The Darker Passions

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  "What...what is The Virgin's Seat, Aunt Meg?" Ursula asks suspiciously.

  "Louise, bring the chair! And the carpet as well."

  Louise jumps to her feet. Her large exposed breast bobs and tantalizes, the area just below the nipple already bruising. She hurries across the room and drags a peculiar piece of heavy furniture back with her, a square yard of carpet on top.

  "Position it to face the stage."

  She does as I command, the high pile wool carpet on the floor, the chair on top of it.

  "This looks like a commode, without the pot," Ursula says, astonished.

  Indeed, the low stool does resemble a commode, the design from whence the idea sprang. The legs are no more than a foot high. There is no back. The round seat has a large hole in the center. The chair has been formed of the heaviest African wood, its weight deceptive on first glance.

  "Sit!" Meg tells Ursula.

  "But Aunt Meg, won't I fall through?"

  "Only your derriere, which is the point."

  Reluctantly the girl straddles the stool and begins to squat.

  "Lift your skirt."

  "You don't mean for me to sit bare bottomed?"

  "I do, and you will."

  She blushes and demurely lifts the floor-length skirt that clings to her hips. She is modest and no one sees more than her ankles which, Meg thinks, is as it should be, for the moment.

  Once Ursula is seated, her knees high, her bottom low, she looks up at Meg in consternation.

  "Bend your knees, girl."

  This she does, which makes the seating far more comfortable. Her legs are now on the outside of the stool, hugging it, spreading her open, for it would have been impossible for her to shift her calves underneath the seat. The entire stool is surrounded by her skirt and it looks as if she is kneeling on a pillow. Her body weight, though, has forced her bottom through the hole, deep enough that her sensitive openings brush the prickly wool. The weight of the chair will keep her from moving unduly, but even minimal squirming will allow the fibers to tickly her in most appropriate spots.

  "Are you comfortable, my dear?"

  Ursula looks disconcerted. "In a manner of speaking, Aunt."

  "Good. Louise, the cords."

  Louise hurries across the room and returns with half a dozen silk cords, the type used on the bell systems to summon a servant. "Tie her. And do a proper job, if you know what's good for you."

  Louise falls to her knees. She lifts Ursula's gown high.

  "Sit up!"

  Louise bolts to an upright position on her knees and Meg slaps her exposed breast hard. "Use a bit of decorum!" she snaps.

  "Thank you, Mistress," Louise sniffles.

  Ursula looks startled.

  This time Louise lifts the skirt just enough to do the job, a bit in the front where she proceeds to tie Ursula's thighs to the front legs, and again only slightly at the back, to secure the girl's ankles to the back legs.

  "Fortunately, Ursula, you received a taste of such bondage this afternoon, hence I don't expect you are as terrified as the first time."

  The girl's large violet eyes are round with fear and hunger, but she says, "Yes, Aunt Meg, thank you for guiding me gently."

  "One last bit of apparatus. Louise, The Belt."

  Ursula now looks frightened in earnest, imagining all types of horror to come. Meg does nothing to quell her fears, for she knows they are delicious and, if truth be known, Ursula wants to savor them.

  The Belt is a three inch wide tanned leather strip, grey like the smocks. Louise secures it to Ursula's tiny waist, pulling the notches of the thick belt tight and wrapping the leather twice around under the metal loops and hooks that alternate with one another every few inches. "Place your hands together behind your back, as if in prayer."

  This Ursula does. Meg nods and Louise uses the last piece of satin cord to bind her wrists together. The girl's arms are lifted painfully a few inches, then dropped back down again as the cord is then attached to a metal hook at the back of the belt. In this position, Ursula truly looks ready to please. Meg knows the comestibles hidden beneath the skirt are likely already moist and plump and anxious for manipulation. The girl's delicious breasts jut out in longing. Through the rough cotton fabric, her unsucked nipples are defined. She looks very prim and proper indeed and, at the same time, succulent. Meg licks her lips, feeling a strong urge to taste those melons, to extract their sweetness.

  Suddenly a sharp rap comes on the outer door, the one leading up a short flight of steps to the street. At this hour, at this entrance, there can only be one visitor.

  All chattering in the room ceases. Hands no longer fondle flesh. As one unit, eyes turn towards the immediate and demanding pounding that speaks to the soul of every woman here.

  Constance Wilcox's hand flies to her throat. Her eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush. Ursula, below Meg, turns her cherub face upward. Their eyes meet. Ursula's are even rounder. Her jaw is slack, her flawlessly plump lips parted as though ready to receive a visitor.

  "Well, Louise," Meg says, "don't keep Mr. Hyde waiting. Let him in."

  Chapter Thirteen

  I take in the territory with a glance. Eight lovelies, each eager for my attention. Young, old, fleshy, slim. Every hair and eye color are represented as well as tall and short. A chocolate box assortment which I intend to sample to my heart's content. The intoxicating scent of gum saturates the air, but none so much so as that from the creature squatting on the floor in the center of the room.

  "Welcome, Hyde," Meg Utterson says, "to our salon of experimentation. We here are exploring our natural inclinations and hope you can aid us in this process. I see you have brought your equipment. Good."

  "As requested. And I see your equipment would have been adequate, but barely."

  She takes this as a compliment, although it is not intended in that manner.

  I haul the large black leather case in and set it on the edge of the stage. The women crowd around me, all but the sweet virgin Ursula, who, apparently, is unable to move. I am curious as to how she has been immobilized but feel certain that all secrets will be revealed as the night progresses.

  "We were given to understand from Doctor Jekyll that you would not appear," Meg continues.

  Jekyll at this very moment is imprisoned within me, struggling for liberty, hisses a strong, Blackguard! Scoundrel! You'll not get away with this!, which I easily ignore. Over the last days his desperate struggle for constant control has weakened him and, when the appropriate moment presented itself, I gained the advantage, much to his dismay. If I have my way, Jekyll will be imprisoned forever. "Jekyll was mistaken, obviously, since you see me in the flesh."

  "Quite so, and we welcome your flesh. Ladies!" She claps her hands sharply and the women form a line, with Meg at the front. All but Ursula.

  I look down at her, the darkness in eyes piercing her guileless gaze, and watch her shiver. Her lips part. My cock becomes rigid instantly, eager to enter that warm wet cave, there to unburden himself.

  Meg takes my cloak. Beneath I wear the smooth black leather that acts as a second skin. Tonight, though, my trousers are more like chaps, those peculiar items seen in books about the American west. They cover much of my legs, and the high boots do an equally effective job, but the flesh at the inside of my thighs is exposed and, when I turn, a united gasp greets my bare ass. My cock and balls are hidden, for the moment, in a leather pouch that cannot diminish their size. I wear a vest, also of hide, that exposes my chest and arm muscles and, of course, my mask. These women have not seen this much male skin exposed, no doubt. I suspect their husbands of being prudish and chauvinistic with regards to the genders. Their loss is my gain.

  One by one, beginning with Meg, the women approach me. Each looks me in the eye, introduces herself, then bends and kisses first my bulging encased genitals, and then the martinet. Their names are irrelevant to me. One in particular makes an impression, Constance Wilcox, wife to Alan, the Scotland Yard inspector who has so
tormented me of late. Perhaps Mrs. Wilcox will be more amendable to my charms than is her husband.

  Needless to say, Ursula is not in the lineup. "Bring her to me!" I demand.

  "Not just yet, Hyde," Meg says.

  "How dare you disobey my order! I shall see your fleshy hide ravaged before this night is through!"

  Many of the women gasp. But Meg is cooler than I imagined and for that I cannot fault her. "Perhaps," she says, her eyelids fluttering. I sense she has not been treated thusly in quite some time. This makes her interesting to me. The challenge of bringing this dominatrix to her knees is invigorating. "However, Hyde, Ursula, as you know, is a virgin still. At this point she must decide on the man with whom to tie the knot, so to speak. You are not the only one seeking her favors."

  I feel Jekyll's smugness. "If you mean the imbecile Jekyll, consider him out of the running."

  "A fine way in which to speak of a friend. And I shall eliminate him from the race once he announces his withdrawal in person."

