Eight more double cuts: that totalled twenty. They changed target – across her thighs, twenty more, scribing a lattice on virgin skin.
Then – nothing! The anticlimax was disturbing.
A hand touched the mass of rawness that was Maggie’s rump. She reacted to the initial featherweight touch as if branded, the lurch almost dislodging her from the bar, but as the hand circled, smoothing the pain, she became calm, regaining her posture. She lay still, fingering the bulb in her grasp, her “get out of jail card”.
I could use it; I can choose. I have the right to end this travesty. They claim mastery, but only because I delegate it to them; I hold the key. Kim, Mitzi and Vanda must know this too.
Thinking of her fellow travellers and the rhythmic sound of striking blows prompted Maggie to raise her head, seeking a degree of reassurance in sharing their agony. Up ahead Mitzi was stretched out along her frame with the ‘smack, smack’ of a tawse drifting back. Gazing as if hypnotised, Maggie was transfixed by the vision of the thick leather tongue sinking into Mitzi’s flesh. Magnificent, strike harder, let her feel some real pain! Shocked by her reaction Maggie could hardly believe the cold, analytic pleasure she felt. Empathy switched to the tormentors. How good it would be to see Hazel or Carly naked and thrashed like that. Maggie stopped short, frightened by the recognition of a new and merciless aspect of herself. Nor was this was the only revelation. The searing pain in her buttocks and thighs was changing: the hurt remained, but contrasting warmth was rising to meet it, an internal glow that somehow took the bite from her stripes, spreading and invoking new responses, reactions she had experienced only rarely when sex had been especially good with Greg. Can chastisement really induce sexual satisfaction, or is it the desire to see Mitzi suffer? Such puzzles remained unresolved, for at that moment another tawse bit hard and deep.
Shane and Karen granted no quarter; their brief was to discipline Maggie and they were determined practitioners. Twenty strokes of the tawse were followed by twenty more hard spankings and twenty more with the paddle. There was no reprieve, no more intervals or opportunities to gaze around and the bulb remained unused in her fist, denied by her innate obduracy. This relentless imposition scorched Maggie’s flesh: aware of the heat, she registered the pain as if at a distance, while the insidious sensations spread through her body. She found herself craving, not for the end, but for the climax. This must be going somewhere, there must be a resolution – bring it on!
The cane presaged its onset: twenty incisive strokes slicing like cold fire into crease of her thighs heralded the quirt. This short cruel whip bit harder and deeper than either cane or tawse, this was the ultimate test: real pain stoking the internal fires. Oh mercy me! Maggie was yelling now, loud heartfelt cries that rose above the tumult, drawing attention to her suffering, drawing applause and shouts of acclamation. She heard this without consciously registering it, intuitively understanding the cause and intention, knowing that if she were in that audience, she would be shouting too.
A pause: hardly acknowledged. She had long since abandoned counting, numbers having lost all meaning, the desire for that climactic ending overriding all conscious thought. It was of no importance to know she had survived one hundred and ninety lashes, when she had not mounted that final pinnacle.
‘I’m certain she needs more.’ Karen’s voice sounded distant, detached from Maggie’s reality.
‘The tariff is complete and she is inexperienced. She’s hot too, burning up.’ Shane placed his hand on Maggie’s boiling rump, sending quakes of reaction surging through her tortured body. ‘See how she trembles.’
‘Trembling with desire, believe me she is longing for release. Only someone who has been there can know.’
‘And you have?’
‘Once or twice – ask the umpire, take a second opinion!
There was a pause, relative silence in which the sound of other chastisement mingled with the baying of the crowd.
A strange voice broke the impasse. ‘The principle is that the slave has no say: you are the master; it is your decision. She has not sought a recess so feel free to continue. I would think a contrast to the quirt in the circumstances.’
‘We’ll take her to her limit then,’ Shane declared emphatically and Maggie swooned with dread.
