The tip-tapping of the metal capped stiletto heels upon the stone steps, worn smooth by use, echo around the space as She wends Her way down the spiral staircase into the depths of God-knows-where.

The flickering torches do nothing but highlight the stark contrast of her coloring. The pale skin of Her face is punctuated by a vicious shade of red, coating Her lips and sitting like a knife slash below a very aquiline nose. Hair the color of corn silk is scraped back across Her crown and tied into a knot at the nape of Her neck that lends a severe almost pinched cast to an otherwise comely visage.

From neck to toe, She wears black, the gleaming, glistening black of oil on water as only hi gloss PVC can create, offering a liquid fluidity to Her movements. Violently pointed boots, an impossibly high heel that She manages with grace and a natural comfort as though She was spat out of Her mater wearing such. Limbs sheathed in the reflective fabric as though a second skin and kissing the swell of pale, globe-like breasts midway between the bow of Her collar bone and the dark shadowed V that directs the eye to Her décolletage.

She halts at the door and directs a disparaging eye to the guard that remains, as always, on duty. He stands hurriedly at Her advent, nodding respectfully, obsequiously, but his eyes graze and drink in the sight of Her in a most covetous manner. It amuses Her, enough to make Her lips twitch, Her eyebrow raise nigh on imperceptibly as his attitude borders upon insolence…but for now…She will allow it to pass…for now.

He juggles the keys noisily, the jangling of metal on metal grates upon Her sensibilities. A stickler for efficiency, She considers that the door should have already been opened for Her, and taps Her toe impatiently, the light tarantella of shoe leather on damp granite enough to set the guards nerves aflame further.

“A new 'un we have for you, M'lady” he says in a voice that can only be described as slick. “Fresh and clean”. His voice wavers slightly as he attempts to mask his faltering bravado. Jabbing a key into the lock, he turns it with well oiled recognition, the bolt clicks ominously and the heavy oak door, bound with iron, swings open, surprisingly quietly for a portal so seemingly aged.

Her heart soars as the cacophony of sounds assault ears. The slap of leather upon skin, accompanied cries of pain, of pleasure, of misery and ecstasy. A smile plays upon Her lips, and She closes Her eyes, screening the cobalt orbs to better appreciate the music. Her nostrils twitch, and She draws in a deep lungful of air, scented heavily with sex-drenched sweat, the metallic tang of blood, the spiced heat of an unventilated room, and She revels in it.

She moves into the long, low room, turning left and saunters along its length. The dank granite walls, encrusted in places with a silvery grey moss, gleam with the tart residue of condensation. Along the narrow corridor of the access, stalls are placed, as though in an ancient stable and she glances into each as She makes Her way to the place where the unbroken beasts are kept. Each stall show a different scene, that not even the minds of Dante or Bosch could imagine or even comprehend.

In one, a bedraggled female, limbs stretched and pinned by bonds to a saltyre, shoulders straining and head hanging, lank greasy hair hiding her face from sight, with nothing but a low sobbing to indicate her conscious state.

The next, a masked Master, stripped naked to the waist and biceps bulging and lengthening with each swipe of the flogger that leaves its imprint upon the once pale skin of the male beast bent over an ancient horse, wrists and ankles again bound by lengths of filthy rope. By the looks of the almost unconscious slave, He had been administering His particular brand of punishment for some time.

With a turn of Her head, She regards with some delight a Mistress, again masked, offering Her slave Her lips. The young male, his skin slick with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, the skin of his back, his legs and his buttocks red raw and in places oozing with pearls of blood, on his knees, groveling, clawing at the Mistress as She sits, casually with one leg tossed over the arm of the chair. By the look of desperate longing in the slave's eyes, and the expression of smug self satisfaction in the eyes of Her Sister, he had just reached his breaking point, and now looks to his Mistress for approval, for validation, for love…his soul now belongs to her.

She reaches Her goal and turns into the last stall. The sound of Her heels upon the stone suddenly stops, and the young boy that similarly, is stretched on his stomach over a horse, flinches now at the sudden cessation of Her approach. She regards what She can of him. He is naked, his ass thrust high in the air as the angle of the horse forces him into a muscle-straining attitude. His expression She cannot see, facing the wall as he is, but his whole body tenses as he becomes aware of another stood behind him. Again Her lips curve, into a smile…already he knows to fear her, and this is good.

