“Don’t move,” she said.
“That’s it?” I said.
“That’s it. That’s it, exactly. Don’t move.”
“Right now?” Smiling.
She returned my smile. “Right now. But get comfortable first.”
“Isn’t that sort of counterproductive?”
She tapped the tip of my nose. “Comedian. Don’t worry, you’ll get an experience.”
“But not a moving one, eh?”
The smile stayed, but her words were serious: “Great experiences are always moving – but not vice versa. Not at all.”
At least Sylvia’s basement was warm … no, not basement. Dungeon: that was it, though I still couldn’t think of it that way. “Dungeon” – that was bricks, rats, iron bars, and the Man in the Iron Mask. Who was in that, anyway Lon Chaney? Errol Flynn? Jose Ferrer? I’ll have to look it up later.
“Dungeon” certainly wasn’t a basement rec room in the Avenues, the perpetually foggy ocean side of San Francisco. No bricks, no iron bars, no rats, at least not as far as I could see. But that’s what Sybil called it, so that’s what I should probably call it, too.
Golden-yellow, close-cropped, shag carpeting. A heavy table covered in black leather. A pine chest with a latch and padlock – closed and locked. It certainly wasn’t anything Lon Chaney, Errol Flynn or Jose Ferrer would have been scared of.
But I wasn’t Lon or Errol or Jose, or even Brendan Fraser, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least nervous. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Sybil, but this was more than a bit new to me. For me, sex had always been about a cock (mine), tits and pussies. Not whips, chains and “Yes, Mistress.” But that’s what it was for Sybil. At least she understood my trepidation, thus the padlock on her war chest.
What am I doing here? It wasn’t the first time I thought that, walking in the door to her place. The response was the same as it had always been: because this was part of her life, and I wanted to be part of her life, too.