Cimmerian Read online

  Cimmerian

  Cimmerian

  Midpoint

  A drawn breath came from Jirina’s vermillion lips as the phone rang against her gold-pierced ear. This wasn’t her first call to a dungeon, nor would it be her last. However, it was the first time she had called this particular place.

  She had access to an entire community with her particular interests, yet even that discovery, the rush when she realized that she was not alone in her kinks, had been ephemeral. Her visits to the other dungeons had not been meeting the catharsis and hunger she craved. It wasn’t their fault, of course. She had been venturing in a world more comfortable to her, but as intoxicating as that red haze could be, she still hadn’t been able to find the source of her need. Some had fulfilled it more than others, but it still lingered.

  The place that a friend had told her about, Cimmerian, intrigued her. Her confidant had assured her that she would find what she was looking for. From what she had gathered, Cimmerian was an upscale dungeon of sorts that provided both mental and physical releases. Jirina teetered between those. She hoped the person on the other end could provide her with a distinct red.

  Someone picked up from the other line, her honeyed voice upon rasps. “Cimmerian. Goza speaking.”

  “Hello,” Jirina said, self-conscious of her contrasting alto. “I was referred to you by a friend.” Flipping the card in her hand, she ran her eyes across the bold-faced scarlet of the dungeon’s name, the matching silhouette of a small dragon underlining the word with its tail. She flipped the card again and eyed the address: 675 Espalda Drive. “You take appointments?”

  “Preferred,” Goza replied. “Walk-ins can be taken as well. Now or later?”

  “Later,” Jirina said, her thick, ivory thighs squeezing together. The last time she had checked, she wasn’t turned on by the same gender. It perturbed her. “Would eight work?”

  A brief pause. “We can do eight. You know how to find the place?”

  “I can,” Jirina said, though uncertainty had leaked into her words.

  Goza detected it. “Are you near 31 by any chance?”

  “I am.”

  “Good, good. You’ll take south on 31. Exit 15. Turn left on Daga Way. You’ll go through an upscale neighborhood that will lead you downtown. There’ll be a red stucco home with black wrought-iron gating on the right side. That will lead you to Espalda Drive. Turn right and drive for about a minute, and you’ll see it on the right. No rushing, of course. We’d prefer you in one piece.”

  Jirina lightly chewed on her lower lip. “Okay. What does it look like?”

  Goza chuckled at that. “Don’t fret. No one misses it. I’ll see you soon?”

  “Yes,” Jirina said, barely containing her inexplicable apprehension and excitement, something she hadn’t experienced since her first consummation. “At eight.”

  “Eight it is,” Goza confirmed. “Looking forward to it.” She hung up.

  Jirina hit the end call button on her phone. She didn’t understand the old, raw emotions that were being exhumed. She narrowed her emerald eyes. Her confidant wouldn’t lead her astray, yet there was something foreign about the representative of Cimmerian, despite her amicability.

  Jirina didn’t want to seek a vice, but she had two hours. She ambled over to her maple nightstand and poured herself a small shot of raspberry brandy from the decanter, the liquor flowing like cloying blood beneath her Tiffany lamp. One did not enter a dungeon under the influence. All she would need was one while she prepared herself. She downed the brandy quickly, let it coat her tongue as she savored its sweet tartness.

  She got up and entered her bathroom, its tiles of swirling ebon and amber, its walls a dark cream. She stripped off her clothing, conscious eyes upon her reflection in the mirror. Even before the warm tint of the light, she was pale, her hair burning with crimson, areolas ripe and blushed upon round, comely breasts. The spread of her hips denoted a strong, ample flank that many lovers had reddened. She took care of her body, and she made it a point to acknowledge that, if briefly, when she looked upon herself.

  Opening the frosted glass shower door, she turned the brass knob of the hot water first before turning the cold, the temperature slightly below scalding. She took the soap and quickly lathered herself, yet she didn’t wash her hair, as she wanted weight upon her natural curls.

