The Dark Side of Maggie Moon

by Krys Antarakis

  My god, this is for real. Her memory flipped went back to Sex Puppet. The book’s basic plot concerned a girl tricked into becoming a sex slave by a rich playboy who touted her around his friends and acquaintances as a plaything, events that inevitably involved bondage and chastisement. The suffering protagonist’s real pain was being forced to act against her nature, but when, at the close, her captor acted to send her away, the girl pleaded to be allowed to stay, to be continually naked and abused. Meg’s judgement was proved right again. That obvious, simplistic plot had spun a good story. The descriptions of abuse and degradation had sufficiently engaged Maggie’s curiosity to sustain her through a difficult fortnight, tempting her with the prospect of being involved in such a scene. This is for real.

  As they proceeded along the avenue of tethered girls, another slave passed by wearing the belt arrangement. A uniform perhaps? The thought of hard leather cutting into her slit made Maggie salivate with a blend of envy and dread.

  Toni chose a vacant frame. It was stoutly built and carefully stabilised. The base was thick and equipped with footrests that incorporated leather restraints. Handles set well above shoulder height also had integral straps. Maggie submitted meekly, allowing her ankles to be buckled and gripping the handles when told. Like that Leonardo diagram! Indeed she was exactly that, a living letter X: legs splayed, arms aloft, with everything revealed. Toni was nimble: using small ledges built into the uprights to climb up and grip with her toes, she completed Maggie’s restraint.

  A dildo mounted on a rod was fastened into a socket in the base. I’m going to be pierced.Indeed she was. Deftly, with skill born of frequent practice, Toni adjusted the length and rake of the rod and reached between Maggie thighs to open her vagina. Oh heaven!‘Lift as high as you can.’ commanded the girl, and Maggie complied, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction as the thick prosthetic nosed at her threshold. She needed no prompting to settle back onto it and was rewarded by the profound experience of its girth spreading her sheath. ‘Bliss, sheer bliss!’ she breathed, causing the girl to chuckle. Finally a padded beam was positioned across Maggie’s front, carefully adjusted to lie in line with her hip bones.

  Maggie made an effort to control her excitement. From either side the cries of beaten slaves were reaching her ears and provoking conflicting thoughts. What do I feel: fear; desire; hurt? I’ve been anticipating this moment; I wanted to be here, but I wish I could escape – like the girl in the story I suppose. I wish Greg had shagged me in the car – just done it. Should I feel like that? Would a good girl want that?

  ‘A normal red-blooded girl would!’

  Maggie snapped out of her introspection to see Meg standing there: Meg dressed in leather, if a black belt and a modesty panel could be described as dressed, for apart from this single item Meg was superbly naked. Maggie felt a surge of envy.

  ‘Don’t badger me, I don’t need it.’

  ‘Well that’s a nice greeting, I’m sure. I only came to say “Enjoy”!’

  ‘And what should I enjoy?’

  ‘Everything, anything: whatever you want, whatever you get. You’ve gone too far to retreat now. You’ve already stepped over those forbidden boundaries and learned how good it feels to be made to do naughty things. Go with the flow Maggie; that way lies freedom.’

  Maggie’s reply was cut short by an assault on her anus. She started up in her bonds, uttering a sharp yelp as a hard object jabbed her hole. Instinct said to rise away from the intrusion. Then sense took hold. Resistance is useless, this isn’t going away. Switching tactics she pressed down welcoming the plug, giving a sigh of pleasure. This action drove the dildo deeper and it began to pulsate, stimulating her vagina in a passable imitation of a real penis. Oh glory! When she relaxed the delight ceased and she realised that the dildo was actually a vibrator switched by a pressure pad in its base. Pleasure and pain! Meanwhile the plug continued its assault on her anus. She pressed down again savouring the powerful throbbing pleasure in her sheath while forcing herself to relax in favour of the welcome intruder. Slowly, steadily it eased in, opening the strong sphincter until, with a noticeable ‘plop’, its thickness broke through, boring in, filling her rectum with its welcome girth. The sensation against the throbbing pulses on the other side of the thin membranes was curious and decidedly pleasant. Maggie wriggled, screwing herself down on the dildo.

  In the adjacent frame a girl screamed as a guest laid a quirt across her thighs.

  Go to it! Beat her, thrash her. Make the bitch squirm. The shock of this erupting thought alarmed Maggie: she was looking into a deep darkness never before encountered: disturbing yet alluring.

