Step into the Kinktober ’24 Spooky Story Contest, where four eerie, Femdom-themed tales await! Dive into each chilling story, then cast your vote for the one that gives you the most thrills. On Halloween, we’ll unveil the winning tale, and one lucky voter will score a $50 Amazon Gift Card! This is Story #1 (you can start the series here)
There were nine of us gathered in Geena’s apartment to tell spooky stories, but after Geena finished hers[1] , the room was quiet. I think everyone felt a combination of creepiness from the story itself, and intimidation at how well Geena had told it. It would be a hard story to follow up.
But I love a good challenge.
“I’ll tell my story next,” I offered, breaking the spell Geena had cast over the room. I made a “come-hither” gesture with my hand; Clark, a freshman pledge, had been designated the “Talking Sub,” and he was settled comfortably on Geena’s thighs. He seemed reluctant to leave them, but I shot him my best, most dominant glare, and he rose to pad his way over to me and perch on my knees. I put my hands on his waist and arranged him to the side so I could look solemnly out at my friends, the candlelight flickering over my face.
“As you all know, I recently moved into the Queen Building,” I began. Geena was already nodding. She had been the first person I told about moving into the Queen Building.
But what I hadn’t told her was what had happened on my first night there…
Getting a residency in the Queen Building was a very, very big deal. It was the most prestigious building in the whole town. Sixteen stories, a full city block, and a history of over sixty years made it the epicenter of the downtown district. Its original stone facade loomed over the other buildings, a stately presence, commanding respect and authority.
Not just anyone could move in, though I’m sure most people wanted to. There were only three stories of apartments on the upper floors, so it was quite exclusive, and Madame Xara, the owner, was able to hand-pick who she allowed residency at the Queen Building. Only the most promising young women were granted permission to move in. It was not merely a luxurious residence, but a place to hone one’s skills as a Domme and to take advantage of the building’s facilities. The basement dungeon was second to none, and there were dozens of resident boys, too, all of them obedient, trained, and under contract to submit to whatever desire you could possibly imagine.
I had put in my application a year before and was eagerly awaiting a reply. When I got it, I could have screamed with excitement!
It didn’t take me long to pack away my things and prepare to move in. It was then that my trouble began.
When I arrived at the Queen Building one rainy Saturday afternoon, I discovered that the woman who was meant to provide me my “orientation” had been called away on an important matter (some bigwig congressmen needed her services, apparently), and instead I was on my own. Well, mostly on my own. There were a couple of houseboys who helped me carry my bags into the elevator and rose with me up to the 12th floor. But they were little more than beasts of burden, not equals, and I ignored them.
The elevator pinged and I stepped out onto the 12th floor, excited to discover my room. The hallways were long and cozy, with plush red carpet and cozy golden wall sconces providing pools of illumination in the otherwise dim corridors. At the end of the hall, dark rain lashed at the window, making me all the more grateful to be inside. I began to walk down the hall, counting the numbers on the dark, heavy doors, looking for my new home: 1287. The numbering of the doors was seemingly random, and it took me over fifteen minutes to find my unit. The halls were all so similar-looking that I got turned around twice and ended up back at the elevators. The two houseboys followed me patiently, letting me work out where I was going.
They didn’t balk until I finally found my door.
It was at the very end of a hall on the right, a dead end, the furthest from the elevators. A corner unit, which surprised me, because it seemed very big, especially for a junior resident who hadn’t yet proven her worth.
A flash of lightning from one of the hallway windows illuminated the door, reflecting off the brass numbers. The door seemed older than the others, but maybe that was only because it wasn’t polished. It looked as old as the building itself, the lacquer chipped in places, like no one had noticed the slow decay of this one particular door in the otherwise pristine and well-loved building.
I pulled out my keychain and found my new key for the door, an old, ugly iron skeleton key that felt like it weighed at least two pounds.
The boys hovered uncertainly in the hall, my bags dangling from their shoulders and hands.
“Well, come on,” I ordered them impatiently, swinging open the door. I tried the light switch and discovered that there was no overhead lighting at all, only a single lamp with a red glass shade by the bedside table.
