.

  “Come here.”

  She walks to me. If there’s fear in her eyes, she hides it well. I tilt her chin up to kiss her. She has always been a great kisser; respectful, dynamic. Her mouth is soft under mine.

  “On the bed, please.”

  As she walks into position, I choose from a selection of dildos. When I return, she’s kneeling on the bed, head down and feet spread wide apart. Both her hands rest in the small of her back. I don’t bother tying her; we’re beyond that.

  I show her the dildo, and she doesn’t need any further instruction, taking it in her mouth and swallowing as much as she can. It’s one of those double-ended kinds, with a shaft at one end and a bulb at the other for the wearer in place of a harness. She pays both sides equal attention, her tongue swirling around the moulded silicon.

  “Thank you,” I say, running my fingers through her hair and taking the dildo away from her. I undress, removing my tight, buttoned-down shirt, bra, pencil skirt, and panties. I leave on my stockings, and equip myself with the dildo, inserting the bulbous end into my pussy.

  I reach between her legs, feeling the slipperiness of her wet, smooth lips. My fingers draw lazy circles around her clit, and she gulps, her hands clenching in the small of her back.

  I spread her open, and guide my shaft inside. She whimpers, her breath exhaling in a hiss. I love the feeling of her enveloping me—even though it isn’t me, of course, but rather this extension of me. I would fill her all the time, if it was safe to do so.

  “I’m not wet enough,” she gasps, straining around my cock. “May I please touch myself?”

  “Yes.”

  She shuffles until she’s kneeling up, with me still pinned inside her. One hand goes underneath her T-shirt to her breasts, and the other reaches between her legs, fingering her clit.

  I watch her in the mirror on the opposite wall, her eyes half-closed, knees spread wide apart, the bright pink of my cock jutting out from her. She’s so beautiful, like this primal figure of sex and atonement, her arms streaked red with rope marks.

  I move inside her, guiding her hips down onto my shaft, my fingers gripping her inner thighs so hard that I think they might bruise. I watch myself kissing the nape of her neck, covering her fingers with my own over her breasts,
and squeezing.

  “You were made to be fucked by me,” I say, my arm tight around her waist, hugging her to me.

  “Yes,” she gasps, sliding into up and down on my cock. “I belong to you.”

  She’s such a liar, but I want to believe her. She turns and kisses me, twisting her neck awkwardly to do so. I appreciate the gesture.

  I thumb on the vibration in my cock. “Look at yourself.” I grab her hair and twist her head until she’s staring at her reflection in the mirror, at her beautiful body impaled on my cock. My arms tighten around her, holding her legs open. She sobs, but continues to touch herself as I thrust, obedient to the last.

  I feel her tensing, trying to hold back, but I don’t want her discipline today.

  “You may.”

  She tightens around me, head flinging forwards in a soundless cry, hands curling into fists. I feel her pulse in her thigh, measuring her heartbeat. It’s the one thing that doesn’t lie.

  “Stay,” I tell her, and extract the dildo from her body, placing it to one side. She shivers, hunching over, knees pressed together, her arms around herself, curled up into a ball.

  I return to my toy collection, then select another dildo, this one three-pronged like a misshapen tuning fork. Only one prong is for me.

  “On your back.”

  She turns over, and looks at what I’m wearing, eyes widening. She leans back on the pillows, and spreads her legs for me, holding her knees apart. Her pussy is creamy from our last fucking, open and wet for me. I spread lube on my finger and rub it around her asshole, pressing it into her. She squeals with true horror. It’s nice to know I can still get a reaction.

  I let her touch my shaft, spreading the lube herself on both cocks. Her fingers glisten, sticky with the stuff, as if she’s just frigged a whole cheerleading squad.

  “Take off the shirt.”

  She presses her lips together, but removes her T-shirt, rolling it up over her head to expose her breasts. Her nipples stand to attention amidst her smooth curves. I take one in my mouth and she whimpers, straining to get away from me. There’s only a few days left to her period, so she’s supersensitive, flinching at the merest flick.

  I raise my head, and meet her gaze. “Beg me for it.”