Thwack, thwack. Two tawses launched a further assault that tested Maggie’s resolve. Pain and suffering in excess saturated her body: she was quivering and drenched in sweat. Her limbs ached from holding the position but they were also beyond moving to relieve the strain; any moment she must use the bulb and bring the agony to an end, pride must be sacrificed.
Even as she thought, a great tremor racked her body, a huge surge lifting her hips before flopping back onto the unforgiving wooden rail. All the pain and tension gathered into a single huge convulsion that overwhelmed her brain. Maggie had the sensation of bursting through, as if her whole self, body and mind had erupted.
After it came a profound peace. Her body went limp, dangling on the rail. The pain remained: real and harsh, but strangely welcome, the only evidence of survival.
‘She came!’ cried Karen. ‘Bloody hell, a total novice came under the strap.’
Yes! Inside Maggie’s brain the whisper was dramatic; and what an orgasm!
‘Time up!’ This was Lady Jane’s voice. ‘Umpire, what are the aggregates to add to Vanda’s tariff?’
Maggie was being assisted to dismount. Surrendering to the support, she allowed herself to be guided across the floor and urged into a kneeling position, vaguely aware being guided onto the rigid penis of a supine male. I know him, who is he? Ouch! The stretching of her posterior skin sharply reminded her of its bruised state, the prickling pain setting her vulva into sympathetic reaction. She was creaming freely and suddenly brightening she knew that a good, lusty shag was just the medicine she craved. Oh, yes! Eagerly she lowered herself, letting the thick hot rod pierce her, pushing down vigorously to ensure full, total penetration.
This was a super penis, long thick and fully hard, fired up and ready to go. Maggie felt vindicated, superior and alive.
On her knees, arms extended in support, she lifted her body and plunged down, revelling in the sensation of her vagina being stretched, pulled, compacted and reamed. ‘Yes, fuck me!’ she shouted in ecstasy. This was glorious. The body beneath responded vigorously, rising to meet her plunge, ramming hard, using her roughly; it was heaven and Maggie was determined to milk every drop of satisfaction. Together they struck a rhythm, each taking pleasure from the other and she soared gloriously into the realm of pure delight. This was the sex of dreams, the stuff of fantasies: partners totally dedicated to ultimate pleasure. She wallowed in primal pleasure with added zest injected each time her ravished rump was pounded.
Both being content to extend the pleasure as long possible after their first wild plunge, their passion modulated allowing Maggie to re-enter the real world around her. In other places both Kim and Mitzi were being pleasured, while in the centre, Vanda was receiving the bonus they had each bequeathed.
Vanda was supported by a simple wooden armchair. It tilted back to allow access to her bust, each breast being plumped and projected by her hands gripping underneath. Both breasts glowed red from countless strokes of the cane being wielded by a brawny, masked, leather-clad man. Each stroke was delivered with a powerful wrist action, not the sweeping strokes Maggie remembered being employed on her bottom, but precision cuts aimed at Vanda’s gorgeous dark nipples. Evidence that each stroke was hurting came from her yelps, but more impressive was the constant repetitive, ‘Harder!’ following directly upon the cry.
Rise and fall, the action of the cane was almost hypnotic and Maggie found herself plunging in time to its tempo. Lucky girl! Mesmerised by the cane’s compelling beat, Maggie drifted into a trance-like state detached from the suffering, immersed in the pleasure of being reamed and finding deli
ght in the knowledge that she had contributed to Vanda’s desired distress. Imagining the cane cutting her own teats she was elevated toward the pinnacle, bouncing with abandon as the mighty orgasm burst and spilled over into echoes that rolled on and on.
Drifting peacefully in the post-orgasmic haze, Maggie regarded her benefactor, now lazing between her thighs. His eyes held hers; she smiled fondly, whispering, ‘Thank you,’ as recognition slowly dawned. Thank you Mike. It was his invitation that had led to this. She smiled wryly; yes, thank you was the appropriate tribute – a testing night, many trials, much learnt and much enjoyed.