The boys shifted their feet, exchanging a glance. Useless! I smacked my thigh threateningly to get them moving, and they finally came in, setting my bags down by the bed and then hurrying out, as if the room was filled with poisonous gas that they didn’t dare breathe.
My first thought was that the other Dommes must have ordered them to behave in such a particular manner. I knew that the houseboys of the Queen Building were well-trained and paid generously. From the bellhops to the valets to the waiters to the Madam’s private concierge, every one of them was a professional paragon of servitude, so the strange behavior of these two really stood out to me. The only explanation I could think of was sabotage. The established women of these floors were testing me, seeing how well I could force the houseboys to obey me.
Game on, ladies, I thought.
I surveyed my room with a critical eye and found it, overall, very charming, if not extremely dated. The walls were covered in wallpaper like it was the 1930s, and all of the furnishings were undeniably antiques. My four-poster bed was a work of art. The private en suite bathroom had gleaming brass fixtures and an elaborately carved frame around the oval mirror. Across from the bed was a huge stone fireplace, big enough for two people to have occupied if they didn’t mind hunching over, which seemed a little weird because I had no idea where a fireplace would vent to if it was on the 12th floor of a 16th-story building.
But while I was considering it, the lightning flashed outside the window again, and I startled, realizing I was not alone.
In the fireplace was a large, red cushion, the fabric perfectly matched to the bedspread. An iron plate was affixed to the stones in the back of the fireplace, with an impossibly long, curled chain dangling from it, and at the end of the chain, sitting patiently on the pillow, waiting for me to notice him, was a boy!
He was wearing nothing except the manacle on his ankle that chained him to the fireplace, and I’m sorry to say he was not a very interesting specimen. He was too pale and too thin, a real scrawny sub, and when I peeked at the equipment between his legs, I found an average and unassuming package.
Was this my own, personal servant? No one had mentioned my room came with its own boy, but then again, maybe that was included in the “furnished” description. It was certainly a perk, having my own, personal servant.
The iron key to the door was still in my hand, and looking at the lock on the manacle, I got the impression it went to this boy, too. His chain was long enough to reach most of my room, and the en suite, as well, but not to go beyond the door. Unless I unlocked him, he was trapped in my domicile, my own little house elf.
Not bad, I thought.
“Well? Aren’t you going to welcome me home?” I demanded, crossing my arms and tapping my foot.
He startled a little and scrambled off of his pillow to stand up and bow to me, the chain rattling behind him. “I’m sorry, Mistress. Welcome to the Queen Building! I hope you’ll find everything to your liking. My name is Phelan, and I’m–”
“Phelan?” I repeated. “What kind of weird, old-timey name is that?”
“I– I’m sorry, Mistress. It’s a family name,” he said, looking helplessly confused. Not the brightest bulb, I guess.
I waved my hand to my bags. “Well, Phelan, make yourself useful and put away my things.”
“Yes, Mistress, of course,” he said, hurrying over to begin unpacking. The chain scraped and clunked along the floor; I could already tell it was going to get annoying to listen to Phelan clanking around every time he moved. Not to mention that the long, long chain that trailed behind him was a tripping hazard. It looked very cool, this chained, submissive room servant, but it wasn’t especially practical, and I began to make my way over to the fireplace to unchain him so he’d stop annoying me when the phone beside the bed rang.
I picked it up immediately, expecting that one of the more senior residents had called to greet me, and sure enough, it was one of the other Dommes. Her name was Paige, and we’d spoken back when I had put in my application.
“Hi Rachel! Just checking to see if you’re settled in yet,” Paige greeted me. “Awful weather out, isn’t it?”
Outside, as if the clouds were agreeing with her, some thunder rumbled.
“It’s pretty bad, but it’s fine. I wish my room had better lighting, though,” I admitted.
“Oh, you’re in the old wing on the 12th floor, aren’t you? …they say the electricity in that part of the building acts funny, sometimes,” said Paige.
“Is it safe?” I asked in alarm. I couldn’t imagine Madame Xara allowing any part of the building to have issues with the electricity.
“Oh, yes, it’s not the wiring or anything. It’s the ghost.”
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “The ghost? Seriously? You expect me to believe that, Paige?”
“Lots of old buildings have ghosts,” said Paige matter-of-factly.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll change your mind after you live on the twelfth floor for a while,” said Paige, a hint of a chuckle in her voice.