  "You try my patience, Mrs. Utterson. And when I am impatient, whips cut more than the air."

  "Well, perhaps you might demonstrate your talents."

  "Strip, then, and bend your bottom for a well-deserved and likely long-overdue thrashing!"

  She hesitates, although I see the novelty of the idea intrigues her. "I would be more than delighted to oblige you, sir, but our salon has its rules and regulations, one of which is that the members take turns. I do not wish to deprive she who is next in line, as I'm certain you do not."

  "And who is the candidate?"

  "Connie Wilcox."

  I nod. The striking redhead tosses back her hair in a conceited, insolent manner, reminding me very much of her husband. This is enough to boil my blood. "You need taming," I say, "in the worst way. Are you prepared to submit yourself to my implements?"

  For a moment she looks unsure. Suddenly she breaks free of the others and her long legs let her step quickly onto the stage. She is coltish, stubborn, precocious and dangerous. I consider which tool will best bend such a wild will quickly. Of course, I have the perfect implement in mind. These women want a show, and they shall have one.

  As I search in my bag, Meg asks me, "If it please you, Hyde, share with us your thoughts so that we may learn."

  "This," I tell the ladies, "is a new and unusual tawse, made to my specifications. It has never been tried." I pass the instrument around the room. "As you will note, the leather is firm and thick."

  "Why does it have five fingers instead of the usual three?" someone asks.

  "In order to deliver a wallop that simulates a human hand, of course."

  "Won't it spread the smack over too great a surface to be effective?" It is the plain woman who introduced herself as Louise. Her voice possesses a whiny quality that grates.

  "Bend!" I order. She looks fearfully at Meg, then bends at the waist. "Lift the skirt!" She pauses. I turn to Meg. "Do you need to tell them everything?"

  Meg looks embarrassed. Her training is obviously lacking.

  Finally, after too long a time, this Louise bares her bottom. I grasp the tawse firmly in my gloved hand. Its handle presses painfully into the cuts in my hand Jekyll inflicted when he broke the beaker. I do not dwell on the pain. There is work to be done and I waste not a second. The tawse slaps her left cheek a dozen times in quick succession, making a fearful snapping sound, accompanied by her cries. I feel the energy in the room increase, as if an electrical storm crackles the air. Louise falls forward and two women hold her in place while I apply another dozen sound smacks to the same flaming cheek.

  "Well?" I demand. "Do you find this ineffective?"

  She looks back at me, her face flushed, her eyes brimming with pain and lust. She has become less plain-looking and now a seductive quality makes her somewhat attractive. I suspect with enough attention she could become ravishing. "No, Master Hyde. It is quite effective," she gasps.

  "Onto the horse!" Meg orders.

  Louise looks at Meg. "Oh, Mistress, no! Not that. Not so soon. I am sorry, truly I am."

  I look at Meg with disgust. "Your 'training', if I should call it that, is pathetic, madam."

  Meg tenses. "Louise, how dare you embarrass me a second time before Master Hyde!" She nods at the tawse and I hand it over. She gives Louise's other cheek what for. Her arm is accustomed to this motion and she spanks with a wide swing, twisting at the waist, using the full force of her body to apply the strokes, which almost rival my own but do not quite measure up. She lands a good two dozen on the rump of the wailing Louise. I find the color from cheek to cheek uneven and therefore annoying, but then Meg is not as precise, nor as much the perfectionist as I.

  Louise is now in a discombobulated state.

  "Need I tell you again?" Meg screams.

  "No...no, Mistress!" Louise cries. Skirt clutched at waist level so that all may examine her hot bottom, she hurries up the steps to the stage. With exaggerated movements and an enormous oral accompaniment, she climbs onto the large wooden horse and slides into the saddle, straddling it as a man would.

  The saddle is made of a peculiar material.

  "Horses hair," Meg informs me. Then, to Louise, "We have heard quite enough from you! Use the bit."

  Tears stream down Louise's cheeks but she pulls the gum bit from the horse’s mouth and places it into her own. She clamps her teeth onto it and affixes it behind her head by tying the leather thongs. Finally her mouth is closed and the sobs are nearly silent ones.