She watches him, the sharp anxious gasps as he sucks in lungfuls of air do nothing but prolong the agony of waiting. Her nostrils quiver, already the tang of fear hangs heavy in the air, like a rich and rare perfume to Her senses. Slowly, oh so slowly…She moves around the horse, with the beast bound to it, assessing, appraising, nodding with some approval as She sees that, this one at least, is of a better quality than the last. She hopes that he will take longer, much longer.

The limited field of vision for the little one is suddenly filled with the black and highly polished gleam of Her boots. Toes that glide into a point, both seductively erotic and terrifyingly intimidating. He strains to raise his head, but the most he can see is to mid shin before he uselessly drops his head back, unable to stretch further.

A movement, the sense of heat as She takes crimson lips down to his ear and the husky softened tones of Her voice reaches him, though the honeyed murmurings do nothing to allay his fears.

“Well now…what have we here?” (… part 2 ….)

The last clear memory I have was talking about types of lube. Well, just before that she put a pillow under me, as this position was pressing my shoulders and neck down onto the bed pretty hard. Then the lube. It was thinner and warmer than the one we use at home. She asked if I had any, but no. This whole scene was so completely and utterly unplanned. There were leather cuffs and hitting toys like paddles and whips in my toy bag, but no lube, gloves or other anal sex stuff. Fortunately, she was prepared.

She started with rubbing the lube outside, and then somewhere in there, just a little finger poke. I remember gasping. It's that first little penetration, not matter how little, which is so shocking. Pretty soon she had a finger in and moving around. Then maybe two fingers? It's hard to tell, and honestly, it's all a big blur now, memory-wise.

I do recall she would move and wiggle her fingers quite a lot. Well, more than I'm used to anyway. It's very intense. There were times she was really, really getting me good. Maybe it was my prostrate? Probably. Other times, it was “just” the motion, moving in and out, rocking back and forth and maybe twisting around while inside. It's so amazing. She was really going at it for a some time.

After a while, she stopped and wanted to turn me over. She'd asked a couple times if I was doing ok in this position. There was a little strain, but nothing serious. She also wanted me on my back, so we could face each other. We talked just a bit about how to achieve this, and she lifted one side as I tried to roll my weight as best I could with my hands tied.

I have absolutely no recollection of when or how she untied my wrists from my ankles. Maybe it was right then? Maybe it was later on. Really, it's all a big blur. I do recall the turning over onto my back. But even then, my body was still feeling the sensation from her fingers. Maybe it's nerve memory or something? Whatever it may be, I was on my back and she had fingers in me again, now leaning over me very closely.

There was much more motion, fingers slipping in and out, wiggling a lot. The wiggling in particular makes me clench, with makes it all that much more intense sometimes! So overwhelming. Sometimes I can seem to feel it all over my body, in my legs, back, arms. There's always the tight, anal violation feeling too, which really appeal to my masochistic side, being relentlessly penetrated.

After some time, things slowed a bit, and I could feel more size. We talked about how many fingers. Maybe she had 3 in, maybe 4? Definitely not her thumb yet, as she stroked my skin with her thumb as she told it was still outside. Soon the focus turned to putting more inside. I really wanted to take her whole hand. I really, really wanted to, much moreso than when we'd started.

It wasn't long before she got 4 fingers and her thumb in. But getting the knuckles in is always hard. It's been well over a year, maybe 2 since I've been fisted. Arecee still fucks me with her big purple strapon, at least 2-3 times a month, but we just haven't done the fisting and intense plug wearing like we used to a couple years ago (before this journal was started). So it was going to be a challenge, but I soooo wanted to get there. There's a pretty amazing connection and feeling, perhaps subtle and indescribable, when the whole hand goes in.

Easier said than done. She pressed and indeed I was tight. This was so completely unplanned. No plug wearing, no “warmup” penetration at all. Quite a lot of strong pushing was needed. At first she was a little hesitant to push so much. I remember begging “oh please don't let up on me, don't be nice” as she's start to back off. There was a lot of pressure, rather stressful pressure, but never did we cross that barrier of horrible anal pain. She was pressing really hard for some time, and at first she seems pretty surprised more was going in, getting close to her knuckles.