The first scene I ever did with W was in his grungy, city basement. It was my first taste of truly “dirty” play…like, on the floor, in sawdust and dirt and grime, among power tools and hardware, open beams, dark, spooky corners, chains and wood and a drain in the floor. He tied me to support beams that had been there since the house was built in 1903, shoved me in the old coal storage room, closed me in a makeshift “cage” that had a rusty lock and (I am sure) a spider or two. He pissed on me down there and hosed me off after, he fucked me with various implements and on my hands and knees with his cock, he tied me in a million different predicaments. I always wore heels, even there, and actually had heels we designated as “basement” shoes, because in the basement there was a good chance they would be scuffed or dirtied or ruined in some way. He loved the idea of taking a pretty girl (me, though there were others) down there and doing bad things to her. Just hearing him say, casually, from across the room, “Go get a pair of basement shoes on, Jade,” was enough to send shivers down my back and start excitement racing through my bloodstream.
I haven’t played like that since he passed.
Oh, I have a friend and past play partner who has a city basement now, and has talked about playing with me there, but it hasn’t come to pass. And V and I have played a lot in his basement at his previous house, but it was a mostly-finished basement, with carpeting and a bed in an actual “playroom.” We had lots of fun there, but it wasn’t exactly “basement” play.
His new house is also not a city house, so no scary basement, and in fact it is also mostly-finished. He has plans to create a separate play space on one side, which, when completed, will make a really nice dungeon room. There’s also a separate room with a futon for shenanigans after play, or perhaps for more sexual-type play.
Or, who knows, maybe cuddling.
But on the other side of that space, behind a wall and a locking door, is an unfinished part of the basement. No it’s not grungy and grimy, it’s not a low, dark, city basement, but it does have a concrete floor and pipes jutting up and rough cement walls and a drain in the floor.
We christened the space Saturday night.
We’d spent the weekend getting him and his family moved to their new house. We had talked about trying to make it to our group’s monthly play party on Saturday, but by the time Saturday night got there we were both too wiped out to go. But…we weren’t quite ready for sleep yet either.
I poured us both drinks and we headed down to the basement to lounge on the futon and chit-chat, which mostly involved discussing his various plans for the dungeon space, how to secure it from curious children (and adults who have no need to know about it) and what kinds of play we might get up to.
One thing led to another, and eventually we ended up looking around the unfinished space, each of us imagining who knows what happening there. After I gave him a teasing, “You should push me against the wall and use a stingy whip on me. You know, to christen the place,” he left and returned with a coil of rope and a single tail whip. At my widened eyes and (possibly nervous) grin, he stepped over to me quickly and threw my dress over my head so I couldn’t see. Then he pushed me up against one of the standing pipes and proceeded to tie me to it. Moments later I flinched as the whip cracked behind me, just barely brushing my hip. And then, for the next ten minutes or so, I felt the sting and burn of that whip’s tongue. I’d chosen implements well – my back was too jacked up after moving furniture all day that I couldn’t tolerate impact play, and I think V probably felt the same about swinging his arm. So we were gimps, but we could still get up to trouble!
What I didn’t expect was what he did next. I heard him lay the whip down, and then he closed and locked the door to that part of the basement. Then I heard his zipper going down. Without a word he came up behind me, pulled my underwear down, and without untying me or removing the cloth over my head, fucked me against the pole.
Stand-up sex can be a bit awkward, but this, even with him having to reposition himself a few times, was rough and primal and – even without an orgasm for me – incredibly satisfying. My breastbone throbbed where it pushed against the rope and the pole, my wrists hurt from straining, the whipmarks burned lines across my back and hips. And his cock spread me open from behind and impaled me, filled me, possessed me.
Later, as I undressed him in the dark of our new bedroom, the room he and I would be sleeping in when I was there, from now on, I felt…at home. At peace. Whatever direction things were moving in, they felt like they were going in the right direction. I hoped that this was the beginning of us all truly finding our way back to good.
Oh, and I didn’t mind not having to shower century-old grime off my body afterwards. Not one bit.