Karen led Maggie away to dress the contusions with something smelling strongly of witch hazel, an action of the utmost tenderness generating responses of deep affection from Maggie. A succession of orgasms ensued as admiring guests lined up to sample the valiant novice.
In the small hours Greg reclaimed her and led her away. Lady Jane intercepted them at the door, handing over a dressmaker’s bag containing Maggie’s clothes. Addressing Greg she said, ‘Your slave performed magnificently, it’s hard to believe she’s a complete novice. So many have said that she is worthy of consideration as a postulant, she certainly displays the calibre expected of a paragon slave. Will we see her at The Farm?’
Greg considered briefly. ‘That depends on work commitments, but it is a possibility. Do I ring the same number?’
Say ‘Yes’, please say ‘yes.’ I hurt all over, so why do I want to do it again? Confused by her muddled responses, Maggie listened passively, aware that her attributed status excluded her from any decision and facing the prospect with ambivalence.
On reaching the Jaguar, Greg deposited the bag in the boot. Maggie regarded him with disbelief. Lady Jane remarked. ‘You might care to use the square of silk that I put in; it will save your seats from staining.’
Greg smiled, ‘Thank you, most considerate.’ retrieving the silk as he spoke. Catching Maggie’s challenging expression he added, ‘Take this and get in. And ditch that protest: slaves do not qualify for choice, only obedience.’
Yes Master! There was irony in the thought, but she dropped her eyes, arranged the silk square and took her place.
Part Two
2.1
Maggie strode purposefully from the car park trying to focus on the day ahead. The Inspector’s quarterly visit was critical to her career. Beneath determination and the veneer of calm efficiency, powerful passions bubbled ceaselessly, though not exclusively concerning her job.
This is good, the real me, back in the groove getting where I want to be. The constrictive grasp of bra and panties, plus nylon clasping her thighs, was reassuring. Even the business suit, far and away too heavy for the year’s warmest day, was bearable because it reinforced the all-important image of decisive self-control that was central to her interpretation of the ideal and effective district controller. As a statement it might be directed at the influential Inspector whose patronage controlled advancement, in truth it was a rejection of the past weekend and all that it stood for. In the hard realistic light of Monday morning those bizarre events had assumed nightmarish characteristics: a bad dream that had no place in the life of a dedicated career woman, a fantasy with no foundation in reality.
That nymphomaniac was never me; I must forget it ever happened, my secret locked away. But do I want to? Is it shame making me think this way? Because I’m not sure I felt shame, deep down I actually wanted to be brazen. If I had to choose again I’d do just the same.
Logic had abdicated. Internally she was a battleground. One half of her psyche despised her flagrant wantonness. The other half loudly and vociferously continued to press the proposition that she had not only enjoyed the experience, but could hardly wait to do it all again. If Meg rolled up at that moment urging her to strip naked and stand in the street begging to be subjected to humiliating violation, Maggie would have capitulated and drunk deeply of the pleasure of self-indulgence.
Straining to get a grip on her public face she entered the building, directing a stiffly formal ‘Good Morning’ at the security man in reception.
‘Good Morning, Miss Moon!’ came the equally formal response.
Maggie cast an anxious glance around the reception area, expecting to see the brash figure of Meg lurking in the shadows. She let out a sigh, relieved for the moment of the necessity of making a choice, desiring the security of familiarity. Reaching her office she extracted vital documents from her case and set them in order on the desk.
From Hazel’s office came a tap on the door. Maggie turned with relief; this reliable, stable influence was more than welcome. She looked up with a smile of greeting that instantly switched to astonishment. Hazel’s simple outfit looked fabulous: a colourful skirt with a sleeveless cream satin shirt, its smooth fabric clinging to a seamless uplift bra.
Hazel, rip that bra off and let me suck those luscious tits.
Maggie struggled to contain her composure. Hazel had unwittingly encouraged those inner demons clamouring for ascendancy over pragmatic objectives.
‘Carly Harris would like a few moments if you can fit her in. She seems eager.’