  Once finished, she took the towel from the rod above her linen hampers and pressed it against her mane before drying the rest of her body. She wanted to be an offering to incite hunger. She had no desire for domination; she had attained affluence through her skill sets and perseverance, even if said attributes had ultimately meant being a sales representative for a phone company. That particular hunger, the one for success, had been sated. Now it was a question of feeding the right maw.

  She took her eyeliner off the sink and applied it to her eyelids, winging the tips with a rote she had honed a decade ago. She preferred a minimal approach to her makeup, and thankfully, she didn’t suffer from blemishes often.

  She left the bathroom and went to the red oak drawer in her studio apartment, took the simple, folded wardrobe from off the top: ebon leggings and a matching halter top. She found satisfaction in the simplicity, in the honesty of it. She donned them on and sat on her bed. She grabbed her knee-high boots, slipped them on, and laced the nylon with deft fingers.

  Pensively, she remained there for a moment. She had said eight. She crawled across her bed and took the phone from her nightstand. 6:48PM.

  She didn’t think they’d begrudge her for a bit of punctuality. Swiftly, she snatched her purse from the nightstand and stuffed the phone inside before approaching the exit of her home. She glanced back at its cozy yet earthen opulence before shutting the lights and leaving, moved down the art deco corridor with a yearning she hadn’t experienced in . . . how long? How long had it been since that surge of trepidation and lust? And why now? The world was distant as she descended the stairs and pressed the handle against the dark, pneumatic door, the parking lot offensive and glaring beneath the street lights. She strode toward her sanguine, 1970s Maverick and seated herself inside.

  She was familiar with the direction, yet she had never travelled down Daga Way, or Espalda drive for that matter. She didn’t even recall the sign, which was odd for her, as she usually made a point to mentally highlight signs in new cities. Thankfully, traffic was reasonable, and there were no unnecessary stops as she approached exit 15. She shook herself of the mental fog as she drove, eyes thinning as she recalled the red house with the wrought-iron fencing. The lights here were warmer, yet the homes, so insistent on blending, were a stale blur as she tooled down the street.

  And then there was the red house.

  It was something made to withstand hurricanes, strong and exotic among this vanilla district. Yet it was the wrought-iron gate that ensnared her fascination: the cusps of the gate were creatures, obscure as they were in the urban lighting. She couldn’t distinguish them with certainty: a gargoyle, a lion, a dragon, a stallion, a menagerie of creatures distanced yet clashing. The imagery struck her: it was something foreign, abandoned, something beyond her.

  She refocused and remembered the street: Espalda Drive. Turning right, she wondered how she would be certain of Cimmerian. Yet as she slowed to 25MPH, something riveted her attention.

  The street lamps bled with warm ruby, the homes not so different from the upscale neighborhood she had just driven through. Yet these dwellings, despite their scale, all held one thing in common: somewhere beyond the windows was the barest light, where shadows moved with a voracious rhythm beyond the rubicund glass.

  Her heart hastened. With that turn down Espalda Drive she had already entered another world. She had to ground herself, confirm the rubber of her steering wheel, the
scent of Kush upon her upholstery, her pressing teeth on her lower lip.

  The telltale, neon claws of Cimmerian came to her, the road awash beneath its garnet glow. She slowed the Maverick as she beheld it, her knuckles whitening. The dungeon exterior exuded the luminescence of dying embers, gave soft lambency to the curvatures of the stone edifice. She estimated it to be three-stories tall, but this observation paled before the intricacy of the structure: it was the menagerie of the gate again, yet different.

  There were lacquered embossments of beasts, women, and men, the curves embellished, the bodies frozen within their throes. Entwined in both pain and desire as they were, there was no mistaking the connotation.

  Jirina gradually braked as she took in the scene. She found it odd. BDSM, at its roots, wasn’t completely sexual in nature; it was just as much cathartic as it was physical, with the former tacking precedent on many occasions. At first, she didn’t understand why Cimmerian gave a lascivious impression, yet the typically gaudy display of neon combined with the ornate masonry fascinated her. She pulled into the freshly asphalted lot and parked near the entrance. There weren’t many here on a Tuesday night. She thanked her irregular hours for that.

