Blood Born

Chapter 19

19  Dungeon

"Cynthea," he started as they left her bank, "I'm very grateful for the all help you've been."  They had been in the Haymarket branch of Barclays where Cynthea had her account.  She had some papers to sign for the sale of her car.  She deposited the cheque, too.

"You're welcome," she replied, giving him a friendly hug as they strolled along the shadier side of Northumberland Street.  "You are wondering why:  correct?" 

He nodded curtly.  "Largely, yes."

She looked down as she walked.  "Let's find a quiet spot somewhere," she suggested.

They went down a small side street and found a bar around the corner and down a flight of stairs.  He thought he recalled the place from years back, but it had changed severely since then.  It was a dark, gothic bar named simply 'Dungeon Dungeon'.  The walls were all matte black and sucked in the meagre illumination supplied by tiny halogen track lights.  The central bar area was flanked on three sides by tables, a dance floor, and a series of booths respectively.  The booths had heavy velvet curtains that could be drawn across them on gleaming brass rails.

"The rumor is that people fuck in those booths, or worse," Cynthea shared with mock horror in her voice.

"Worse than fucking?  How terrible.  Surely something better than mere fucking would be appropriate for this place?"  He gestured at the sadomasochism toys on display behind the bar:  whips, gags, nipple clamps, and so forth.  She laughed.  

"I'll have a tall vodka martini:  shackled, not stirred," he joked as they walked over to the bar.

The girl behind the bar looked to be in her thirties.  She was wearing a soft, glossy leather corset that pushed her breasts up like a bustier.  Her long, curly locks cascaded down her shoulders in an auburn waterfall.  On her neck was a collar with a lock of a different sort.  Alan couldn't see what else she had on because of the bar - perhaps very little.  A small jewel in her nose sparkled as she smoked, leafing through an art book of photos of men in leather violating each other in various ways.  She glanced up at Alan's mock order and grinned suggestively - her eyebrow ring catching the light.

They bought drinks and took them to a corner table:  neither of them being forward enough to suggest a booth after their recent exchange.  It was still far too early to be called evening and Alan was surprised that the place was even open.

"I don't suppose they do much business in here at this time?  The afternoon refreshment market doesn't strike me as one with a strong demand for bondage dives."

"They may have a niche," Cynthea hypothesized.  "Maybe there's a high positive correlation between alcohol consumption and sexual experimentation?  Anyway, they must do pretty well - the place opens before lunch, and I hear they have a pretty good selection of sandwiches."

He guffawed at the idea of dainty old ladies visiting just for the splendid sandwiches - slapping the table hard enough to make the tarnished silver candelabrum rattle.  Cynthea just grinned at his hilarity.

"So," he went on after regaining his composure, "Why are you going to all this trouble?"

She looked coy for a minute.  "Perhaps I like you."

"Pull the other one.  You'd sell your house and use all your worldly savings to buy a place because you like someone?"

She rolled her eyes comically.  "Men - no romance!  I swear:  I'm going to become a lesbian again."  The woman at the bar glanced up.

He sipped some of his wine.  They had served it in a Hollywood interpretation of a medieval goblet with fake gemstones on it.  It suited the place, but not the drink - which was actually a pretty decent Beaujolais:  fit to accompany some camembert and a baguette.  He adopted a more serious tone.  "What is it that you want from me?"