The Dungeon Master
“Who’s your daddy?” Mistress Dementia demanded, hovering over the man hogtied in the belly of the red child’s wagon. She brandished a cruel whip, ready to strike.
“You are, Mistress,” Bob whimpered. He’d been coming to Mistress Dementia for weekly sessions over the past year, but he’d never experienced anything like this. His raven-haired mistress had dyed her hair cranberry red for the holidays, and seemed intent on incorporating the color into all their reindeer games. The little red wagon was just the beginning; the weeping gash in his arm was another unexpected gift.
“That’s Santy Claus to you, ho ho ho!” Mistress Dementia bellowed, bringing the whip down hard upon Bob’s naked ass.
Bob howled like a hound dog.
“You’ve been naughty this year, Bobby,” she continued. “Don’t want to get coal in that stocking do you?”
“No, Santy Claus,” Bob panted.
“That’s right. Now, what do we do with naughty little boys?”
Bob gulped as his mistress pulled a new toy from her box. This one was shaped like a tennis racket, but gave off an electrical crackle as she sliced it through the air. Incinerating a stray gnat, the bug zapper gave off a frightening blue bolt, and Bob prayed for a Christmas miracle to save him from this particular punishment.
“Santy Claus punishes the wicked, mistress,” Bob whispered.
“That’s right! You are a clever boy, Bobby.”
Brandishing the zapper, Mistress Dementia drew closer to Bob’s shivering, naked form. She whipped it back and forth under his nose for effect, thus igniting several more wayward insects with aplomb.
Bob gulped and shut his eyes in anticipation of a new level of pain.
“No one punishes my husband but me!” rang out a third voice.
Bob’s eyes snapped open. “Charlotte?”
His wife strode towards his mistress, and knocked the bug zapper from her hands with a faded oversized paperback. Mistress Dementia looked completely taken aback by this turn of events, taking a step away from the frumpy woman in a babushka and potato sack dress.
“You call this a dungeon?” Charlotte roared. “The Dragon Slayer manual, page 37, has complete details of the standard dungeon, and this barely rates a second-class torture chamber. Come, Bob!”
“Y-y-y-y-yes, dear,” Bob stuttered, but failed to rise from the wagon, due to his hogtied state.
“Who are you to disturb me with a client?” Mistress Dementia demanded.
“You phony,” Charlotte spat. “I am the original Dungeon Master, and my husband will soon rue the day he paid good money to worship at your altar. Only the pure of heart can slay a dragon, and you are nothing but an impostor.”
Mistress Dementia opened her mouth to argue with this lumpy, misshapen peasant, but quickly thought better of it.
“Now untie him, wench!”
Mistress Dementia hopped to it, quickly freeing her former slave from his bonds.
“About my fee…” she began.
Charlotte darted a poison stare, and the disgraced mistress stopped mid-sentence to reframe her thought.
“You’re right. Merry Christmas to you both!”
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