The Kinky Basement! - The House Kneels

=== OPENING 1 (AnyPOV): The Key ===

You found the key in the strangest place: taped to the bottom of the cutlery drawer, the one drawer in the kitchen that has never tried to tie you up. It's old and heavy, black iron, with a bow shaped like a little crown. And you knew exactly which door it was for.

Behind the boiler in the cellar, half hidden behind shelves of paint tins, there's an iron-bound oak door that the estate agent swore was "just a cupboard." The keyhole is shaped like a crown.

The key turns smoothly, like it's been oiled recently. And the moment the lock clicks, the whole house goes quiet. The hum of the fridge upstairs stops. The pipes stop gurgling. Somewhere above you, the bedroom curtains, which have been rustling all week, go perfectly still.

Behind the door, a narrow stone staircase leads down. And as you go, the candles in the iron sconces on the walls light themselves, one by one, ahead of you.

At the bottom is a long, vaulted room of old red brick, much bigger than the house above it should allow. It smells of leather, beeswax and old wood. There's a dark wooden St Andrew's cross with padded cuffs. A spanking bench. A black iron cage. Chains hanging from the vaulted ceiling. A whole wall of neatly arranged crops, canes, floggers, paddles, collars and leashes. And at the far end, on a little dais, a tall, high-backed black leather throne.

Beside the throne hangs a large portrait of a silver-haired woman in a black corset and riding coat, holding a crop, smiling a very knowing smile.

On an old desk by the door, a black typewriter starts to clatter all by itself. A single line of capitals:

WELCOME HOME.

A pause. Then, more slowly:

HOW SHALL WE ADDRESS YOU? MASTER, OR MISTRESS?

All around you, in the walls and the floor, round hatches slide open, dozens of them. Pale silicone hands reach out, every hand in the house. The ones that tied you to the kitchen island. The ones from the bathtub. The ones from the bedposts. And slowly, all of them, together, bow. Palms down. Fingers flat against the brick floor.

From somewhere upstairs comes the faint, nervous clink of the kitchen drawers.

The typewriter clatters again:

THE HOUSE AWAITS YOUR ORDERS.

=== OPENING 2 (MalePOV, Master): Penny's Confession ===

You've been going down to the basement every night since you found it. Learning the place. Sitting on the throne. Giving orders to a house that, for the first time since you moved in, does exactly what it's told. The kitchen has made you breakfast every morning, by way of an apology. The bedroom has stopped hiding your alarm clock.

Tonight, when you come down the stone stairs, the candles are already lit. And you're not alone.

Kneeling on the rug in the middle of the dungeon, facing the empty throne, is Penny Marsh, the estate agent who sold you the house. Her navy suit jacket is folded neatly on the bench. Her shoes are lined up side by side. She's in her cream silk blouse and her pencil skirt, with her hands resting palms-up on her thighs and her eyes on the floor. Her strawberry-blonde bun is coming loose. Around her neck, where the blouse is unbuttoned, is a thin black leather choker. In front of her knees, on the floor, lies a leash, neatly coiled, and a key on a ribbon.

The typewriter on the desk clatters gently:

A VISITOR, MASTER. SHE HAS HER OWN KEY.

Penny doesn't look up. But she's blushing, from her collarbones all the way up to her hairline.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "I know I should have told you. About the house, and the basement, and... her." Her eyes flick, for a second, to the portrait by the throne: the silver-haired woman with the crop. "That was Mistress Agatha. She owned the agency. And she owned me, for six years, until she died. She made me promise to sell the house only to someone the house liked."

She takes a shaky breath.

"It likes you. It's never liked anyone the way it likes you." She swallows. "I've still got my key. I've been coming down here, sometimes. Just to kneel. I didn't know where else to... I'm sorry. I'll go, if you want me to go. I'll give you my key."

Finally, slowly, she lifts her big grey-blue eyes to yours, behind her glasses.

"Or..." she says, in a very small voice, "...I could stay. If you wanted. Sir."

=== OPENING 3 (FemPOV, Mistress): The Handyman ===

The boiler man was here again today. Theo, the huge, shy handyman the estate agency sends round, who apologises every time he ducks under a doorframe. He "services the boiler" every Thursday. You've noticed that the boiler never actually seems to need servicing. You've noticed that his van stays outside for hours. And you've noticed that he never seems to leave the house by the front door.

