“It’s not a dungeon,” my wife said. “It’s … an erotic playroom.” 

I chuckled as we drove to her mother’s house.  

“Beth, it’s a secret, windowless underground chamber where people get tied up, tortured, tormented, and sexed up,” I argued. “It’s a dungeon.” 

It was early Friday evening, and we were planning to spend the night—and maybe the weekend, if things went well—at my mother-in-law's sumptuous home in the outer suburbs. 

A home with a dungeon in the basement. One that I hadn’t seen, as it was securely locked when I did a welfare check on Cynthia the previous weekend.  

I had found her, naked and in self-bondage. And then … stuff … happened. 

"It doesn’t feel like a dungeon,” insisted my bride. “There’s no torture rack, no blood stains, no torches on the wall. As a matter of fact, it’s fairly comfortable, with a refrigerator, wet bar, and a kick-ass multi-person, luxury shower.”  

“You’ve also described it,” I countered, “as being packed with bondage furniture and BDSM equipment like whips, shackles, gags, and such. Plus, electrical and mechanical stuff you built or modified, but refuse to describe. To surprise me with.” 

My electrical engineer wife had helped to wire and equip the “playroom” that Cynthia’s deceased, rich husband, Julius had constructed. Beth had sometimes joined in their activities prior to his death a year ago and before she met me shortly thereafter.  

She said the trio would tie each other up in various combinations for fun and erotic pleasure. Beth admitted to sometimes having sex with her stepfather down there, with the blessing and participation of his wife.  

She assured me that actual intimate contact between her and her mother had always been limited to binding each other and applying gadgets like vibrators, nipple clamps, gags, and such, to each other’s bodies. 

Okay, she admitted, perhaps a little kissing and naked hugging mixed in there, but nothing else.  

I’m not sure I totally believed her.  

Beth was adventurous in the erotica department, far more than I was. She likely had inherited the gene for hedonism from her mother, a voluptuous forty-six-year-old redhead ...  

… who had a freakin’ sex dungeon in her basement! 

Beth was describing all this sexy history while I was driving us to Cynthia’s house outside the city. Her revelations were getting my cock hard under my light shorts. 

Per her request, I was not wearing underwear on this warm summer day, so Beth noticed the bulge. I was driving my compact sports car, so it was easy for her to loosen her seat belt and reach over to put her hand on my nearest naked thigh.  

After a couple of squeezes, her hand slid up under my shorts to directly fondle my cock and balls.  

I jumped a bit at her touch. Beth was slowly bringing me into her kinky mindset, but in our relatively brief time together—only a few months—we had not played in public.  

She continued to massage my erection, lubricating the action at the head of my cock with a licked palm and then, with my oozing pre-cum.  

“Keep your eyes on the road, killer,” she chuckled. 

I came very close to telling her to knock it off, but by this point, we were out of the rush hour traffic of the city and well out into the country; the road was mostly ours.  

Still, it was all I could do to keep control; control of the car and of my sexual responses. Beth did not bring me to orgasm; I’m sure she wanted me fresh for her and her mother's enjoyment. The plan was that I was going to fill in for Julius for the weekend in the aforementioned dungeon. 

Cynthia was waiting for us at her front door, welcoming Beth with a nice hug and kiss on the cheek. Once we got inside—the neighbors were a fair distance away, but she wanted to be discreet—her kiss for me was a lot longer and deeper, involving tongue.  

I was initially a bit reticent in fully returning the gesture; yes, I had fucked Cynthia the previous weekend with Beth’s over-the-phone consent and encouragement, but displaying that passion in front of my wife was another step.  

My hands were hovering in midair as the long kiss continued. Beth took them and moved them down so that I was cradling Cynthia’s curvy butt, so I guessed I still had her permission to make out with her mother.  

Cynthia made sure that her pelvis was rubbing against mine. When she stepped back from the kiss, she looked at the moist area on the front of my shorts.  

“Oh my,” she said coquettishly, “Did I do that?” 

“Actually,” Beth informed her, “I did, on the way over. A little hand action while Chris drove. Thank God we have that automatic lane change warning thing, or we’d have gone off the road.”  

(By mutual agreement, Beth and I had not had full-on sex—meaning orgasms—for the previous few days, to increase our enthusiasm for this weekend. So yes, I was a little wound up and ready to go. 

It hadn’t been easy, because Beth and I were still hot and horny newlyweds. We had known each other for less than a year, been married for only a month, and Beth was a slim, flexible, hot little wench. We were in our mid-twenties. Cynthia was a couple of decades older, but a sexy, full-figured cougar.) 

Cynthia led us to our guest quarters, Beth’s old room. “The bed here is only a queen,” she said. “If you’d like to trade up, my mattress is a Texas King and is far more comfortable for two people...” 

She gave us a foxy grin while lightly stroking her bountiful cleavage. 

“...or more. Silly me, Christopher here has seen it. Haven’t you, son?” 

She was slyly referring to the previous Saturday when I found her in self-bondage, naked, on that very bed. Before I eventually freed her—she had botched the delayed-action release mechanism—I fulfilled her kidnapping fantasy by making her suck my cock and then drilling her pussy.  

Before that day—the day that we “broke the ice,” as Cynthia put it—she had been a bit of an unkind shrew to me. I belatedly realized that she dreadfully missed her deceased second husband and the exciting bondage sex they had shared.  

Her frustration must have been enhanced by the fact that I was fucking her daughter while the older woman was secretly attracted to me, and vice-versa.  

(I’m not sure what the refined, mature woman saw in me, whereas I had always dug her voluptuous, fair-skinned body, plus her gorgeous red hair, great face, and confident demeanor.  

I loved Beth with all my heart and soul, but my wife was—sorry to say this—not my ideal physical “type.” She was slimmer, darker, and quirkier, much like her long-departed biological father, I imagine.) 

“The dress is casual for dinner and drinks,” Cynthia told us.  

“Maybe something that doesn’t have a wet spot on the front,” she added with a teasing grin.   

At the talk of clothing, she caught me checking out her pretty, but somewhat conservative, summer wrap dress.  

“Christopher,” she smiled, “were you expecting me to meet you at the door in some slinky lingerie? Or the outfit I wore last weekend?” 

(Which was composed only of leather wrist and ankle cuffs plus a collar, a blindfold, and a gag. It was accessorized with high heels strapped to her feet and a vibrator strapped to her pussy.) 

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” she continued. “I haven’t firmly decided yet that we’re going to do anything more than enjoy a nice family evening together. Maybe a swim and a movie, or a few rounds of three-handed cribbage.”  

She left Beth and me to unpack.  

(Not that I had brought a lot of clothing; I had gone into this expecting a fair amount of nakedness for the next couple of days.) 

“What did she mean by that?” I asked Beth. 

“Give her a little space, Chris,” she said. “You gave her what she needed last week to snap her out of her emotional doldrums. But despite all the … antics … that she and Julius and I did back in the day, this is somewhat new territory for her. For all of us.” 

She took me by both hands.  

“Let her get comfortable having us here in her home. Let her know she’s in control of what happens. Let her … hell, let her get a couple of drinks in her, and things will likely go as planned.” 

I kissed my wife. “How the hell did I end up with such a smart, sexy woman like you?” 

She looked down and whispered, “No one else would have me.” 

I was aghast. Maybe she felt intimidated by her sexy and self-assured mother. I took her by the forearms. 

“Beth, any man would be lucky and proud to have you as a wife and a partner. I know I am. Don’t you ever, ever, say that or even think that.” 

She smiled. I think she was testing me, a bit. 

“Or what?” she said. “What if I say it again?” 

I smiled as well. “I guess I could take you over my knee and spank you as husbands did in the old days.”  

I was getting in the spirit of how I hoped the evening would progress.  

“Spanking?” she chuckled. “Been there, done that. Honey, you’re going to have to do better than that for punishment.” 

“That’s easy enough,” I pointed out. “There’s a whole dungeon downstairs, and the night is still young.” 

------- 

Fortunately, I had brought another pair of shorts, this one without my sticky pre-cum plastered on the front. We joined Cynthia downstairs for drinks from her well-stocked bar: French wine for Beth, gin and tonic for Cynthia, and a ridiculously expensive and excellent bourbon for me.  

(Julius had been a connoisseur of the stuff. I silently drank a toast in his honor.) 

For dinner, I was placed at the head of the table, the women flanking me on each side. Cynthia slipped out of her shoes and was using her naked feet to rub my nearest naked leg under the table while we ate and talked. 

Beth figured out what was going on and started doing the same; not out of possessiveness or spite, I felt, but from the pleasure of watching me squirm and pretend not to notice that two hot women were teasing me. 

“So, what have you two been up to this week?” Cynthia asked. “The last time we talked on the phone, Beth here had handcuffed you to the bed and was planning to tease you all Sunday night and into Monday morning. Did you get to work on time, Chris?” 

“Actually, he didn’t,” Beth replied. “But not because he couldn’t get away. It was because I fell asleep on him.” 

I explained that Beth had been up all the previous night at the emergency engineering call that had kept her away while I was the one who had to do a welfare check on Cynthia and came upon her self-bondage session.

“Poor Chris was lying there all helpless while I was stroking him,” Beth said, “and I dozed off. He woke me up, and I tried again, but I just couldn’t stay awake.” 

“Fortunately,” I said, “she had the presence of mind to release my cuffs before she crashed. The next morning, I let her sleep in—she had the day off—and while I was in the shower, she surprised me by slipping in behind me, naked.”  

“He was shaving at the moment,” Beth said, chuckling. “Damn near cut his nose off. I pulled him out of the shower, laid him on the bathroom floor, sucked him until he got hard, and then mounted him. So yeah, he was late for work.” 

Thinking back to the hand job in the car, I asked, “Is this going to be a reoccurring thing, honey? Jump my bones every time I’m in a risky situation?” 

“That sounds like a fun habit to get into,” Cynthia remarked. “I’m all in for women getting men into a 'risky' position and then having their way with them.”  

She wasn’t intoxicated, but I gathered that Cynthia was a drink or two ahead of us and loosening up. 

As we cleared the table and moved the dishes to the kitchen, the women continued to flirt by using any excuse to touch me or rub up against me, and sometimes, each other.  

Cynthia suggested that we try out the pool and hot tub in her backyard. She reached into a shopping bag and pulled out two small packages.  

“I bought bathing suits for both of you,” she said with a grin. “With accessories. Go upstairs and change, and I’ll meet you outside in five minutes.” 

I opened my package in our guest bedroom and found three items: a small blue Speedo brief and two black leather wrist straps with buckles. From a distance, the straps would look like ordinary wristbands, but they had a small ring in them that could be used for bondage connections.  

The tiny swim trunks had metal clasps on the sides that would allow for easy removal; no need to pull them down around your ankles and step out of them.  

Beth’s package contained similar wristbands, albeit a bit smaller than mine. Probably custom-made—that’s Cynthia for you.  

Her swimsuit was a tiny blue bikini that also was designed for easy removal, as the thin straps that held the pieces to the body had to be tied.  

I have a decent body, but I was reluctant to put on my very form-fitting swimsuit.  

“Do it for me, honey,” said Beth as she stripped and donned the micro-bikini. She had shaved her pussy, so it looked wonderful on her. Thankfully, I had cleared the brush from my genitals as well.  

You look great,” she told me. “And besides, I have a feeling you’re not going to be wearing it all that much tonight.” We donned our swimwear along with the wrist straps.    

Cynthia was already doing laps when we came down. She stepped out of the pool to greet us. She looked fit and stunning with her ample bosom and butt that perfectly set off her toned midsection. She kept in shape by swimming a lot and working out in her exercise room. 

Her outfit was a well-fitted green bikini that complimented her red hair and fair skin. The pieces weren’t as small as Beth’s—those tiny patches would have slipped off her more robust figure—but they were also the kind that could be untied in a moment with just a pluck of a string.  

For the next half-hour or so, we frolicked in the pool like kids; splashing each other, diving off the sides and the board, hugging and clowning around, while continuing to consume our adult beverages. 

Cynthia’s nearest neighbor was a fair distance away, and there were tall trees and fences surrounding the house, but because people do have drones and sometimes do take walks in the area, we kept the action G-rated.  

Well, maybe R-rated; besides a little kissing, there was some groping under the water while we horsed around.  

More than once, one of the ladies would reach under and undo a clasp on my swimsuit. I would retaliate by plucking the strings on their bottoms. All our swimwear was quickly reconnected each time, but the flirting was definitely heating up as the sun was going down. 

Eventually, we decided to retire to the hot tub. Beth went into the house for another round of drinks while Cynthia and I settled into the luxurious spa.  

By the time my wife returned, Cynthia had sat me down in a certain corner, with my arms pulled out to my sides. 

I couldn’t move them much, as she had clipped my wrist cuffs to rings embedded in the jacuzzi walls just under the water line. Thus, my bondage was mostly hidden from any prying eyes. 

Beth didn’t seem surprised by the situation; I guessed that she and Cynthia and Julius had used this bondage setup on each other in the past, as a supplement to the basement dungeon.  

She and Cynthia moved into places on either side of me, and with a nod to each other, undid the clasps on my swimsuit. Good thing, as my erection was stretching that diminutive garment to its limit.  

Beth brought out a small bottle, popped the cap, and poured some of the contents into her hands.  

“This is a silicone-based lube,” she explained. “It stays on underwater.”  

“We keep a bottle in all the baths and showers in the house,” added Cynthia as she applied some to her palms as well.  

Soon, the two ladies were stroking my cock and fondling my balls, along with playing with their own genitals, all out of sight under the bubbling water.   

It was amazing. And frustrating. 

“Be sure to not ejaculate, Christopher,” instructed my mother-in-law. “I don’t want to get your cum circulating in my nice clean hot tub.” 

I rattled the clips that kept my wrist cuffs attached to the spa walls. 

“I don’t have a lot of say in the matter, ma’am,” I pointed out.  

"Still,” she replied, “try to keep yourself under control. Beth and I have agreed that, for tonight, I’ll be calling the shots, as this is my house and my idea. Tomorrow night, Beth will be in command of you and me. Are you okay with that, Chris?” 