I resisted the urge to groan again. She was messing with me. I decided to change the subject; Paige was an older resident and a new neighbor, and I didn’t want to get into an argument with her on my first day. “I had all my things brought up. I just need to put them away,” I said, glaring at Phelan as he clanked around loudly, hanging my clothes in the closet and settling my things into an old wooden chest of drawers.
“Feel free to ask any of the boys in the house to do it for you! They’re all here to help,” suggested Paige.
“Oh, I’ve already got my room boy doing it,” I reassured her.
“Room b–?” she began to say, but then, without warning, the phone line cut out, at the same time that the lamp flickered off, plunging us into darkness. The power was gone, at least in my room.
For just a moment, I wondered if Paige had somehow predicted it, or even done it on purpose, just to mess with me. But that seemed like it would be a pretty elaborate prank. It was probably just a coincidence.
“Uh-oh,” said Phelan. I couldn’t see anything, except for silhouettes and outlines in the dark, but I could tell he’d stopped moving because his chain wasn’t rattling.
“I didn’t tell you to stop!” I barked.
“Sorry, Mistress,” he said quickly. The rattling resumed; almost immediately, I heard him bump into the dresser with an “oomph!”
I rolled my eyes. Phelan seemed like he was kind of a klutz. He must have been new.
But of course, I couldn’t have expected them to give me the best boy in the house. I was a junior Domme and I hadn’t yet proven my worth to the Queen Building. It housed the most elite Dommes in the state, if not the whole country, and I was on the bottom of the totem pole. I would have to show them I was worthy before I could get them to upgrade me to a better boy.
Fortunately, that first night, the power flickered on within an hour. Phelan finished putting away my things and then stood by the fireplace at attention, hands clasped respectfully in front of him, awaiting further instruction.
“I’m going to go downstairs to the café and get a late dinner,” I informed Phelan, rising from my seat on the bed.
“Very good, Miss,” he said agreeably. I made my way to the bathroom to tidy up my makeup. Phelan had spread out my cosmetics around the sink in a pleasing arrangement.
I guess he’s not completely useless, after all, I thought as I leaned toward the ornate, antique mirror to run an eyeliner pencil along my lower eyelid.
The bulb over the mirror flickered, and my hand froze, not wanting to smudge my makeup if the electricity was about to go out again. Suddenly the room was freezing cold, as if Phelan had opened up the window to let in a draft. But why would he open a window in the middle of a rainstorm?
“PHELAN! CLOSE THE WINDOW!” I shouted.
There was no reply.
“PHE–” I began, turning around. I immediately bumped into Phelan. He’d been standing right behind me! I screamed and slapped him reflexively. His head jerked to the side, but aside from that, he gave no indication he’d felt a thing.
“Sorry to startle you, Miss,” he said quickly.
“Why are you standing right behind me? Get out!” I snapped furiously. I grabbed his bare shoulders, turned him to face the door, and then gave his ass a good, sharp slap to get him moving. He rattled his way out, leaving me wondering how he’d even come in without me hearing him or glimpsing him in the mirror. I must have been more involved with my eyes than I thought!
When I emerged from the bathroom, Phelan was kneeling by my bed with an apologetic look., his hands on his knees and his head bowed. “I’m sorry to have scared you, Miss.”
“Scare me?” I repeated, laughing. “You didn’t scare me. You just surprised me.”
“There’s nothing shameful about being scared in an old building like this,” said Phelan with a shrug.
My eyes narrowed. “I’m not scared. Why would I be scared?”
“Well, on account of the hauntings, Miss. Everyone who comes into this room ends up leaving within a night or two, because they think there’s a gho–”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Did the other Dommes tell you to tell me that? Did Paige tell you to tell me all about the so-called ghost?”
“No…”
He was lying. I knew it. The way the two bellhops had acted when they dropped off my parcels, the stuff Paige had said on the phone, the way Phelan was acting now… it was all obvious to me that this was some sort of initiation. Try to scare the new girl! Make-believe there’s ghosts!
Ha. As if anyone could be so gullible.
