Twelve Maxbridge Street

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.

"John! John Faranger! Who'd have thought we'd find you here!" Even before he turned and saw the man speaking on his left his breath stopped. Oh, God! God! It's Pederson! And Stephanie! Oh my God!

"Yes, that's right," Pederson said in response to Faranger's expression. "Here we are. Don't move for now." Pederson turned to Stephanie, who was clinging to his arm with both hands, positioned just a little behind him. "Look at him!" He pointed to Faranger's swiftly growing erection, clearly visible under his trim pants. "But don't think he desires either one of us. No. He desires humiliation." Pederson smiled at her. It was actually a smirk. "We can provide it. First, why don't you go over and check him out. See if he's hard enough for us to go on to the next step. No, John, don't close your eyes. You must watch us the whole time to get the full effect."

Stephanie seemed uncertain of her role, but she came over to Faranger and felt his erection. She squeezed a bit and then felt his testicles. "Yes. He couldn't be harder." Faranger continued immobile, his hands at his sides.

"Ok, now, John, would you spread your legs slightly?" Good. Now you can unzip your pants." Faranger did as he was told, even though he almost couldn't grasp the small tab on the zipper, being almost frozen with horror. "OK. Good. Now pull your underwear down and hook it under your balls. Just the front." Faranger complied. His genitals stood out, framed for inspection. Faranger felt like he was in danger of collapsing. He didn't dare look around, but he could sense that the small crowd was paying attention now. "Yes. Now just hold that pose for a little while, so Stephanie and I can fix it in our memories." He smiled.

He stood that way for too long. Finally Pederson turned to the two handlers behind him. "OK, guys. Would you come and finish undressing him?" The two men came over to Faranger and each one grasped a wrist. Then one slipped his hand to grasp the front of Faranger's clothing, the side of his hand passing lightly over Faranger's scrotum. The other slipped his hand under Faranger's boxer briefs and pants and slid them down, the back of his finger sliding between Faranger's buttocks. "Please put your feet together, sir," said one of them. Faranger complied. Together they pulled his clothing down to the ground, holding Faranger's wrists for balance as he stepped out of them.

"Ah, there we go," said Pederson. "Totally naked. This is good! Now,John, please kneel."

The handlers grasped his wrists again, for balance, and Faranger kneeled, facing his office manager and his receptionist, his heart pounding and his penis throbbing. An unseen person came up behind him, took his hand and squeezed some lotion from a tube into his palm.

"Please masturbate until you climax." Faranger grasped his penis at its base, but made no further motion. He was aghast at the thought of bringing himself to orgasm under the gaze of those two. But his need for release was intense. More to the point, he'd been given a command. He slid his hand up to the tip and then commenced the familiar rhythm. Against orders, his eyes closed involuntarily. It didn't take much before he came to a loud climax. He collapsed onto his heels, panting, his hands on his thighs. One of the handlers gently moved his left hand to the floor.

The unseen person behind him set a silver tray on the floor on his right. It contained two stacks of small towels, one stack moist, the other dry, and a flat silver bowl in the middle. Without turning around, and he didn't dare, all he could see were her thighs through the transparent white dress as she sat on her heels next to him. And her hands as she washed and dried his right hand. Her fingers were slender and long, like his, but, of course much smaller. Her pale skin made his tan look even darker. This is not what I'm here for. He shifted his gaze to the three tables in the distance. The used towels went in the silver bowl. "Would you spread your knees a bit, sir?" She asked. He did that and she washed and dried his genitals and the tops of his thighs. Then she picked up the tray and disappeared behind him.

After she left Pederson came up to him. He put one foot between Faranger's legs and moved it side to side. "Spread further, John, as far as you can." Faranger complied until Pederson was able to get his foot, clad in expensive brown oxfords, nudged up under Faranger's scrotum. He could easily have hurt Faranger badly, but he just pushed gently, so there was only the threat of pain. He moved his foot up and down, making Faranger's flaccid, but still swollen, genitals shift. "Ok, John. Please look up." Faranger shifted his gaze from the foot nudging him. Even through his post orgasmic exhaustion he felt a sexual thrill as he looked Pederson in the eye. "This has been fun. We'll see you at work in the morning." Faranger was too wiped out to really absorb the terror of that thought.

After Pederson and Stephanie left, one of the handlers gave him a bubbly drink in a tall glass. "Here. This is a very mild stimulant. It hydrates you and helps you to participate fully in the next station." He drank it gratefully and let his body curve forward for rest, with his hands obediently on the floor beside his thighs.

After a few minutes the handlers indicated that he should stand. The dark one went behind the counter again and came back with a long satin cape and a square of stiff fabric. It seemed to have sheepskin on one side, but carpet backing on the other. They drew his arms behind him and crossed them, wrist to elbow, tight enough that his chest was pushed forward a bit. Then they fastened the square around his forearms, soft side in and velcroed it tight.

Next they draped a cape around his shoulders. "They fasten your arms so you can't touch yourself out of sight under the cape," volunteered the dark haired handler. The cape went to the floor, but zipped just down to his thighs. The pull tab was on the inside so that the handler's knuckles passed lightly over his genitals and belly and sternum as he pulled it up. At first Faranger thought it was put inside to prevent catching his genitals in the zipper. But that didn't make sense. It would be so easy to hold the fabric away. The cape didn't seem to be reversible. He finally decided that it was made this way precisely to ensure the contact of the handler's hand with his body. The cape was lined with heavy quilting, so that when he walked his genitals and buttocks and thighs were caressed. A not unpleasant feeling. The three of them proceeded across the dark floor to the first pool of light.

Faranger almost smiled wryly to himself. A case could be made that he'd already, in fifteen minutes, gotten his $3000 worth of value.

INVASION

They stopped in front of a woman sitting sideways to the table in a tall hardback chair. It gave the chair a little bit the look of a throne. She stood up and approached the three. She was very slim and almost as tall as Faranger. It was hard to tell her age. She had no lines, but her skin had lost some of its firmness. He figured maybe fifteen or twenty years older than he. But she was definitely attractive. Not beautiful, but arresting. Her hair was pulled back in a tight French twist. She wore a black sheath and no jewelry.

She stopped about a foot away. "Remove the cloak please." The darker handler slipped his hand up under the cloak to grasp the tab at the top, zipped it down and pushed the cloak to the floor. She looked Faranger up and down. "Ah, good. Good." She placed her fingers at his throat and very lightly traced all the way down. A wave of contractions washed through Faranger's torso, shifting his genitals slightly. She noticed. "Hmmm. Can you do that at will?"

"No. I don't think so."

"A pity. You know. For a movie or something." Movie?? 'No films. No photographs.' She detected his consternation and patted him on the stomach. "No, no films or photographs."

Then she asked, "Have you ever been anally penetrated?"

"No."

"Do you desire to be anally penetrated?"

"No."

"Do we have your permission to anally penetrate you?"

"Yes." As he uttered his consent a thrill went through his torso and his genitals shifted again.

"Pity," she said again, with a rueful twist of her lips. She ran her finger again from his breast bone to the tip of his still flaccid penis. Then she buried her fingers in the tangle of light brown hair at its base, gave a little tug and returned to her chair.

Now he could see what was on the table behind her. It was a tray with a number of silver phalluses on it. They were of different thicknesses and all had hilts and guards. The guards were angled away from the tip, like swallows' wings, not straight horizontal to the shaft. His breath became shallow and rapid as the use dawned on him.

"Gentlemen," she said, addressing the handlers, would you remove the arm restraint? "We'll need his help at some points." They loosened the Velcro and his arms came free. He instinctively moved to rub them, but each handler gently stopped him. One of them lifted an eyebrow to remind him that he must not touch himself. But they each did refresh him by swiftly running their hands down his arms.

"Before we begin," she continued, "Cheryl has a special request." She indicated a woman on the far side of the table. It was the woman with the black glasses. "Would you go over to her, please?"

Faranger walked around the table and stopped at her place. "Please face away from me and spread your cheeks as wide as possible." Another tremor passed through his loins. He did as he was told, and then felt the point of her long fingernail on his anus. Slowly she worked her finger in and moved it around until his sphincter spasmed. It was if she was forcing blood into his genitals. "There we go," she said. "A good beginning." She moved her hand up and down and then slowly withdrew. By this time his genitals were beginning to become engorged, as everyone could see. He caught a glimpse of her daintily dipping her hand in a finger bowl.

As he walked back to his place around the table two women reached out and caressed his genitals. A man with unusually large hands shifted his chair and took hold of each side of Faranger's ass, the thumbs pressing against his anus. At first the sensation was of a pleasant intimacy, but then he squeezed with the tips of his fingers. He squeezed so hard that Faranger was forced to grimace. "Nice," he said. The swelling increased noticeably, and the sensation of pain lingered after Faranger was released as the blood flowed back into the pressure points.

When he returned to the head of the table, the woman in black took up the thinnest of the phalluses. It was also the longest. It had a small, soft vinyl cap on the end. She then stepped behind him, wrapped her left arm around his waist and drew the implement down between his buttocks until she felt his anus. She inserted it. At first there was not much sensation, although his genitals became slightly more engorged. But then she slowly inserted it further and further. Until he cried out in sudden pain, serious pain in his belly. She pulled back a bit, manipulated something around the guard of the phallus and then pulled it out the rest of the way. "Ok, everyone. Set your implements at 4 when it's your turn."

Faranger understood that they were enabled now to ram their phalluses into him has hard as they could without danger of "permanent injury." "All right. Now please hold on to the posts." she instructed him, as she turned her chair back around to face the table. She remained standing. Faranger complied. The side pieces rose to head height so when he grasped them his arms were raised, exposing all of his torso. There were only two thin cross pieces, so his nakedness and arousal could be closely viewed by the onlookers.

"Who drew number 1?" she asked. An older man stood up. He had a paunch and heavy, but sloping shoulders. He positioned himself facing Faranger's left side and placed his left arm around Farnager's waist. He had removed his suit coat, and his shirt, stretched across his soft body gave Faranger the feel of sweat, even though it was dry. Faranger could feel rough cloth all the length of his own left leg. It was repulsive. Why was it that it was more humiliating to be used by someone with a paunch than by a good looking man or woman? Huh. Another imperfection in his character. But it worked. Faranger's penis was reaching the point of a real erection. The man rammed the implement in up to the guard. The wings of the guard hurt more than the phallus. The man laughed and did it again and again. He pulled it out and tossed it into a second bowl filled with water, and left.