  Crack, slash, cut, howl. Maggie was jerked forward, revealing the purpose of the padded bar as a line of incised fire burned her buttocks. The pain, exaggerated by the shock, coursed through her flesh turning the howl into sobs of suffering and anger. See how good it feels, drink deeply. The voice in her head was surely Meg’s. Summoning every atom of self-discipline, Maggie focussed on the situation, welding events and desires into one dominant thought.Make the bitch squirm. Drink deeply, bitch. In shame she realised that her attention was focussed on her neighbour.

  Crack, slash, cut. Again and again the whip bit hard. The searing pain increased, insidiously seeping into those special intimate places, wakening them from their enforced hibernation. Her body began to tingle while her mind inverted. The reluctant novice was transforming into lust-driven, pain-hungry sex slave. Maggie Moon was facing her destiny.

  All the gallows were occupied, lining the paddock in a bizarre parody of a Roman triumph. From each one rose sounds of anguish, each tethered slave giving voice to their sufferings as cane, whip and tawse rose and fell in a concerted symphony of chastisement. This is my real life? This is my destiny? The leather strap cracked and spat, threatening to turn Maggie’s flaming buttocks into rare steak, each impact driving her down onto the indefatigable dildo. Its pulsing delights combining with the relentless thrashing and the diverting intrusion in her rectum was inexorably pushing her toward orgasm.

  Through the cloying haze of pain and pleasure she was conscious of something happening. With an immense effort she forced herself to determine the cause. Led by beating drums played by two naked girls, a procession slowly approached: like a carnival float proceeding with exaggerated dignity between the parallel lines of suffering slaves. A chariot-like vehicle bore a statuesque black girl entirely naked except for a cloak and a huge plumed headdress, all in glittering gold. The plume enforced a rigid, head-up stance with shoulders flung back and breasts pushed forward. The cloak, draped from shoulder to floor, was suspended by a slender gold chain threaded through gold nipple rings. The chariot was almost devoid of superstructure, just a scanty dashboard, which the woman grasped with one hand while glancing haughtily from side to side. Its ponderous, imperial progress was provided by four slave girls harnessed ahead and proceeding gingerly astride poles attached to its front. Cross bars provided the means by which the slaves could propel their vehicle, but their measured waddle was due to projections rising from the poles and embedded in their vaginas. Two more naked slaves followed, each attached to the rear of the chariot by a trio of chains clipped to rings in their nipples and clitoris. Maggie recognised one as Toni, totally naked now that the belt had gone. Just contemplating the idea of being chained and harnessed in that manner brought a sudden choking dryness into Maggie’s throat. A floating sensation enveloped her and made Maggie feel as though she was levitating and, as the trolley drew near, empathy with the humiliated slaves combined with a vicious escalation of the thrashing strap caused her to sink onto that insistent dildo and induce a massive, mind-saturating orgasm. Maggie raised her head to keen her ecstasy to the skies. The imperious black head turned to project haughty disdain at this display of self-indulgence.

  The stately promenade crept along the avenue of suffering slaves, its progress measured by the unwavering drum be
at, so dominant that the beating of the tethered slaves fell into time with it producing an eerie, unearthly accompaniment. At long last the stately progress reached the head of the line where it stopped. Drums and whipping ceased and the regal living statue turned to face the assembly. Her imperious gaze swept the scene with studied slowness and the anguished cries of flogged slaves subsided. Lifting a hand in a superfluous gesture of command for silence she spoke, her voice powerful yet tempered. ‘Friends, you are welcome. Let the games begin. Release the slaves and prepare them.’

  With a flourish she stepped down to glide away on soft, bare feet.

  Two aides, one male, one female, detached Maggie from the frame in a business-like manner. Still high from orgasms and stiff from chastisement, she was led wobbling into one of adjacent sheds. Slowly resuming contact with her surroundings she noted that both escorts were rigged out in leather shorts and jerkins. The female’s jerkin had two vertical slits through which her breasts had been squeezed: two plump orbs capped by prominent, ripe nipples. The male’s shorts were pierced at the crotch to frame a well-filed scrotum topped by an impressive, erect phallus. Her shorts had a purposeful scarlet-coloured dildo fixed into the leather over her mound.

