Le Donjon des Supplidélices
Exclusively, the 1st chapter of Donjon des Supplidélices, the book-game designed with my submissive flonflons. For the sequel, it's here!
The book is available in pdf, Kindle ebook and paper versions.
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The building is right in front of you, monumental. Triple-gabled. Unmistakable.
You imagined an old building, almost one-eyed, dedicated to what are said to be sulphurous, illicit, even perverse inclinations, forgetting that perversity, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder? Think again. The building that magnetized your steps, a former red-brick factory that has been lavishly renovated, crushes this downtown crossroads.
On the facade, a flashing neon sign announces, Broadway-style, a star-studded runway:
THE DUNGEON OF TORTURE
Emotion grips you to the gut. Fear. Excitement. A feeling, perhaps, of leaping into the void.
~
Compared to the dungeon's debauched grandeur, the doorway looks small. Small, even. A metaphor created to (re)put you in your place as anti-heroine, submissive, little thing? Without a doubt. It's in these details that the cards are dealt. No lying poker here, just the naked truth.
~
A bell invites you to announce your presence. Your index finger moves towards it, trembling. There's still time to step back.
You don't back down.
DRIIIING!
You didn't expect the volume of a police siren. The sound makes you jump, then cast worried glances around. Will passers-by stop, stare, judge or laugh at you? Absolutely not. The whole world doesn't care about your programmed submission...
~
A flap opens. An inquisitive blue eye appears. You whisper your name.
The eye blinks. The flap closes. The door swings open.
There you go!
~
The entrance corridor, separated from the profane world by a pair of crimson curtains, the color of hell and delights, is as dark as it is winding. Another metaphor? Surely. You let your heart resume its normal rhythm, your eyes acclimatize to the darkness. You make out a kind of airlock, a place of transition between two universes.
To your left, intricate frames overlaid with hammered metal letters, so gilded they dazzle you. WALL OF FAME, you decipher with great difficulty. You're getting closer. It's a portrait gallery of women - no, women, Mistress-women - who have marked the history of this Donjon.
To your right, a plain row of lockers with grey lettering. WALL OF SHAME, It's easy to decipher. One of them, number 8, is open. What's yours? Bingo. Inside, a note for you:
“Here, unburden yourself of your belongings and your ego.”
~
The exit from the airlock is an opaque, two-way glass door. Are we watching you? No doubt. To look your best, you straighten up. Is this the right attitude? Not sure. Isn't an individual relieved of his cumbersome ego supposed to bend his head, shoulders and spine? What about your arms? Cross them in front or behind you? In front, it could mean that you're trying to protect yourself; behind, that you're hiding them. Should you let them hang down your thighs? Wouldn't that be a little unkempt?
Standing in front of that door and perhaps, who knows, with no one to inspect you, you discover that many submissions are dilemmas, and many dilemmas are solved by Mistresses.
~
The double doors open slowly, to the sound of crescendoing music. Ride of the Valkyries, you'd think. It only stops at the maximum opening, on a perfectly black space.
Should you go ahead? No. A light squirts from the sky in a perfect circle on Earth. Right in the center, dressed in an improbable disco jumpsuit, is a small, plump lady who looks like a piano teacher. She scrutinizes you, half-serious, half-amused, seeming to wonder if you've revised your scales, before greeting you in a perfectly hypnotic voice:
- Welcome, newcomer! I'm Lady Déliplices, the owner of this place. Here, you have three obligations: obey, know the safeword, «rouge», and have fun... or at least try to, ha ha ha ha! In fact, your visit couldn't have come at a better time: I have three exceptional Mistresses as my guests today...
At these words, the first woman appears. Blonde, classically beautiful, she wears lipstick and varnish, a houndstooth suit with Louboutin boots, a pearl necklace and a chignon. A perfect bourgeoise, silently sizing you up with an odd smile. As she examines you, the smile turns into a small pout. Disdain? Impatience? Only she knows, and her coldness doesn't invite you to ask. As you can see, she's not the type to be questioned.
- Madame Mentule, despot in nylon stockings," she lets out in a high-pitched voice.
A second woman emerges, laughing. Electric, like the blue of her short wrap dress, redheaded, very, smiling, even more, mischievous, even. And, a strange detail in this antechamber dedicated to torturous refinement, barefoot.
- It's his first day with us," says the Madame by way of explanation.
- Mistress Abby! Nice to meet you! winks the young woman in a charming American accent.
For a moment, you imagine her coming forward to kiss you. But all she does is giggle, as if she'd played a practical joke on you.
Then a third woman, or rather a Creature, appears. Perched on platform shoes, she looks immense. Her slender body is molded in a black latex suit. Her face is masked. All you can see of her is what she deigns to show you: her long hands with clawed nails; her wide, intensely red mouth; her hazel, almost yellow eyes, highlighted with blush and kohl, staring at you unblinkingly.
- Divina Vinyl, says the Madam.
The Creature bows his head gracefully.
- So, who do you want to play with? asks the Madame.
Good question, isn't it? And your answer is:
