There is a bustling street in central London. A bright red phone box stands sentry outside. A dark doorway lurks just around a corner. But I doubt you’d notice any of these elements as you were bundled out of a van and dragged eyes-down inside.
What you definitely would have noticed was the smell…odour de dank and damp. If you could bottle it, you wouldn’t. It hinted at something sinister, something insidious, something uninviting.
Yet it still lured you in.
Two flights of steep stairs, barely lit at all, guided your way. Perhaps your fingers traced the crumbling brickwork in order to orient yourself. More likely you were on collar and leash, wrists tightly bound, pushed and shoved beneath the ordinary above you.
The first room was the barest of them all – a perfect processing chamber and solitary confinement station. Sickly green hues gave way to countless shades of grey. Every unsettling detail served to further disorientate, to make you shiver.
It was here that your clothes were confiscated, and strict conditions were made clear. Then the click of a heavy padlock. The slam of a door. The full gravity of what was about to unfurl, coupled with the cramped confines of the cell, provoked panic or feeble resignation. Excitement also.
Time was unsettlingly still. And deafeningly silent.
Room number two. The torture chamber. Strobe lights biting through the blackness. A concrete floor as cold as creamed ice. And a most intimidating circuit of all the necessary devices for a good honest interrogation. Sharp steel and unyielding structures reigned, biting hard into soft limbs and twitching flesh.
All your senses were sharpened and stretched. Sounds played on loop until your brain was scrambled. Yet no one and nothing escaped from those scream-proof walls. If they could talk, they wouldn’t…they would keep their secrets with spy-like stoicism.
And finally, a long narrow corridor with one single suspension hook dangling devilishly at its end. A catwalk for leather-clad apex predators on the prowl. And the location of some sensational set pieces of BDSM choreography.
Arms were pulled taught, reaching to the ceiling for surrender. Victims were left dangling in the dark, only to be revived by deafening music and stiletto-clad footsteps. Whips lashed and canes thrashed. Limbs ached. Flesh throbbed. Ice and fire rained down.
All the while, malevolent co-conspirators entered and exited. These deviant associates assumed all forms; seemingly sweet submissives, stunning strippers, rival assassins, and fire-eating femme fatales. A subterranean circus of sorts…their allegiances impossible to anticipate.
These dark adventures ended as dramatically as they began, with hurried escapes and strict instructions. Hostages were simply spat out, disorientated and discombobulated….up those steep stairs, through those dark doors and sometimes told to take refuge in that phone box and await further instructions.
Now you noticed, didn’t you?
If you were lucky enough to visit, then these ominous echoes will all resonate. And if you weren’t, well perhaps they’ll provide a little glimpse of a most sacred play-space and the deliciously sweet/sour memories which lay within.
The Bunker, YOU were the ultimate stage, especially where kinky kidnaps were concerned. A most sadistic character and co-conspirator in your own right. Wabi sabi par excellence. You were all the more beautiful for your sweet imperfections and rough aesthetic. RIP…I will lay imaginary flowers on your non-existent grave.
Now back to my luxurious, perfect, clean, warm and exquisitely upholstered dungeon. Thanks heavens for kinky creature comforts. There’s only so much spit and sawdust an imperious and spoilt bitch like me can tolerate.