Home.. Charnel Pit.. The Playroom

It all started with an article Callie read on a fetish website. Rediscovered eight months earlier, the playroom is a brutal medieval dungeon torture chamber hidden deep within the ancient catacombs beneath Paris. With her submissively masochistic imagination perked, Callie took a two-week vacation, flew to London, and traveled by train to Brussels and then onto Paris to obscure her final destination.

Once in Paris, it only took her a few hours at the main library to find the recently updated map pages of the catacombs beneath the city. Biding her time, Callie waited until the next overcast, rainy night. Then, dressed in one of her more revealing fetish bodysuits and her favorite high heels, she slipped on her knee-length trench coat, grabbed her umbrella, and quietly slipping out of her hotel, headed for the catacombs.

Thanks to the photo of the catacomb’s recently updated map I’d taken with my phone, I reached the playroom’s hidden entrance in less than thirty minutes. At the end of a dead-end corridor is inscribed “Salle De Jeux,” Carefully reaching up, I pressed the stone to the right of the chiseled inscription. With a loud rattling of ancient chains and gears, the wall beneath the inscription slowly opened, revealing steps leading downward. Stepping across the threshold, I heard a faint click from beneath the stairway’s top step. The rattling of ancient chains and gears returned, this time much louder, as the hidden entrance behind me swung closed, sealing the playroom’s entrance.

Carefully descending the steep, narrow steps in high heels, I noticed my flashlight growing steadily dimmer. Pausing to find the book of matches I’ve always kept in my purse, I lit one of the stairwell’s wall-mounted torches. As the torch flickers to life, I lifted it off its wall mount and continued my descent into the darkness.

Finally, reaching the bottom of the stairs, the torch’s flickering flames illuminate the short corridor before me, barely hinting at a larger chamber beyond. Setting my purse and umbrella on a nearby table, I unbuttoned my trenchcoat and lay it next to my purse before heading down the corridor. As the corridor finally ends, I feel my heartbeat quicken as I step into the playroom.

Along the front wall are tables filled with diabolically cruel instruments of torture and mutilation, along with several iron braziers filled with lumps of charcoal, waiting the long centuries to heat those brutal instruments of torture until they glow red-hot. However, I noticed something odd as I looked around the rest of the chamber. There was no rack, no whips, in fact, none of the usual instruments of torture I was used to seeing in medieval dungeons.

Stepping further into the playroom, I felt a growing sense of horror gripping my heart as I examined the instruments of torture arrayed before me. I felt a cold chill of fear pass through me as I realized I wasn’t in a torture chamber. I was in a chamber of diabolic torturous death.

Glancing at the piles of bones littering the floor, I tried to imagine how many women had gone to their agonizing, brutal deaths in the chamber of horrors. I imagined the unspeakable suffering they endured as they died, their bones, the only remaining evidence of their mortal existence, left here for centuries as nothing more than sick, morbid decorations.

Unable to resist my masochistic curiosity, I reached out and ran my fingertips along the smooth wooden dildo above its first horrifying ring of razor-sharp spikes and noticed something intriguing. Even after centuries of neglect, the polished wooden dildo lacked even a hint of dust, and the dildo’s fiendishly torturous steel spikes lacked even a hint of rust. Carefully pressing a fingertip against the side of one of the razor-sharp spikes, its slightly damp surface having a faint scent of oil. Taking a closer look at the rest of the playroom’s torture instruments, I noticed all the wood parts looked recently polished, the steel parts freshly oiled and shining in the flickering torchlight.

I suddenly recalled that shortly after the playroom article appeared on that fetish website, the author, a woman living in Paris, vanished under mysterious circumstances. Glancing back at all those bones, I suddenly wondered if some of the bones littering the floor were hers.

As I stood there, It didn’t seem to matter which terrifying instrument of torturous death I looked at. My eyes always seemed to wander back to that tall wooden post with its obscenely horrifying, spiked dildo. I kept imagining myself watching my reflection in the chamber’s fiendishly mirrored wall, standing helplessly on the playroom’s wheeled wooden platform with that dildo’s smooth wooden tip inside me, my wrists and elbows bound tightly behind my back, and my ankles bound behind its tall wooden post.