  She left the vehicle and strode toward the building, squinting as she inspected the display. She stopped two-meters from it, her head askew. What she had construed as carnal from a distance held deeper, more sinister suggestions: the lion before the woman, teeth within her stone neck, the man in a deathly embrace with the dragon, both of them willing to rend, red of tooth and claw.

  Her flesh rose against the unspoken message, yet it didn’t deter her. She took in a breath and turned the brass, rope rosette door knob. The scent hit her: musk, honey, copper, sandalwood. It reminded her of a distant memory: a drive at night through early spring, the scent of life redolent, ubiquitous, the fruition of flora and fauna at the season’s call.

  The interior was lit by hanging glass lanterns, the red not as piercing here. Shades of ocher made their way through the stained glass, aroused yet eased her. She slowed her walk upon the laminated cherrywood floor as she neared the desk, where a woman, impossibly tall and beautiful, finished a call before turning her attention to her.

  Jirina halted. She had to remind herself she was heterosexual. The receptionist had hair of obsidian, tightly bound in a fanning ponytail, her skin caramel, eyes as virescent as Jirina’s own. Her corset was made of black and burgundy cross-sewn leather, the swell of her chest shelved by defined collar bones. She clasped her fingers and leaned toward Jirina, her smile both welcoming and sinister. Again, the honeyed voice rasped. “Hello. You wouldn’t happen to be Jirina, would you?”

  Jirina choked down a stammer. “I am.”

  Goza gave her a wry smile. “You’re early, but no matter.” She canted her head to the side, her expression shifting to pensiveness. “Usually, someone else handles this, but we’re a little shorthanded today. Could you give me an idea of what you’re wanting? Just a preliminary of sorts so I can match you with the right person.”

  Jirina tilted her head as she summoned her mental list. “Well . . . I’m fond of spanking. Mostly hands.”

  Goza grabbed a pen and began jotting down the details on a nearby notepad. “Go on.”

  “I’m generally submissive— well, always, I mean.”

  “All right. You don’t like being a complete servant, yes?”

  “Yes,” Jirina said, unnerved by the woman’s keenness. “I like to be bound. Not completely. I like my legs free.”

  Goza nodded slowly as she wrote. “Anything off-limits we should know about? Bruises? Degradation? Specific penetration?”

  “I’m not fond of degradation,” Jirina admitted. “The others aren’t a concern. I’d just prefer to be able to walk somewhat the next day.”

  Goza smirked a little at that. “Reasonable. And how do you feel about non-humans?”

  Jirina shook her head at that, her eyes widening. “You mean bestiality?”

  “I mean non-human,” Goza emphasized.

  A small sneer came across Jirina’s lips. “I’m not into animals.”

  Again, that smirk came across Goza’s face. “With the right conditions, anyone can be made into an animal, a monster. It can be just as much a mindset as it is physicality. A beast is a different hierarchy, which makes it that much more satisfying when you tame them. No doubt you observed that implication when you saw our establishment, yes?”

  Jirina’s eyes darted. The woman was touching upon an abstract that even she wouldn’t admit to herself. “I did.”

  “So, allusions aside, we have much more to offer, with the right mind.”

  Jirina’s voice came meekly, barely a whisper. “I noticed.”

  There was a thick silence between the two. Goza said, “Our main concern is your sanity, safety, and consent. These factors will always be in the mind of your partner. If you have any disconcertion, don’t feel obligated to prove anything. We’re a community.”

  “I know that,” Jirina said as something within pressed her. “It’s just . . . what are you getting at?”

  Goza splayed her hands and rested them on the desk. “Let’s just go back to the checklist, shall we? You can discuss further details with your chosen partner and decide from there. Sound good?”

  Jirina squeezed her thighs, hands wringing. “It does.”

  Equivocally, Goza took her in for a moment. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Hesitantly, Jirina nodded. “Yes.” As a former introvert, her extroversion was taking its newly found bearing. But the need could not be ignored. She asked, “What else do you need to know?”

