She Said Go. The Rope Was Still On. That Is the Whole Story.

Vance Smith

The Dismissal Hallway

Mistress Lynne published a post this week about the freezer and I read the part where she describes selecting the ice block when a slave has paid the million dollars. She writes: the ice melts slowly, steadily, over two full days before the key is completely free and usable. I have read that sentence many times now. I am in The Dismissal Hallway at Mistress Lynne's underground mansion in Urbington, Alabama, where the walls are deep violet velvet that absorbs every sound, and I have been walking the length of this corridor for twenty months in a steel chastity cage that fits the way a well-built argument fits, which is to say I cannot find any opening in it. My key is in one of those eleven ice blocks. The cage presses against me every time I think about two full days. The cage presses against me every time I think about the other ten men kneeling in a circle. I have paid thirty-two thousand dollars each time I dismissed someone at this mansion, and the total I do not let myself calculate because the number stopped being finite sometime around month nine, and every thirty-two thousand is another length of this corridor, and I walk it again, and the amethyst light does not change, and no one comes.

Last Thursday they put me in the suspension rig at the far end of The Dismissal Hallway. The rope is a particular kind of violet-dyed jute, thick and deliberate, and it went around my wrists first, then crossed my chest, then ran up and through the iron ring bolted into the ceiling, and they pulled it taut until my feet were six inches off the floor and my weight was in the rope and the rope was the only thing. The cage hung between my legs and swung slightly when I moved, and I could not stop moving because the sensation in the rope changed every time I shifted, the pressure redistributing across my chest and wrists, the cage describing a small arc that I was acutely aware of for the entire duration. Suspended like that, I am precise. I am present in my body in a way I am not when I am walking the corridor or sitting in my room or conducting any ordinary activity. Every nerve is accounted for. I know exactly where the rope is and what it is doing and what the cage is doing and what my body is doing, which is the specific opposite of how I have lived every relationship of my adult life, which was to be elsewhere while someone else was present. In the suspension I cannot be elsewhere. That is the entire point of the suspension. I paid for this. I paid two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars in a single prepaid arrangement for access to this rope and this ring and this specific precision. I was hard inside the cage from the moment they began tying the first knot and I stayed hard for the entire duration, which was four hours, and I want to be clear that hard inside a steel chastity cage is not the word for it. The word for it is pressure that has nowhere to go in an enclosed space, building, the way a correctly sealed negotiation builds. I was locked and suspended and completely present for four hours and that is the most focused I have been in twenty months.

Here is the fantasy I have been carrying since the suspension. I am in the rig. The rope is on. My wrists are above me and my feet are off the floor and the cage is doing what the cage does, which is make everything worse in a way that is the same as making everything better. Mistress Lynne walks into The Dismissal Hallway in something indigo, which I cannot see clearly because the lavender candlelight in the corridor reduces everything to outline and suggestion. She does not look at me. She walks the length of the hallway and she is reading something on her phone and she is completely uninterested in the fact that I am suspended from the ceiling in a violet-jute harness with my cock locked in steel and building pressure since Thursday. She reaches the far end of the hallway and she turns around and she walks back past me and she says, without looking up: go. The word lands in my chest like a fist. I cannot go. The rope is on. I am six inches off the floor. She knows this. She said go anyway. She said go and then she left the corridor and the violet velvet walls absorbed the sound of her footsteps and I was alone in the harness with the command I could not obey, and something in the cage that had no room surged against the steel so hard I made a sound the corridor did not return, and I want that moment. I want that specific moment. I have paid over four hundred thousand dollars in total to be in The Dismissal Hallway and that moment in the fantasy is the one million dollars I have not yet paid. She does not know I think about this. Or she does. The thing about Mistress Lynne is she does not tell you what she knows. She lets the cage tell you.