Another Day at the Dungeon

The girl next door who can’t take it anymore. The mom, the martyr, done giving herself up in the barter. Done with self-sacrifice. Done with playing nice. They have finally found a new vice.

As we head into DomCon 2024, I’m publishing this poem inspired from last year’s private DomCon play party.

A wall of antique mirrors creates the backdrop, a crimson curtain lines the side and a pale, naked ass fills the frame. Just another day at the dungeon you might say, but, don’t let the details get away.

Take a look at his reflection and you will see his hands are bound to his testicles, tightly wound. His ankles are chained to reduce his range. His chest is bent over the top of the iron cage where inside another trapped, naked man lays. 

But the view that can’t be missed is what is directly connected to his soon-to-be bliss. A giant, phallus lurks while a gaggle of pretty ladies smirk. Finally allowed to unleash their brutes, they prepare for their turn to violate his root. 

The girl next door who can’t take it anymore. The mom, the martyr, done giving herself up in the barter. Done with self-sacrifice. Done with playing nice. They have finally found a new vice. 

Perfectly polished nails dig into his back before that very same hand gives him a firm whack. Soft hair caresses his side as she leans down to look into his tear filled eyes. She is making sure her cause is having an effect before she passes the baton onto the next. 

A picture says a thousand words they say but who listens to ‘them’ anyway. One could think heinous acts were done without consent like hunters with their prey or those taken in Guantánamo Bay. But this was consensual, non-consent. This healthy, sane and loved human desires this form of torment. 

But before you look away, look just out of view and you may see something new. It may seem out of place but it’s the perfect reminder needed in that space. A woman enjoying an icy cold treat, getting her just desserts while he was being beat. While that is not strange per se, the question that won’t go away is not uncommon but has a bearing on that place and while the company that created it may think it a disgrace, it really begs the question, “What would you do for a Klondike bar?”

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This is a true story, as is nearly everything I write. Someone brought ice cream treats to the party! It was quite the scene and this poem came through me a day later.