  "Now," I say impatiently, "may we proceed?"

  "Certainly, Hyde, and I apologize for the inconvenience."

  "As you should," I snap.

  I take the tawse from Meg's hand and climb the low steps to the stage. The women below stand looking up, waiting for the performance to begin.

  Ursula gazes up from the floor, her sweet lips parted, so eager to admit me. My cock throbs, wanting to invade her. Her cheeks color as if the thought were somehow transmitted and the blush only makes her prettier. I should like to blush both sets of her cheeks regularly.

  Connie Wilcox stands waiting. She wears the requisite grey dress that they all wear, the only difference I can see is that two of the women, Meg and Connie, wear gold buttons and the others silver. This, I take it, signifies rank. Constance and Meg are the top of this pile of quivering quiffs, the others the bottom half.

  Without a word, I rip the grey dress from Mrs. Wilcox's body. Her figure is exquisite, tall, large-boned, but finely proportioned. Her waist is long, her hips slim and her breasts ample. She stands like a statue, haughty, proud, daring me to make an impression on her. From my bag I take what appears to the others to be an enormous key ring, from which dangle a variety of implements in various sizes. I hook the ring onto a loop in my belt, the tawse I attach to the same place. A high stool sits on the stage and I pull it to the edge, so that all might have a proper vantage point. Connie waits impatiently, that silly challenge in her eyes as if this were a test she expects me to fail. That look will not remain long.

  "Come here and face me!" I plant my left boot on one of the higher rungs of the high stool.

  She walks to the edge of the stage and turns slowly. Those on the floor can only view the bare back of her; I am behind her. This close, the musky scent from her cunny fills my nostrils. Her nipples are hard nubs. I wonder how much pain they have felt and if they are prepared for what is to come.

  Quickly I grab her around the waist and yank her over one knee, between my legs. Her feet are off the ground and she balances precariously over my thigh, her ass displayed for all to view. I hold her tightly, keeping her from pitching either forward or backwards.

  With my free hand, I spread her ass cheeks and probe. She squirms under this examination. The hole is pink and puckered, very tight and resistant. "She has not been entered here more than once," I announce confidently, "and not recently."

  A general murmur fills the room. Meg says, "How could you know that?"

  I look directly at
Ursula when I say, "Her husband is wanting."

  Ursula blinks once and sighs deeply. I believe she has caught my drift.

  To the crowd I say, "You all face barriers which you find exceedingly difficult to go beyond. Your inability to move through is not your fault. It is the fault of an inadequate Master or Mistress. A strenuous session is the remedy and will readily breech such a persistent barrier."

  I have their attention now.

  As I've been speaking, I've continued to probe Connie's asshole and fondle her meaty round cheeks with my gloved hand. I unhook the ring of objects from my belt and sort through them until I find the one I seek.

  I hold it up for a moment and those on the floor stare at what appears to be a long, slim balloon. I pull it over my leather-clad index finger easily and much of it gathers at the base.

  "The use of this item will become apparent in short order."

  Without ado, I jam my covered finger deep into Connie's ass. Her back arches. Her legs stretch straight out. A howl fills the room.

  Once the light-weight rubber is far in and secure, with enough dangling outside her for my purposes, I slide my finger out, leaving it behind.

  "You will approach the stage in an orderly cue."

  The women line up, Meg being first.

  I bent Connie so that her bottom is low and her toes dangle over the edge of the stage and instruct her to spread her legs, which she does reluctantly.

  "I have a long memory, Mrs. Wilcox, and your obstinacy will come back to haunt you," I assure her, gathering the ends of the tube in my fingers.

  "Blow into this!" I tell Meg.

  She inhales and grips the end in her mouth. Her lungs are full and she blows a good quantity of air into the tube.

  Connie buckles and writhes, but I hold her steady while a chorus of unladylike epitaphs issues from between her lips.

  The next in line does the same as Meg, and the one following her. Each of the women, excluding Louise, Ursula and Connie, of course, has a chance to fill the bag while I hold the end closed between women so none of the air escapes.