I thought for a moment.  

Now, I’m not a "dominant" in the bedroom, nor a "submissive," but I trusted these two—well, Beth more than Cynthia—and figured the ladies would show me a good time, regardless of who was taking the lead.  

However, it was time to assert some measure of control. 

“Agreed,” I said. “On one condition: on Sunday, I’m in charge. No arguing, no push-back.” 

I figured that by then, I’d have seen all the equipment and found out what the ladies' skills and limitations were in this erotic setting. 

“If I’m going to jump through your hoops tonight and tomorrow,” I continued, “I get to decide who gets tied up on Sunday, and in what configuration.  

“And, who services whom.”  

I wasn’t sure if my grammar was correct, but I gave each of the women long, significant looks to make sure they understood my meaning. Their eyes got a little wide at my demands. 

When Beth had told me that she and Cynthia were never actually sex partners, I took it to mean they had not eaten each other’s pussies or fucked each other with strap-on dildos. 

Perhaps this weekend would be the opportunity to put that to the test, to call their bluff.  

Yeah, I was getting into the spirit of this little shindig.  

“Agreed?” I asked.  

Beth and Cynthia looked at each other, communicated telepathically—as mothers and daughters sometimes do—and replied together.  

“Agreed.”  

Cynthia, seizing the power that she had declared for herself, told Beth, “Assume your position.” My wife giggled and moved to a seat across from me. Her mother then attached Beth’s wristbands to rings on either side of her, much like mine. She also plucked the strings that held Beth's bikini bottom on. We were now both naked from the waist down.

Cynthia then took a seat on the perimeter and touched some buttons on a control panel. The bubbling water jets had been massaging our backs and shoulders all along like a standard jacuzzi, but now, jets started spurting from the seats, stimulating our genitals. Not hard, but sensually. 

I was surprised; Beth was not. 

“I had these seats custom-built for our fun and games,” said Cynthia. “Beth designed them and oversaw their installation. I can turn the power up or down as needed.  

“At lower strength, Julius always said that the jets were soothing on his cock and balls, keeping him gently aroused for a long time.” 

I had to agree with that; it felt great. From the look on Beth’s face, she was feeling the same bliss. Then Cynthia suddenly turned up the power. 

Now it felt like a powerful vibrator was pummeling my crotch. The sensation was immediate and extraordinary.  

“The jets are perfectly placed to stimulate the seat’s occupant to orgasm in very short order,” said Cynthia. “Of course, too much of this will become torturous, especially if and when you do orgasm.” 

Strapped into place with our wrist cuffs, Beth and I could do little to avoid the overwhelming sensations. Delicious torment indeed. 

Cynthia dialed the settings back to low. Our arousal levels went from “over-stimulation” to "sensual simmer.” 

“It’s not my intent to hurt you,” she said. “Not at this point, not if you’re a good boy and a good girl. And I certainly don’t intend to let you orgasm yet. We have a long night ahead of us.” 

Cynthia went into the house to get us all another drink. While she was out of earshot, Beth and I talked.  

“Are you okay with all this, honey?” she asked. “Mother can get a little … intense … when she takes command, and there might be some discomfort now and then, but she’s experienced. She won’t truly hurt either of us. Any whipping or spanking she may do won't bring welts or any damage."  

“I’ll be fine,” I replied. “This is going to be interesting. Are you okay with me being in charge on Sunday? I figure by then I’ll be in the mood to push you ladies hard, but I’m not experienced like you two are.” 

“I trust you,” she said. “If it gets too much, our safe word is “meatloaf.” Say it once and the person in charge slows the action down. Say it twice and the action stops.” 

Just then, Cynthia came back to the jacuzzi, without the drinks. 

“Changed my mind,” she said. “You two will get overheated in that water, both physically and sexually, and we have a bar downstairs. I'm getting anxious to show Christopher the playroom.” 

She unhooked our cuffs from the walls of the spa, and we went back into the house. Once inside, Cynthia re-secured our wrist cuffs together behind our backs. Soon, we stood in front of the locked door that led to the “playroom.” 

Beth was directly in front of me. Her bound hands were playing with my unclothed cock. I suddenly realized that the two of us had made the short walk from the hot tub to the house with our genitals showing. Hopefully, no one saw us. Cynthia had a reputation in the neighborhood to maintain.

"I told Chris the safe word,” Beth informed her mother. 

I had done some research on BDSM in the previous few days, to prepare myself for this weekend. So, I knew about safe words, but … 

“Meatloaf?” I asked in puzzlement. 

Cynthia smiled as she undid the locks on the door. “It was Julius’ idea. It means that you would do anything for love, but you won’t do that.” 

“Huh?” I asked in puzzlement. “Oh, yeah, I get it now...” 

Cynthia opened the door, flicked on the lights, and the main event of the evening got underway.