The Dungeon

Angelica Blaze steered Lois through a heavy oak door set in the east wall, and down a flight of steps. Moans and the slap of leather on flesh echoed up the stairwell, making the hairs on the back of the reporter's neck stand on end. Mentally she tried to prepare herself for what would lie at the bottom, but she knew that anything her imagination came up with was likely worse than the reality...

...and for once she was wrong.

It was dark, bare stone and brick, with a slightly slanted floor that led to a channel running straight down the middle of the room, set with drains. Arching vaults stood on either side, and the reporter thought that in another life it must have been a brewery, where great tuns of beer would age for a spell. Now they were gone, and in the hollows were lovingly-crafted machines and writhing naked female forms.

Blood and piss ran into the gutters in little streams.

"Some women, Joanne, have to remain in control all the time. Wound up so tight within themselves, unable to let go or make a mistake, even for a moment. Absolute bitches."

Angelica's hands held the reporter's shoulders, and she had to fight not to flinch at their touch.

"But when they do need to lose it, they can do so in whatever way they like. For those who insist on being on top...down here, perhaps, they can experience what it is like to be on bottom. Abused. Degraded. Even hurt."

The hands steered Lois forward. There were four women, suspended in circular frames of black metal, bound at wrist and ankle. Some were gagged, but others had their mouths free. They looked at the reporter, and Lois was disturbed that she couldn't tell whether the flushed faces with dilated eyes were lost in lust or misery.

There were four women, in little uniforms—black leather hotpants and pasties, black leather masks that covered their eyes but left their mouths free, black gloves and black boots. Extras from some 70s exploitation movie, and judging by the colors of their hair and their builds, Lois was sure that she had just found the lost women she had been searching for.

"Look at this one," Blaze stopped before the last frame in the row. The bound woman was gagged, and somewhat older. Her hair might be going grey, if she didn't dye it; her breasts might have began to sag, if she hadn't gotten implants. There were little signs here and there of the old nip-and-tuck—but quality work, giving a body that looked twenty years younger than it was.

The hooded woman, her tormentor, stepped forward and held forth a kind of wooden baton, with a dozen leather strips at the end, offering it to Lois.

"Do you want to try? The slut wants at least a dozen lashes." The hooded woman leaned in close.

Blaze's hands tightened on Lois Lane's shoulders.

"Go on, Joanne. Give it to her. Good and hard." Angelica whispered. "Look into her eyes. See how badly she wants it."

Lois did look the woman in the eyes...and there was a pleading there. Nostrils flaring, teeth white against the little wooden bit running through her mouth, held in place by leather straps like a horse's bridle. The muscles in her thighs bunched and unbunched, body leaning forward as far as the frame allowed...and Lois could not tell, just from looking, whether the woman was begging her to be free...or for the lash.