I made my way down to Café Esmé on the floor below mine to enjoy a nice dinner. I had earned it, what with the big move and everything. The food was divine, and the service impeccable. I sat at a corner table, surveying the chic clientele and feeling like a queen. The Queen Building’s name was very well-earned! Even the lowliest room in the oldest wing on the twelfth floor was an accomplishment, and I basked in the feeling of pride and satisfaction that I’d made it.
When dinner was over, I went back upstairs, my good mood evaporating as I tried to find my room. I had felt confident that I understood the layout of the hallways, but when the elevators opened and I stepped out, I quickly got turned around. At the first junction, had I gone straight, or had I turned right away? And had I turned right, or left? Because the Queen Building took up a whole city block, the hallways were so long that they seemed to go on forever, and you couldn’t even see the end of them; I padded down the endless corridors on the vintage carpet, feeling like I was the only one in the whole building, holding my keys but unable to figure out where my room was. None of the doors had their numbers in order.
I wandered for nearly a half-hour before I found 1287. It was on the left side of the hall, which baffled me, because I could have sworn it was on the right. My feet hurt from treading along the thick carpet in stiletto heels. I had almost overlooked the room entirely, because I felt like it was on the wrong side. The only reason I’d even looked over at the door at all was because I could hear music playing from inside, an old, warbly song like something from WWII. A woman was singing but the sound was too faint to make out the words. I strained to make sense of it, but the longer I tried to listen, the more and more it just sounded like static.
I hadn’t left any music on! Was Phelan listening to the music? I put the key into the lock and opened the door just as another peal of thunder shook the building, drowning out the song as I stepped inside.
The moment I entered, the only thing I could hear was rain.
“Phelan?” I called.
The chain in the fireplace rattled and Phelan approached, smiling at me. “Can I take your hat, Miss?”
“I’m not wearing a hat.”
Phelan’s smile wavered a little. “Oh. Yes. Of course not.”
“Were you listening to music just now?”
“No. Shall I put on some music for you?” He turned and rattled over to a table in the corner, a little desk space that was completely empty. And then he just stood there, his back to me, like he had just realized there was no radio.
I regarded the slope of his shoulders suspiciously. Was he lying? Why would he lie? Where had the music come from? Was this part of Paige’s prank, too, like the electricity going out earlier?
“Phelan, you and I need to have a talk,” I said, my voice low as I closed the door behind me.
He turned to face me. “Yes, of course,” he replied agreeably.
“Paige put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“…Paige?” he repeated questioningly, cocking his head a little.
“Don’t play dumb, Phelan. I get it. The other girls have a cute little hazing ritual for the newbies, isn’t that right? And they instructed you to try to scare me. To act weird and to make me think there’s something scary about this room. I appreciate that you’re obeying their orders, but let’s get something straight. You belong to me. This is my room and while you’re inside of it, I expect you to listen to one person and one person alone. Me. Understand?”
“Yes, of course, Mistress,” said Phelan, bowing. “But I haven’t been trying to scare you at all. No one’s given me any instruction except for you.”
“Don’t lie to me, Phelan. I can’t stand liars.”
“I’m not lying, Miss. How could I have obeyed anyone else? I haven’t been able to leave,” said Phelan, gesturing to his chain.
The insolence!
“Oh, so the telephone doesn’t work?” I demanded angrily. “Do you think I’m stupid, Phelan? Don’t lie to me! I am not in the mood for games!”
I’ll admit it, he was starting to piss me off. Moving is stressful enough, and getting lost twice getting to my own room had soured my good mood. I needed to let off steam. I could have gone downstairs, to the book shop or even the basement, but Phelan was right here, and if he was going to be useful to me, I was going to have to teach him who was in charge.
I stormed across the room and pulled open one of my dresser drawers, revealing the carefully arranged collection of my personal toys that Phelan had placed there. He seemed to accept that he was going to be punished, though he still looked confused, like he didn’t realize why. He was a very good actor. Paige must have insisted he maintain her little ghost story at all costs.
Paige might have been more experienced than me, but I wasn’t going to let Phelan off easily! By the end of the night, he would understand that I was #1, at least within the walls of room 1287! It was going to end their silly little game once and for all, even if it took all night!
