Home is where the heart is.

It was my first Sunday morning at the House. I was not expecting much. The dungeon had been closed on Sundays for at least 6 months, activity had died down virtually to the point of nonexistence and I was preparing for an extremely quiet day. Sundays needed to be rebuilt and I had no doubt that the first few would be completely uneventful.

I sat on my tall iron throne, inspecting the condition of the 4ft quirt which I tend to favor out of the Houses arsenal of equipment. It is known to my hand intimately, as if it were a normal bodily extension, its use now being as easy to me as walking is to the average mundane. All it would take is a quick flick to extinguish the single lit candle sitting opposite me to plunge the dungeon into a pitch save for that slight peek of daylight, forever scratching to get through the blackened and blinded windows.

I never did like the light.

A heavy sigh of relaxation brought with it that mix of scent and taste which hangs heavy in the air of my realm. Disinfectant, Linseed oil, leather, rubber, heat. A perfume of cleanliness and warmth begging to be defiled.

The music was being pumped throughout the speakers of the house, vibrating louder than usual, ricocheting off the walls (a selection by ‘Within Temptation’: About as “Metal” as one can get while still being half decent for both sensual and violent play) and I felt a peaceful satisfaction as I was overlooking my realm, completely oblivious to the vanilla outside world.

Some say “Home is where the heart is”, they are, of course, completely incorrect as your heart is buried deep within your ribcage. But I was home. Relaxed. Unfettered. Content.

And then the doorbell rang.

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