Robbie lives in an old house, built about 1906.  It has “potential”.  It has peeling paint, no water pressure, and only one bathroom.  It also has marvelous beams in roof and in barns, pressed tin ceilings, gingerbread trim on porches and roofs, a wood stove–and two separate cellars.

These cellars are the real deal.  Carved out of the local limestone, one has a huge cistern inside it, enough for emergency water for months.  Both have dirty, damp floors, and little-to-no light.  I think one might have a one foot square window.  I think the other has no window.

I have long and uncreatively fantasized about being locked in various dungeons, towers, taverns, pens, cells, and dirt shacks.  A favorite fantasy–one I have had since I was a teenager and still cannot get out of my mind–is being forced to serve royalty in a palace.  In the fantasy, a nasty, lecherous duke or ambassador tries to fondle me; I resist and get into trouble.  I get locked in a remote tower as punishment–or a young, not-nasty prince or earl locks me away in order to “protect” me.   The key part of this story is that, in the tower, there’s a bedstead with no mattress or blankets and nothing else in the room, that I’m chained and cuffed to the bedstead.  Cold stone and cold metal, with the occasional dashing visitor who eventually ravishes me–that’s romance to me. 

Like much of the rest of the stuff of my erotic imagination, this little scene seemed for years to be totally unique to me, idiosyncratic and quirky, and impossible to realize without time travel.  I didn’t know anyone who locked anyone up outside of fairy tales and adventure stories, and I didn’t know of anyone dashing who was in position of a stone tower.

Of course, you see where this is going.  As it turns out, lots of people find high towers and dark cellars hot–a glimpse at any of the sets at illustrates that.  (Device Bondage is a particular favorite of mine, for its damsel-in-antique-distress aesthetic.)  And that bare mattress?  Positively a cliche! 

That doesn’t mean it’s not still hot to me.  In fact, it’s only gotten hotter since a couple of summers ago, when Robbie was showing me the cellars.  I can’t remember why we were down there.  We might have been trying to figure out which side would be best for a root cellar. We might have been looking for some tools.  It might even have been the time I used the central vacuum and vacuumed up something important, then had to go rooting through the bin full of lint that’s in the back cellar to find it. 

But anyway, we were down there, I was looking around the cellar, and all of a sudden . . . Robbie shut the cellar door on me.  I couldn’t see anything–the back cellar has only a 3×4″ glass panel in its (heavy) metal door.  I couldn’t move, because I couldn’t see a thing.  I was really terrified.  And in that moment of pure terror, I was as turned on as I have ever been in my life.  It wasn’t just the fear–usually fear turns me off rather than on.  It was the idea that Robbie might, really might, keep me down there.  The rational part of my mind knew that that time, he wouldn’t–and in fact, after no more than 3 or 4 seconds, he opened the door with a broad grin on his face.  The irrational part of my mind feared and desired that he’d keep me down there indefinitely, caged or chained, without any indication of when I could leave–increasingly cold, increasingly hungry, increasingly desperate. 


Because one of the very best parts of my cellar fantasy is that, as I imagine it, the more desperate I get, the more I’ll do for him for some relief.  I kink on bargains.  You want a blanket?  Blow me.  You need food?  Take it up the ass.  You have to get out of here?  Service enough of my acquaintances and I’ll think about it.  That’s the dark, seamy, dirtiness of what goes on in the cellar, in my mind. 

At one point, I felt some guilt about the cellar fantasy.  Why, I thought, does the scenario have to be so dark, dirty, and even cruel for me to find anal sex hot?  Why couldn’t I be in the Ritz on silk sheets and find the idea just as erotic?  Now, I both understand my desire to be in the basement better–a subject for another time–and don’t feel distressed about the desires.  If this is what turns my crank and Robbie is up for it, what we do is between him, me, and the cellar.

A few weeks ago, Robbie started sending me emails entitled “Cellar Girl”, along with pictures by the photographer who shot these images.  I about died of a combination of arousal and tenderness at a new kinky nickname.  I’m hoping that we finally get to live out some of the cellar girl fantasies, and to produce some pictures on our own.  I’ll keep you posted, of course.

Absolutely riveting pictures, film, stories, and even furniture at icantmove.