I pulled out a paddle first and instructed Phelan to brace his hands against the stonework of the fireplace and spread his legs. He did as I instructed, and I drew back the paddle, winding up before I brought it down with a sturdy, solid smack on his bare ass. Phelan didn’t make a peep; he absorbed the impact like it was nothing, which only made me more determined to show him his place.
He was my slave! My houseboy! Not Paige’s!
I paddled his ass, watching it redden with every slap of the thick wooden paddle. Between his legs, his average, unimpressive cock swelled, getting thicker and heavier.
So he was a masochist!
The idea excited me. He was annoying, but he might prove useful after all. I could train with him here, hone my skills as a Domme, practice my techniques on him in the privacy of my own room. The thought of punishment seeped out of my mind and was replaced with the exciting idea that Phelan was a new toy for me to play with and practice on, a co-conspirator to my future success.
I drew back and put away the paddle, listening to the rain pouring outside of the dark window and running my fingers over the various canes, whips, and floggers lined up in my drawer, waiting for their turn to kiss Phelan’s skin.
“So, Phelan, do you believe in ghosts?”
“Yes,” said Phelan.
“Wrong answer,” I replied, plucking a six-tongued flogger from the drawer and turning back to him. He glanced over his shoulder at me, his face shining with expectation. When he saw the flogger in my hand, he groaned a little and dropped his head, spreading his legs a little more and wiggling his behind at me. I grinned. Phelan and I were going to get along, after all.
I walked up behind him, putting my nails between his shoulders and raking them down his back. He arched into the sharpness. With my other hand, I brought the flogger up between his legs, teasing his balls with the soft leather tails, and his knees shook in response.
“Ghosts aren’t real, Phelan. You know that. I know that. We both know that, don’t we?” I murmured, leaning it to drag my teeth over his skin. It was cold as ice, but he didn’t complain about being cold. He seemed to only focus on one thing: the pain and pleasure of his punishment, the humiliation of being spread and tenderized, the vulnerability and exquisite lowliness of his situation.
“Y-yes, Miss…” he whispered. I could hear him licking his lips.
I dragged my nails down his back again, leaving a trail of red, and then brought the flogger over the fresh tracks, lighting up his back with pain. Phelan moaned, a thin thread of pre-cum leaking from his swollen cock. I slung an arm around him and pressed my chest to his back, reaching around and gripping his shaft as hard as I could, digging my nails into the flesh.
“Don’t you dare finish, Phelan. I haven’t given you my permission yet.”
“I’m trying not to, Mistress!” he whimpered.
“Try harder!” I snarled into his ear, squeezing even harder. I felt his cock throbbing desperately in my grip.
I turned to the drawers and found a cock ring for him. He panted as I threaded it over his cock.
“There. That will keep you from making any mistakes, won’t it? You finish when I say you can finish. And we’re not finished, yet!”
“Please, Mistress, let me go–”
“Oh, no. Don’t you beg. You should have considered the consequences of lying to me earlier! Now, what have you learned, Phelan?”
“I mustn’t lie. I mustn’t listen to Paige. I am only to obey you!” whimpered Phelan, squirming desperately. His feet were still planted wide on the stone hearth, and his hands were still braced against the fireplace’s mantle, but he was trembling all over like he was about to collapse with the overwhelming and conflicting sensations he was feeling.
“And ghost stories…?” I prompted.
“Ghost stories aren’t real! Ghosts aren’t real!” he squealed.
“Very good. You’re a fast learner,” I purred, flicking the ends of the flogger against his ass. I turned to the drawer to fetch a plug; I was curious to know how he would take it.
When I pressed the cold metal bulb against his puckered hole, he bowed lower, sticking out his ass even more for me. An offering. I pushed in the thick plug with one hand, my other pressed steadily on his lower back, and he whined as the anal plug forced its way past his body’s initial resistance and was swallowed into his body. His cock jumped as it wedged into him and against his prostate, the cock ring aborting the orgasm he was clearly desperate to have.
“Oh, Mistress! Mistress, please!” he wailed, spasming uncontrollably. One of his hands left the wall to reach down and cuff his erection, stroking it furiously, but the cock ring prevented him from getting the relief he sought.
I reached around and seized his wrist, pulling his hand away and giving his shaft a good, solid slap. “No touching. The ring and the plug will stay on tonight, to remind you of who you belong to.”