Caught up in my darkly torturous fantasy, and despite all the horror, I felt myself becoming sexually aroused, my wetness soaking the crotch of my bodysuit as I felt my nipples stiffen against its thin, revealing fabric. I desperately longed to mount that dildo, to suffer long, unrelenting hours of agonizing torture merely to satisfy my darkest masochistic desires. At the same time, a tiny lingering fragment of sanity found the whole idea of dying like that utterly revolting.

Still, I had to admit that the playroom held a seductively erotic attraction. Dying in agony for the pleasure of an anonymous hooded executioner had always been one of my favorite masochistic nightmares.

Pausing to light the playroom’s wall-mounted torches, I looked around. In the bright flickering torchlight, it was easy to see the motion sensors and security cameras mounted unobtrusively at all four corners of the chamber’s high vaulted ceiling. Feeling a bit exhibitionistic, as I walked back to that terrifyingly gruesome spiked dildo, I slipped the straps of my bodysuit off my shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. Kicking the bodysuit aside, I brought my hands together behind my back and, closing my eyes, awaited my hooded medieval executioner’s arrival.

As it turns out, I didn’t have long to wait. I could already hear the sound of hobnail boots against the polished stone floor, echoing from the darkened corridor at the far end of the playroom. Within moments, the executioner appeared out of the darkness, dressed in a black medieval executioner’s uniform, his face ominously concealed beneath a matching leather hood.

Callie could feel her heartbeat skip a beat as the executioner strapped her wrists tightly together before using a second leather strap to draw Callie’s elbows back until they touched.

With her arms secured, the executioner moved the playroom’s wheeled wooden platform up against the rear of the spiked dildo’s tall wooden post.

I felt a seductively terrifying sensation of eager masochistic anticipation as the executioner led me up the steps and onto the raised wooden platform.

A faint gasp escaped Callie’s lips as the executioner lifted her over the dildo’s polished wooden tip and eased her down onto its obscenely filling girth.

I could feel the dildo’s smooth polished shaft straining the heated depths of my vagina as the executioner knelt to tightly strap my ankles together behind the dildo’s tall wooden post before grasping the small wooden lever that protruded from beneath the raised platform.

Glancing down at the platform beneath my feet, I suddenly realized that the front edge of the platform, upon which I was standing, was a hinged trapdoor, poised to cruelly drop me unto that spiked dildo the moment the executioner pulled that lever.

Callie’s eyes turned back toward the playroom’s mirrored wall, taking in the scene straight out of her darkest masochistic nightmare, of herself poised upon that spiked dildo, the anonymously hooded executioner staring up at her with an unmistakable look of eager, sadistic anticipation in his hooded eyes as he pulled the platform’s release lever.

Suddenly sinking deeper onto that dildo, its first ring of spikes tore their way smoothly upward into Callie’s vagina as her high-pitched screams of unadulterated agony echoed off the playroom’s ancient stone walls. For the next thirty minutes, the delightful sound of Callie’s agonizing screams filled the playroom as her body slowly sank deeper onto that brutal dildo. Its unforgiving rows of razor-sharp spikes slipping steadily upward, ripping her guts apart as they cruelly violated the depths of her abdomen.

Callie impressed her executioner, lasting almost four delightfully torturous hours before, with a final faint gasp of pain, she lost consciousness and finished bleeding to death.

Glancing up at Callie’s body, hanging obscenely impaled upon that spiked dildo, the executioner removed a small remote from his pocket and switched off the concealed video cameras before pulling off his face-concealing hood as the cleanup crew entered the playroom.

As the executioner and the cleanup crew’s manager watch Collie’s lifeless body being pulled off that spiked dildo by a portable electric hoist, the executioner commented, “You know, this is all becoming so easy since Brigitte published that fetish website playroom article. I remember when we used to have to seek out victims, sending them invitations to experience all the dark pleasures of the playroom. At best, we’d get half a dozen willing victims a year. But since the publication of that article, over a half dozen women a month are finding their way here all by themselves.”

Pausing as they watched the cleanup crew lowering Collie’s corpse onto the gurney, the manager asked, “Do you think any of them ever realized that the playroom’s mirrored one-way glass wall concealed hidden video cameras?”

The executioner shrugged, “It might be possible. However, like Brigitte, I don’t think it mattered once she published her article. Like her, they all had their own reasons to come to the playroom.”

“And Callie?”

“I doubt it. Callie came here to fulfill her darkest masochistic nightmare, to die in unrelenting agony merely for the pleasure of her anonymous hooded executioner. I think we can both agree that she fulfilled her wish in the end...”