Basement Girl

“You’re a basement girl,” he says, as he takes me by the hand and leads me down the rickety wooden stairs. “This is where you belong.”

He ties me to a post by my wrists in the back of the basement. There are wooden slats back here, and boards, and a bucketful of old rope. There are cob webs and tools and it is dirty and dusty and silent, all sounds muffled, down here.

He had told me to put on my basement shoes and an old shirt of his. This instruction always strikes a tremor of anxiety in me – anxiety and excitement, for though I deny enjoying the things he does to me in the basement, though sometimes those things are the nastiest things he does to me, I love them, and I wait in both anticipation and dread for them to happen again.

“I’m not going to piss on you,” he says, catching the look in my eyes. Then amends it. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t piss on me.  But he gropes me, and mauls me, and shoves his fingers into my pussy, pulling and spread my labia and rings before shoving his short, thick fingers deep into me. I gasp, and grind against his hand.

He grinds his erection against my hip and puts his mouth near my ear.

“Tomorrow night,” he says, his voice low, almost inaudible even in this heavy silence, the silence of the earth that covers us, that surrounds us, embracing and holding and separating us from the rest of the world, “when you are out with him, and he is thinking that you are this gorgeous, classy woman, you’ll know the truth. You’ll think about being down here, and know this is where you belong.”

He is sending me on a date Thursday night, with a man that wants to wine and dine me, and sees me as the Jade that I am when I am not with W. When I am not in his basement, when I am not on my knees on his floor, when I am not this craven, open hole that needs to be filled, or the girl begging to be whipped, or the girl that dreams of being shoved down on that dirty basement floor and fucked, and slapped, and beaten, then pissed on and forced to an orgasm in his piss and filth.

But this other Jade is as much W’s as the Basement Girl, and W knows this as well. He knows that he has made her, too, and that when she leaves him to go on this date, this other Jade is just as owned as that one. Two halves of the same girl: the one the outside world sees, and the Basement Girl.

Comments

  1. advizor54

    I grew up with a basement, a “rock room” that would have been perfect for muffling the screams of a salacious whore. I wonder if it was ever used properly as you were.

    Reply
      1. advizor54

        Even though, the thought of my dad with his bad hip, furry ears, and bad hearing trussing my mom (page boy gray hair, reading glasses, and over-sized purse) to the wall, is at once creepy and hilarious.

        Reply
  2. Mina Lamieux

    That has got to be the hottest feeling ever. Going out prim and proper for the world to see and knowing underneath it all, you crave the things that make them cringe.

    Reply
  3. this girl

    I love that dichotomy. I love being dressed in a conservative suit for work, thinking about (or remembering) being on my knees, dripping with sweat and cum and getting a little shiver. Your writing makes me want to write and cum and beg. Gosh, I love your blog.

    Reply

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