Phelan jerked forward, scraping his neglected cock along the rough stonework of the fireplace, seeking any friction, any relief at all. How quickly I’d broken him!
Paige would be impressed, I thought, with a few more casual whips from the flogger across Phelan’s ass. Plump and swollen from its beating, it looked like a dream, with the round gold plug in Phelan’s hole providing a perfect bullseye for me to aim for.
“You haven’t gotten a good working-over for a while, have you?” I asked.
“N-no, Mistress, it’s been so long. So long…” groaned Phelan appreciatively. He was literally drooling from all the attention. “Please release me now… I’ll be good, I promise…”
“I think you and I are going to get along better than I expected,” I said, satisfied, stepping away to put my flogger back in its place and to fetch my keys. “I suppose, Phelan, if you’ve truly learned your lesson, I might be willing to take off that cock ring and let bygones be bygones. Just this one time.”
“Please, Mistress. Release me,” rasped Phelan, panting.
“Hmm…” I pretended to consider, forcing him to wait, drawing out the sense of anticipation. “…all right,” I said, finally.
Phelan nearly sobbed with relief.
“But first, I want you to go find Paige and tell her that all of this silly ghost business needs to stop,” I said, crouching to fit the thick iron key into the manacle on Phelan’s ankle. It came undone with an audible click. There was a raw, red ring on his skin where it had been.
Phelan turned and fell to his knees, bowing his head until it touched the floor and kissing the toe of my shoe. “Yes, Mistress. Yes. Thank you. Thank you!” he cried, and then, on his hands and knees, he crawled frantically toward the door and out into the hall. The last thing I saw disappear as he scrambled out was the glint of the gold plug in his ass.
“…and another thing! Tell Paige–” I began, striding after him. But when I poked my nose out of the room, he was already gone. The hallway was empty. A soft rumble of thunder sounded, and the lights flickered. I drew back into my room and, chuckling to myself, went to wash my face and get ready for bed.
I waited for Phelan, but the soothing patter of rain and the excitement of the day lulled me to sleep. When I woke, sunlight was streaming in through the window pane, and someone was knocking on my door.
“Phelan?” I said blearily, rising and pulling on a silk robe to open the door
It wasn’t Phelan, but Paige, holding a large fruit basket and smiling at me. “Rachel! Hi! Welcome!” she exclaimed, peering around a stack of pears.
“…what’s this?” I asked, still groggy from sleep, stepping aside to let her into my room.
“Just a little welcome basket for you. And an excuse to come see the famous Old Wing on the twelfth floor!” laughed Paige.
“Did Phelan send you?” I asked, thinking it must be some kind of apology basket.
“Who’s Phelan?” asked Paige, setting the basket on top of the nearest table and looking around the room with interest. “I know a lot of the girls are scared of this corner of the building, but Madame Xara said that wasn’t really an issue for you. And if you’re brave enough to handle it, it’s really a lovely old suite, isn’t it? It’s a shame about the fireplace, though.”
“What do you mean, a shame…?” I began to ask, turning to look at the fireplace.
With a shock, I discovered that the huge, gaping stone cavern was boarded up. I actually jumped with surprise.
Impossible! No one could have possibly dragged a half-dozen heavy wooden planks into my bedroom and affixed them over the stone archway overnight, not without my noticing! I raced over to them and grabbed the top one with a cry of fury, yanking at it.
“Rachel!” exclaimed Paige, but I was too incensed at this strange alteration to my room to pay any attention to her. I fought with the board, noticing how old it was. It creaked and cracked and strained, finally falling from the fireplace with a loud splintering sound, and I seized the one below it to pull it away, ripping off the planks one by one and leaving them in a pile by the hearth to open up the old stone fireplace.
Inside sat an old, faded cushion, red to match the bedspread, but it was unused and ancient, covered in a thick layer of dust. No slave had laid upon it in years and years, perhaps decades. A tarnished metal plate was fastened to the back wall of the stone fireplace, and trailing from it was a long, long metal chain, dull and rusted with age. At the end of it lay an open manacle, discarded and dusty. The ankle that it had once bound was long-gone.
The room boy had been released.
And no one would ever see him again.
– The End –
0 Comments