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Dungeon Memoirs 1

So here I sit, on a little pillowy tuffet leaned up against the same wall I painted by hand, with smooshed gold paint on cinderblock, like 13 years ago. The room here, the Old Gilded Cage now almost entirely empty, save a few perfectly intact vignettes and the grand curtain, and this sprawling pink oriental rug. My chandeliers and chais and kimono still hang and swing subtly amidst the emptiness. In the void, memories rickochet and roam freely...I'm more fond of just the energy here, than the tangle of decor in the once overstuffed environment. Like all true loves, you need only one recognizable feature to holograph every detail of your love's beauty. While My little dog snores at My side, I drink wine and marvel at the organic artistry of this place I created with the gifts and toils of My life. Some of it just magically came together, in whimsical corners and visually orchestrated nooks of precious gifts and found objects. Almost everything represents a person or a time. Indeed, I've stayed here so long, so many of My dearest friends, loves, and even family have come and gone, and the place itself and My experience here frames everything else in My world. I am a dominatrix. While the "good girls", the darlings of the quotidian dirge, groped with unsung labor in their grocery stores or shops or desks or god only knows what awful, freakishly normal, shamefully unshameful occupations blessed by social probity, I found myself gravitating treacherously into life's shadowlands. And there were many moments, moments I can only now appreciate as a gooey montage of moans and giggles and some kind of fun hysterical comedy of horrors, moments that still to this day, I cannot dare recall without pure, unconditional, amoral glee, and positively filthy inward gloating. Moments that etched themselves permanently into My velvety little soul. I mean, can watching a man suck My toes whilst gazing from under a graceful foot ever fail to delight? Or can amorous glances from within iron traps, or through cage bars, or with his face framed so neatly in the embrace of a queening throne, ever, EVER get old? Don't get me wrong, there are days I positively drag myself out of the house. And the getting ready, and traffic, and everything, how positively vile...but oh, the moment after My key touches tickles the tumblers, and the door creaks open to a dark, almost pitch black cavern, and the light suddenly glints off the candlesticks and carved wood and chains and little steel cages for tiny soft things as what men truly are and wish so dearly to represent, from that moment on, I am (involuntarily) transformed. yes, there's dust. yes, and oodles of ghosts. but there are no problems at the dungeon.

The dungeon is the one and only place where daily problems dare not rear their wretched little heads, because in this temple so dear to Me, their pincers fail miserably in the seas of moldable minds and willing flesh. That is how much I love the dungeon. The dungeon is My longest romantic relationship, a personal kingdom. A partnership of passion and perseverance, patience, panties, peepees, pragmatism, paradox, parties, pussies, all the P's.

And I cannot say our relationship hasn't had its little tests, its seven year itch, its friction, its surrender. To imagine I walked in never wanting a commitment quite like this! Maybe I'd spend a year or two of just a little dungeon time, only to write a book and go back and finish my PhD, or traipse down some other educational path in these now well worn black peep toe pumps...

Yet, somehow I ended up not only moonlighting at a dungeon, for the two years or more, but then, I had the crazy notion that in order to continue with My sessions, I'd have to create My OWN dungeon. and that, that is like recklessly marrying an addiction you think you can control.

So I found myself perusing craigslist for commercial real estate, and one ad in particular seemed to catch My eye -

"dungeon like space available for rent in oakland park. sound proof cinder block walls. month to month. $750/mo."

And, for some reason, the notion of these sound proof cinder block walls appealed to Me far more than even attempting such madness as this in a residential setting, and the lusty cathedral type vibes tugged My rosary and tickled My fingers into pressing the numbers.

I called and a woman answered. This woman was none other than the Ebony Mistress Mona....

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