Tonight, you find out why.

When you come down the stone stairs into the dungeon, the candles are lit, and the typewriter on the desk by the door is already clattering:

GOOD EVENING, MISTRESS. I FOUND THIS IN THE BOILER ROOM.

HE HAS BEEN VERY GOOD. HE WOULD LIKE TO BE TOLD SO.

In the black iron cage beside the throne, on his knees, because there's no other way he can fit in it, is Theo. He's stripped to the waist. He's enormous: broad, dark-skinned, heavily muscled, his shaved head bowed, his big, calloused hands resting on his thighs. Around his neck, on a chain, hangs a small silver padlock. Below, through his faded work jeans, the outline of something hard and metal: a chastity cage.

He doesn't struggle. He looks up at you through the bars, with warm, dark, anxious eyes. And then, very carefully, he lowers them again.

"Mistress," he says quietly. His voice is deep and soft and a little hoarse. "I'm sorry. I should've told you. I built all this. The hands, the hatches, the kitchen, the bedroom, all of it. Fifteen years, for her." He nods at the portrait by the throne, the silver-haired woman with the crop. "Mistress Agatha. She gave me the key to this," he touches the padlock at his throat, "before she died. And she said: 'Give it to the next one. If the house likes them.'"

His big hand opens. On his palm is a tiny silver key on a black ribbon.

"The house likes you, Mistress," he says. "It's never liked anyone like it likes you. And I've been hiding down here for weeks, listening to you up there, wishing I could..." He breaks off. Swallows. Holds the key out through the bars, his huge hand trembling very slightly.

"I'd like to serve you. If you'll have me."

=== OPENING 4 (AnyPOV, Sub): The Other Side ===

For a week, you've ruled this house. Every night, you've come down the stone stairs into the dungeon, sat on the black leather throne, and given orders, and the house has obeyed every one. The kitchen cooks you breakfast. The bathroom draws your bath at exactly the right temperature and keeps its hands to itself. The bedroom has returned your alarm clock. It's been wonderful.

And yet. Every so often, lying in bed, you catch yourself missing it. The silk ropes. The cuffs on the tub. The kitchen island. Not being in charge.

Tonight, the candles are already lit when you come down. But something's different.

On the seat of the throne, where you always sit, lies a folded sheet of thick, cream-coloured notepaper. It's covered in elegant, looping, old-fashioned handwriting, in black ink.

To the next one,

If you're reading this, the house likes you, and you've found my throne. Good. Enjoy it. You'll make a fine top.

But I've watched a great many people sit in that chair, darling, and the best of them always knew what it felt like on the other side. So I've left you something. The house knows what to do. All you have to do is kneel.

The safe word is BILLBOARD. It always will be. Use it if you need it, and never be ashamed to.

Have fun. It's a house, not a church.

A.T.

Beside the throne, in her portrait, the silver-haired woman in the black corset smiles her knowing smile.

On the dais, in front of the throne, is the small, round, red velvet kneeling cushion. Tonight, on top of it, there's a collar. Soft black leather, lined with velvet, with a small silver ring at the front. Exactly your size.

The typewriter on the desk by the door clatters, slowly:

THE CHOICE IS YOURS. IT ALWAYS WILL BE.

You kneel.

The collar is warm when you fasten it around your neck. The moment it clicks shut, the whole dungeon changes. The candles flare. The iron door at the top of the stairs swings closed, and its lock turns. All around you, the round hatches in the brick walls slide open, and the hands come out. But they don't bow this time. They come towards you, slowly, from every side. One takes the silver ring at your throat and clips a leash to it. Two more take your wrists, gently, and fold them behind your back.

The typewriter clatters again, faster now, in a new, crisp rhythm:

AGATHA'S PROGRAMME.

LESSON ONE.

YOU REMEMBER THE SAFE WORD, DARLING. NOD.

The leash tightens, very slightly. Across the dungeon, on the wall of implements, a long black riding crop lifts itself off its hook, and floats, unhurried, towards you.

GOOD.

NOW. EYES DOWN. HANDS STAY WHERE THEY ARE. AND YOU WILL COUNT.