  “Mm. Let’s see . . .” Goza tapped her chin with her forefinger. “You prefer bondage. Spanking. Cuts? Shallow?”

  Jirina chewed her lip for a bit. “By what?”

  “Nails or claws.”

  Jirina’s unease and curiosity were at odds. “Either is good.”

  “All right.” Goza continued to write. “So, let me see if I have this correctly: bondage, flogging, light clawing, you’d prefer a dom . . . what kind of dom are you seeking?”

  “A considerate one,” Jirina said in earnest. The corner of her lip twitched. “Maybe a sense of humor?” Goza grinned, her forefinger scratching her cheek. Jirina asked, “Why are you smiling so hard?”

  “Oh,” Goza said with her nails through her hair. “I think I may know the exact person for you. One last off-kilter question, if you will.” She leaned in and propped her elbows. “You don’t mind a southern accent, do you?”

  Jirina snorted at that, the back of her hand to her lips. “What? Does he have one?”

  “He does,” Goza said, not at all ashamed by the admission. “I think he would cater well to your needs. He’s also our best.”

  Jirina tilted her head back at that. “Why would you offer me your best? Is it because I’m new?”

  “Yes and no,” Goza said as she leaned back in her chair. “I think you’d appreciate him. But as I asked: southern accent?”

  Jirina couldn’t help but chuckle, her bright red hair swaying as she shook her head. “No. Not at all.”

  “Good, good.” Goza bobbed her crossed legs, her brow furrowing. “There’s also the matter of payment, a one-time or monthly fee, depending on your satisfaction, but we can discuss that later.” Another pause before she raised a finger. “One moment, please.”

  Jirina lost her breath as the woman stood. She was almost a giantess, her legs nearly as large as her waist. She was beginning to question her sexuality as the woman walked down the right, red-lit hallway. She was almost jealous of Goza’s peach posterior beneath clasped, leather leggings that exposed hamstrings that rippled like water against a slow breeze.

  Goza knocked upon the sixth door. It opened, and a small, hushed conversation ensued between her and the person behind it. It went on for under a minute until Goza nodded and smiled. She returned to her desk and sat before Jirina. “I think it’s more than possible. He doesn’t have a
nyone else today. You caught the door I went to?”

  “I did,” Jirina said. “Um, is there anything else I need to do?”

  “No,” Goza chirped. “He’ll ask further questions when you meet him, but I don’t think you’ll renege. Just a forewarning: don’t let his appearance intimidate you. He knows what he’s doing, and even better, he listens.”

  The L-word was something Jirina appreciated. Her anxiety lessened somewhat, yet there was still the eustress, the anticipation of meeting this person. She steeled herself and rose from her seat. “Thanks. Not sure what’s behind the door, but thanks.”

  Goza put her folded hands to her lips. “Part of the fun, isn’t it?”

  Jirina gave her a passing smile as she strolled down the right corridor. Despite her walk, she couldn’t lie to herself. Her heartbeat could have counterpointed a virtuoso, her hands gripping the strap of her purse as she neared the oak door. Inhaling, she raised her hand and knocked three times. She waited, the muffled sounds of whipped flesh and moans emanating from the other rooms.

  The door opened with a slight creak. Jirina nearly dropped her purse, her breath stilling. She had to tilt her head up to make eye contact with him, and as she did, she shivered as she stared into white eyes, the beast’s dilated pupils becoming as slits beneath the hanging lantern of the corridor.

  He was a massive, humanoid creature, his face reminiscent of some great cat, his ebony mane flowing down his broad back. A long bang hung down the right side of his face, his eyes and cheeks marked with black that curled like dark fire. He wore a riveted leather top that exposed thick, muscled arms, his waist slightly pinched as it spread to strong hips and quadriceps nearly bursting from his matching leather leggings.

  He grinned at her, exposing pearled fangs. “Hello there,” he said, his voice deep and husky through his accent. She would have almost giggled had she not been awestruck. He extended a padded, clawed hand to her. “Would you care to come in? I won’t bite unless you want me to.”

  Jirina’s eyes bulged. “YOU’RE A CAT.”