Whispers in the Basement

[F/ff] [CNC] [bondage] [whipping] [forced bi]

Continued from: Miss Alexis DiPaulo

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m Carol, sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop glowing in the dim light, the kids finally in bed and my husband out at his weekly golf thing. Mistress Andrea’s “forcing” me to write all this down—for everyone to read. Every raunchy, humiliating detail of my session at the Facility. If I don’t spill it all, she’ll punish me—maybe drag me back for more whippings, more torture until I break and beg like a desperate slut. It’s all consensual, of course—safe words, boundaries, all that sanity stuff—but the humiliation of typing this out, knowing strangers will read it, judge me, get off on my degradation… I hate it. I love it. It arouses me so much my big mom-panties are already damp, that twisted knot tightening in my stomach with every keystroke. But I have to obey, or else…

In the background tab, the Facility’s website is open— that sleek, anonymous site with its velvet teasers and booking forms. I skim past the main page, my eyes catching on something new: there’s a second dominatrix on staff now. Miss Alexis DiPaulo or something. I don’t linger—too focused on my own twisted needs—but it makes my pulse skip, wondering what fresh torments she’s brought to the mix.

I click over to Mistress Andrea’s profile page instead, and there she is, larger than life in her dominant glory. My pussy aches deep and sudden, a hot wetness flooding between my thighs just from the sight of her— that commanding gaze, the curve of her hips. 

STATS:

Name: Andrea Valjean

Age: 24

Rank: "Mistress" 

Formal Session Honorific: Mistress Andrea

Chastity Keys Held: 17

Specialization: Domestic Discipline 

Age blurred out, which makes me giggle despite myself, like she’s some eternal goddess of kink. Rank: “Mistress.” And then… Chastity keys held: 17!! Oh my word, that one hits me— I giggle harder, blushing furiously, picturing all those shriveled, locked-up dicks around town, denied and desperate. Maybe one belongs to that soccer dad from the PTA, the one who always stares a beat too long at my legs in yoga pants. Or the guy at the grocery store who bags my milk and eggs, his cock caged while he smiles politely. God, the thought makes me squirm, makes me want to masturbate on the spot. But I have to keep typing. Mistress’s orders.

Anyway, let me tell you what happened, like I’m just chatting over coffee, even though my cheeks are burning. I’ve been to Mistress Andrea’s Facility a few times now, each visit pulling me deeper into that shadowy world of consensual non-consent. You know, the kind where everything’s agreed on upfront—but once you’re strapped in or caged, it feels terrifyingly real, like there’s no escape from the whippings, the beatings that break you down until you’re sobbing, offering your body in the most degrading ways just to make the pain stop. Begging to be used as a sex slave, mouth, pussy, ass—anything, even forced into bisexual stuff if it ends the torment. It’s my deepest fetish, that feeling of being tortured into submission, and each time I crave it darker, more intense.

I’ve been emailing Mistress Andrea back and forth for weeks about this new session idea, my fingers shaking on the keyboard every time I described it. I wanted—no, needed—to experience the gut-wrenching terror of having to watch or listen to another woman being whipped, tortured, beaten into a sobbing, begging mess. Resistant at first, screaming no to the idea of sucking, or fucking, of being used like a toy in some creepy basement, but the relentless lashes cracking down until she’s broken, offering her ass, mouth, pussy—anything to make it stop. Begging to be fucked, to be a sex slave, just for relief. And me? Standing there motionaless or locked in a cage, forced to hear every crack of the whip, every desperate plea, knowing full well I’m next. Mistress created some dramatic, cute little synthetic promotional videos to advertise the CNC offerings at her Facility.

Prefaced with her usual disclaimer:

All text prompts going into A.I. systems to create some of the content of the Facility's website, along with requests for A.I. images appearing in this blog, clearly state that everyone involved is an ADULT, above the legal age of consent.

I can't tell you how many times I've masturbated to these videos, illuminated by the glow of my phone, imagining taking the place of one of these women. 