  Just inside the shed, the escorts halted. The female went into a half squat to squirt a golden jet of steaming urine. Hands pressing on Maggie’s shoulders encouraged her into a similar posture. With burning shame, her face brighter than the weals on her buttocks, she parted her thighs and let nature take its course. ‘Well done!’ said the still-pissing girl, ‘Much better to do it here than in the ring.’ In a bemused state Maggie paid little heed to the statement, preoccupied as she was by the ignominy of urinating in public; a group of spectators had swiftly gathered.

  How I’ve changed! Indeed the old staid Maggie Moon existed only as a distant fiction, far removed from the wanton slave-slut of the here and now.

  Regaining her feet she was led into a section of the big shed where bales of straw were stacked in various combinations. ‘Bend over here,’ ordered her escort, ‘let Della attend to those scars.’

  ‘We must hurry, Mark,’ said Della, ‘Time is pressing, this contestant is in the first tranche.’

  Maggie shook her head: still drifting in the hazy half-world of arousal and gratification, she had difficulty identifying reality and the conversation passed meaninglessly over her. What I really want is a bloody good shag. What she received was a dollop of cold cream dumped on her smouldering buttocks. The shock made her yelp, a sound that instantly turned into a wail of despair. As Della began anointing the welts the effect was like pouring vinegar on an open cut, but ten times as intense. Swearing profusely, Maggie tried to rise, reaching to grasp the assaulted flesh to protect it from further injury, but Mark pushed her down.

  ‘Be still, slave. The cream heals as you should well know.’

  ‘I think she’s a novice,’ Della remarked, continuing to anoint Maggie’s wounds with dedicated enthusiasm.

  ‘Bloody hell. Why does nobody tell us these things. Look slave, learn now and learn quick. Your purpose is to entertain. These people have come to see slaves suffer: they want to see you hurt; they want to see you in agony. It’s your job to submit, just as you’ve always wanted to. So keep still and let Della get on with it.’

  Maggie subsided into a rebellious silence. After the initial shock the sensation in her buttocks and thighs was changing. A subversive hurt was seeping through her body, invading her whole being. It was like being beaten all over again but without the injury. In its seditious way it was satisfying those deep seated (though unadmitted as yet) longings for perverted pleasures, switching on illicit desires that would set in train fulfilment beyond description.

  Maggie began to sob, but they were sobs of pleasure. I must, I must. She was sentenced to be hurt, punished, demeaned, humiliated, heaped with all kinds of degradation; she neither cared nor minded. By acquiescing she would rise to a higher dimension where absolute pleasure might be attained. Because I’ve only just begun to explore the potential.

  Della jerked her out of this reverie by plucking out the anal plug. The discomfort as its bulge burst from her sphincter had an exquisite quality, pain that was utterly lovely. I’d love to have something really big now.’

  ‘Soon!’ said Mark as though reading her thoughts. She was guided to another set of bales on which she could sit where he began to tightly bandage her hands, finishing off with adhesive tape. Maggie was vaguely reminded of having seen this done somewhere, but wisely contained her curiosity. All became clear when Della produced the gloves. Sliding her hands into the padded confines was alien to Maggie’s instincts; she could be assertive when the need arose, but aggression was foreign to her personality. As Mark laced them tight she sensed a loss of contact with her own hands.

  Della was fastening on a helmet, its framework of cushioned bands felt huge and heavy.

  ‘You’ve not done this before?’

  Maggie shook her head, immediately wishing she hadn’t; the helmet was heavy. ‘Right, keep your hands high, make a sort of vee with your arms to protect your body. Our scoring system counts hits to the helmet as one, hits to the body are double, and tits count treble. Hits on your arms and gloves count nothing. Stay on your toes and keep moving round, only hit out when you can see your opponent’s guard slacking, then go for her nipples. A hit is a hit no matter how hard, but your opponent will be trying to hurt you. As Mark said, the crowd expects slaves to suffer. You okay now?’

  Maggie unwisely shook her head again. Do have a choice?

  It was quiet in the shed, all the noise coming from an adjacent shed where all the spectators seemed to be congregating. Mark and Della headed toward the noise.

  The big agricultural building had been cleared of contents. Set up in the centre were three representations of boxing rings, squares of posts and ropes each enclosing a canvas sheet spread over the concrete floor. Most of the spectators were standing, just a few taking seats on more bales placed close to the rings. The black girl was seated on a throne-like chair set on a raised dais that gave a commanding view of all three rings.

  ‘Number?’ demanded an official

  ‘Eight!’ Della replied.