‘All right, but only five minutes. Rescue me if it’s longer.’
Carly appeared instantly. Maggie guessed she had been waiting in Hazel’s office. ‘Come in, how can I help?’
Maggie was aware of more change in her office junior. The jeans and tee-shirt had been replaced by a long muslin skirt paired with a lace-trimmed gypsy-style blouse whose wide neckline had been drawn back to expose some attractive slender shoulders and lacy red bra-straps. Carly’s hair had been re-styled too, the effect being to expose her features and suppress the permanent scowl. The big expressive eyes remained: alive with expression, no longer contemptuous.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. I am going to work for something better.’ She held out a booklet. ‘Open University! I picked it up this weekend. I can do a diploma course, possibly something social, like psychology, or computers; I like computers.’
‘Excellent. I’m so pleased for you Carly. Let me know if I can help in any way; if you need a reference for instance. When would you begin?’
‘Thank you Miss Moon; October would be the usual time.’
‘Good luck then. Was there anything else?’
‘Not at present, but can we talk again when I get the application forms?’
‘Of course you can.’
Carly headed for the corridor door, her top and skirt too flimsy to conceal the red bra and matching thong. The muslin clung sensuously to plump buttocks. She turned in the doorway. ‘Thank you so much!’ she breathed, eyes smiling with an expressive sultriness. Light coming from behind shone through the delicate fabric, silhouetting shapely legs and the beckoning vee of her thighs.
‘You’re welcome – anytime Carly!’ replied Maggie. A remarkable turnaround.
She little time to dwell on the matter for the intercom squawked Hazel’s warning, ‘Alan Baker has left reception.’
Hurriedly Maggie readied herself and still felt flustered when she greeted the inspector at the door. Alan Baker was no ogre, even though his terms of reference were primarily concerned with assessing performance indicators, he saw his role primarily as supporter and enabler and frequently declared it so. But Maggie knew the importance of projecting the correct aura of competence devoid of any personal weakness. The initial interview was direct, business-like and suitably brief as she provided all the relevant data, but the wait while he toured the offices alone was really testing. Try as she might, Maggie could not suppress her pre-occupation with the past weekend, her current dilemma and a worrying sense of something changed that she could not tie down. She was still disturbed when Alan reappeared just before lunch to deliver his usual methodical assessment.
‘Excellent!’ he began, and Maggie relaxed, breathing an inward sigh of relief. ‘Ye
s, excellent, you have achieved all of your targets except for two that are hovering at ninety-six and ninety-eight percent, but as the assessment period still has two weeks to run you should have no problems achieving those or even exceeding them. Your staff is on the ball, highly motivated and a credit to your efforts. I was particularly impressed by the relaxed atmosphere in this office; much less strained than on my previous visits. A degree of stress is inevitable when chasing targets, but you seem to have discovered the oracle: you can achieve targets and have a happy, contented staff. Whatever your secret is I recommend you bottle it.’
‘I endeavour to lead by example,’ Maggie declared, trying not to sound smug.
‘It seems to be working. Now reassure me, you will apply for the training post; the organisation needs your particular expertise.’
‘Yes, my application is complete, though I haven’t submitted it yet.’
‘Then do so at once. There’s only one week left and I would be sorry if you missed it. Now I understand that you have three weeks holiday booked?’
Maggie confirmed this, ‘Starting in two week’s time.’
Alan remarked, ‘You might want to reconsider that. If you take all three you will be straight into interviews. Come back a week early, create a buffer and ease back into routine: restore your sense of control, improve your confidence and present the right impression in the selection process. Tell me you’ll think about it.’
And lose a week of unbridled sex? I could enter a nunnery; that might cure me of these fantasies. ‘Yes, I will consider it, but I assure you, whatever I decide, I shall give it everything I’ve got. I bet he’d like to see that!
He rose to leave. She smiled as modestly as she could when he said, ‘Now don’t forget – we could work well together, you and me.’
The Dark Side of Maggie Moon Page 5