The joining instructions were so specific, down to the last humiliating detail—dress in your “Sunday best,” like some pure, innocent church-goer from the old days. Older fashioned, wholesome, the kind of outfit that screams virtue and makes the coming degradation hit even harder. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror that morning, hands trembling as I got ready: a modest floral dress with a high neckline and knee-length hem, buttoned up tight like I was heading to service. Full control-top pantyhose, the kind that squeeze and smooth everything with that firm, inescapable hug, sheathing my legs in sheer nude that made me feel so exposed despite the coverage. Underneath, those great big white satin panties—plain, boring, high-waisted granny style that rode up just enough to remind me of my “innocence.”

Hair pinned up tastefully and neat, makeup subtle—a bit of blush, mascara, lipstick in a soft pink to look fresh-faced and demure. And high heels, simple and strappy that clicked with every nervous step. I looked like a preacher’s wife, all prim and proper on the outside, while inside, my fetish twisted me up, arousal mixing with dread at what I was walking into.

The Facility’s address was familiar by now, that anonymous industrial unit, but this time the directions led me around back to a side door that creaked open like something out of a horror movie. Not the sterile lobby full of naked people waiting to be spanked, no luxurious parlors or velvet-draped dungeons here—just a creepy, unfinished basement space that sent chills down my spine. Exposed insulation puffing out from the unfinished walls like dirty, ragged cotton, rafter beams overhead sagging with cobwebs, pipes snaking along the low ceiling with the occasional drip-drip of water echoing in the dim, flickering bulb light. The air was musty and cold, like a forgotten cellar where secrets go to die—or in my case, where fantasies come alive in the most terrifying way. My heels echoed on the rough concrete floor, each click amplifying my nerves, that familiar knot in my stomach—the good kind, the one that says you’re about to surrender everything.

And there she was, another woman already waiting in the shadows, turning toward me with wide, frightened eyes that mirrored my own. She managed a shy smile, though, and I felt a weird kinship instantly. Dressed almost exactly like me—a prim, knee-length dress in soft pastel blue, high-necked and modest like she was off to bake pies for the church social. Full hosiery gleaming under the faint light, vintage strappy heels that looked plucked from an old magazine, hair and makeup done tastefully to scream purity. We were like twins from some repressed era, standing there in our church-going best amid the grim decay, the contrast making my skin prickle with anticipation.

“Hi,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the drip of a pipe somewhere in the dark. “I’m Carol. Are you… here for the same thing?”

She nodded, glancing around the creepy space like something might jump out at us, her hands twisting the hem of her dress nervously. “Debbie,” she replied softly, her tone hushed and shy, like we were confessing sins in the confessional. “Yeah, I think so. The CNC package?”

We both let out these awkward little laughs, the sound swallowed by the basement’s gloom, and stepped a bit closer, our heels clicking in uneasy unison. “I, um, emailed her about… wanting to go deeper,” I confessed, my cheeks heating up even in the chill air. “Yes, the non-consent stuff, you know? Listening... Knowing it’s my turn next.”

Debbie’s eyes widened, but she nodded, her voice dropping even lower, trembling with that mix of fear and excitement I knew so well. “Me too. The beatings, the begging… offering everything just to make it stop. It’s terrifying, but… I need it. To feel that helpless.”

We stood there in the dim light, the exposed pipes groaning overhead like the space was alive and judging us, sharing these hushed, shy confessions that made the humiliation sink in deeper. God, admitting it out loud to a stranger—knowing we’d both be broken soon—aroused me terribly, that love-hate rush flooding me. “Be brave, okay?” she said, reaching out to squeeze my hand lightly, our fingers cold but clinging. “No matter what happens.”

I squeezed back when we heard deliberate, commanding high heel clicks approaching from the shadows, her grip tight with shared nerves. “Yeah. Be brave.” But in her eyes, I saw the same storm mirrored back—the dread twisting with desire, the anticipation churning like a storm about to break, knowing whatever came next would push us both over the edge into that dark, delicious surrender.

Carol...

Disclaimer: All text prompts going into A.I. systems to create some of the content of this blog along with requests for A.I. images appearing in this blog, clearly state that everyone involved is an ADULT, above the legal age of consent.