  ‘Ring three!’ declared the official as he scrawled a large figure eight on Maggie’s back; she hoped it wasn’t permanent.

  Mark forced a way through the milling, cheering audience. In the ring a girl was being vigorously fucked, thus explaining the crowd’s attention. Lucky girl! Maggie climbed through the ropes with Mark following. ‘Bend over and support your weight on the ropes.’ he ordered. The gloves made holding difficult, but with her heart beating in excitement, she obeyed, parting her legs invitingly in anticipation. Am I behaving like a common slut just to please Greg? Mark’s thick, hard, hot prick forced its way into her sheath. She opened readily, pushing back to encourage the deepest penetration, wailing with delight as its girth and length opened her passage to comprehensively fill it. God, I am a common slut! I hope Greg is jealous.She ground herself against her donor, almost fainting with lust as he began to thrust. This was hard sex, devoid of feeling or affection, fringing on punishment, designed to humiliate and degrade her: it was glorious and she loved it. He drove with long rapid strokes, each plunging deep, the power lifting her bodily, causing her buttocks to tremble and her unfettered breasts to swing lewdly. The onlookers were cheering, Maggie was soaring above reality, indulging in pure animal sex; nothing mattered except that hot, priapic flesh scouring her hungry sheath. Lust saturated her brain: fuck, fuck, fuck, her sole thought as she detached from the temporal to soar toward that higher plane where existence is just sensation. She burst through the final barrier to let pure pleasure possess her mind and body. As jets of boiling sperm filled her void she bucked and twisted, her body racked by sensations of utter bliss while her audience cheered.

  ‘Sit!’ ordered a voice that soun
ded like Della’s. Maggie was being manoeuvred onto a stool that had been slid into the ring. The transient satisfaction of orgasm was fading fast, the void in her loins longing to be occupied afresh. Her heart leapt when her labia made contact with the smooth hard probe. Eagerly she leant back, allowing herself to be drawn forward and uttering a cry of profound bliss as the hard prosthetic slid into her saturated vagina. Settling herself, she surrendered to instinct, rising and falling on her welcome intruder, much to the delight of her audience.

  Across the ring her opponent was similarly occupied, coaxing herself into comfortable bliss while her attendants fussed around her. Maggie thought her familiar, but the self-induced haze and the girl’s helmet prevented full recognition. A bell rang. Della urged Maggie to her feet as the stool was whipped away. Raising the cumbersome gloves for protection, and struggling to remember the advice, she stumbled forward to meet her opponent. In the centre of the ring the two girls circled each other warily, weighing up the situation. Maggie now recognised the girl as her neighbour on the gallows. Do I still want to hurt my comrade? The girl had large pendulous breasts with prominent forward facing nipples; it was difficult for her to protect them without lowering her guard. Maggie realised this and knew what she had to do. Make those teats tingle, make her sore, make her suffer. This flagrant callousness was frightening but lovely, generating a surge of emotion.

  Maggie closed in, the girl backed away. Frustrated, Maggie skipped sideways and lunged forward, hitting out clumsily to catch the girl on the arm. Off balance, Maggie was hit hard on the side of her head. She blinked, slightly dazed and stumbling, she let her hands fall. Two quick stabbing precision blows landed on her nipples; this girl was well-trained.

  Maggie backed away, regained balance and reverted to circling, dancing lightly on her toes. The girl followed confident from her success. She jabbed at the air, Maggie skipped away, noting how the girl had thrown the punches. Making sure of her balance, Maggie closed in: ducking to avoid the jabbing right, she drove straight and hard at the girl’s head copying the girl’s own action and making firm contact with the padding only to be brought up by a hard left hook to the side of her own head. She danced back finding herself trapped in a corner. The other girl drove home her advantage and face to face they traded blows to arms and gloves. Instinctively Maggie dropped behind her hands, letting the gloves take the hits, then a hard right to her ribs drove the breath from her lungs, she slumped, letting her guard relax and leaving her nipples exposed. The girl made no mistake delivering four hard punches in rapid succession, two to each nipple. Hurt and dispirited, Maggie sagged. The girl closed the gap, swung a heavy punch at Maggie’s head and missed, falling forward. Dazed and hampered by the weight pressing her against the post, Maggie lost control and surrendered to instinct. Automatically she punched at the body pressing against her and felt the satisfaction of soft flesh distorting.