I received him dressd in my favourite leopard print wrap around dress, winter boots and gloves. The lobby were we were meeting, the antechamber to my fearsome UNDERGROUND Cell (which is actually on the top floor , ha), was stylish welcoming, with a comfy leather Chesterfield sofa and a bar. He thought I wasn’t serious, I could read it in his eyes.

We had a cup of tea to warm up in the cold early March morning, it’d taken him some time to arrive to hsi destination: my underground prison cell in deepest East London. Still, all he could see was the misleadingly homely lobby.

He let me handcuff and blindfold him and I gulped my last sip of tea. He said he might need to loo before going up. “Too late”, I replied, “we are going up”

He stumbled on the metal staircase, blind, hands behind his back in steeel polie cuffs. I’d told him to wer clothes I could rip with my hunting knife. I started a soon as he was halfway onto the top floor, prodding him with the tip of the sharp bowie knife, slitting fabric here and there. he yelped like a puppy wehn the metal tip pricked his skin. No blood though.

The room had a clean, white medical area on one side, and a large barred cell on the other. I ripped his clothes with my hunting knife and only when he was completely naked, I turned him round towards the cell and removed his blindfold. The cell was the size of a small room. I kicked him in. He was shaking a little by then, but not much. I tied him up to the cell’s hard cot, his head hanging out of the edge, barely held by a block of wood lower than the bed edge. When I walked in with a bucket full of water and a large, dirty rag, he understood. It was for real.

I’d added the leftovers of our tea to the already not very clean water. I noisily pissed on it, in front of my helpless hostage, to top the bucket up. All that morning tea! The rag on his face and chest wasn’t too clean too, I’d brought my soiled kitchen towels, for realism. He gasped. he gasped even more when i sat in his face to increase the feeling of drowning and lack of air. Attaching the electrics to his shrunk cock & scrotum was agood idea too, unfortunately the electricity didn’t travel to the wet patch. Damn.

Still reluctant to surrender to the demands of the Underground Cell, I untied him and had an idea I’;d toyed with in the past, but never actually carried out: japanese rope suspension and waterboarding? He s after all a strappy, ex’Army lad (or so he claimed). I suspended him face up, on four secure, separate points, his head again lower than his torso.

Waterboarding. It worked. He gasped for air, his chest contrained by his own weight and the rope’s pressure on it. he ave in. he yielded. he surrendered to Feral, militant Female Supremacy. We won! And he’d booked this Underground session for March 8th, International Women’s Day. Wonderful irony, eh?

 

 

To be continued…