The Dark Side of Maggie Moon

by Krys Antarakis

  Isolde selected a sofa. Releasing a clip she allowed the silver gown to cascade to the floor, and lowered herself onto the edge of the cushion. Squatting naked she retrieved the sausage and eased it between her sex lips. Lewd but beautiful!

  Watching the slippery meat slowly vanish was arousing. Maggie tingled with anticipated pleasure. Isolde tucked the last bit inside, thrusting her pelvis forward and spreading her legs to offer direct access. ‘Come and eat girl, and don’t rush your food. Eat every scrap and leave me clean. Don’t stop until I tell you.’

  Maggie dropped to her knees as gracefully as possible, inching forward to touch the quivering pussy with her tongue. Within the fragrance of expensive perfume she detected the stimulating scent of female arousal. Using her tongue sensitively, she gently prised apart the delicate frills of the inner labia, feeling for the tiny urethra and its pungent flavour. Lapping purposefully she sensed the tension of delight and touched the clitoral hood. Isolde writhed and Maggie sensed it was time to probe the heavenly threshold. Just inside she detected the hard roundness of the sausage and gave it the lightest of prods before shifting back to the luscious clitoris. Lapping firmly upwards then circling it with tongue-tip, she heard a groan of pleasure. Delicious! The taste of woman grew strong on her tongue; Maggie responded with a will, working on the fleshy hood, seeking the jewel within. Tongue lapping, circling and probing she sensed the burgeoning of the bud, finally detecting the tiny spot of firm tissue. Isolde jerked and twisted, crying, ‘Witch, witch!’

  Spurred on, Maggie directed her tongue downward, sliding between the moist fleshiness of the big labia to sneak between the smaller, juicier inner lips, re-visiting the tiny hole to probe it sensitively and revelling in its taste. There was warmth and wetness, the abundant wetness of a woman creaming in satisfying pleasure. Maggie lapped at the groove, delighting herself in the feel of satin skin on her tongue, detecting the tremors and ripples of the living body exultant in its life. Isolde twitched and bucked grasping Maggie’s head to provoke the fullest and best attention. Maggie drew breath, filling her lungs with the scent of this luscious woman. Her tongue located the sausage, circling it as if to free it from its captivity, but Isolde clenched, determined to resist invasion. Maggie clamped her mouth over the hot slippery surface of the aroused sex and sucked hard, lapping, probing, sucking – fighting against the insistent pull of a practised vagina intent on retaining its prize. Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, the sausage emerged until there was enough for Maggie to grip with her teeth. She pulled, drawing the length into her mouth until she had enough purchase to twist and thrust into that vital sheath.

  Isolde moaned, ‘Witch, sorceress; you wicked, lovely girl!’

  Maggie bit through. Chewing the meat she lapped the slick satin, laving the contours, teasing the bud and sucking on it. In tiny increments she extracted the big sausage, eating it slowly to savour the flavour of meat and femininity. Ambrosia! Concentrating to attend diligently to her subject’s needs, she provoked massive orgasm after massive orgasm. When all was consumed and the hot invaded sheath was void she filled it with her tongue, washing the cushioned surface until Isolde sagged, exhausted and satisfied. ‘Cease now, girl! Run and bring me a large glass of red wine, then go attend to your duties, they are queuing up to screw you.’

  And they were. Maggie was well used in mouth, vagina and anus by the time George indicated that his party was leaving. She was tired, but far from exhausted, astonished by her own capacity and the revelation that her appetite for sex seemed boundless. With semen trickling from every orifice, she stood meekly while the guests retrieved their clothes. They were almost ready to depart when Cilla marched across the room to confront Maggie with a malignant glare.

  ‘She hurt me with that fucking thing of hers: she fucking meant it. I want revenge.’

  Amazing, she knows some two-syllable words.

  George turned to plead with Caen, ‘Give her satisfaction, please. We shall have no peace until she gets what she wants.’

  Spoiled brat – she should get what she deserves!!

  Caen’s features displayed an object lesson in self-control, but the edge in his voice revealed his true feelings. ‘What would please you, Cilla?’

  ‘Smack her tits.’

  ‘Go ahead; she’s at your command. Instruct her.’

  ‘Come here shit bag, kneel down and lean back. I want her blindfolded.’

  ‘Why is that? Are you ashamed to look her in the eye?’ Isolde’s contempt was clear; she had discarded any pretence of hospitality.

  Cilla snarled, ‘Butt out Grandma or I’ll slap your saggy bags.’ Her lips curled, ‘It’s disgusting at your age.’

  ‘I must protest!’ Caen snapped.

  Cilla turned on him. ‘Fuck off! Do you want our money or not?’

  ‘Young woman allow me to offer some guidance. I do not need your money. I have offered your family an investment opportunity. You seem to be under the illusion that my hospitality is some kind of inducement. It is not. I only seek to reward your father’s interest by sharing my diversions with him: interests, I was led to believe, shared by you.’

  Cilla coloured like beetroot, temper flaring as she faced Caen like an enraged terrier. ‘Well you got it wrong, Wrinkly. This is what I think of you and your crappy slaves.’ Whirling on her heel she planted her feet astride the kneeling Maggie, lifting her skirt in one single movement. Without warning a stream of urine burst from her, scattering and spraying as it was forced through the fabric of her knickers. Cilla had drunk freely and most of Caen’s select wine was now being evicted. Hot and stringent, it clung to Maggie’s skin, collecting to stream in little rivulets onto the thick pile of the carpet.

  George grabbed his daughter’s shoulder, dragging her away. ‘Take her to the car, Duane!’

  He turned to Caen, conciliatory. ‘No offence, mate. She gets a bit above herself at times. I’ll give you a bell,’

  ‘She needs a damn good spanking, ‘ Isolde declared loudly, directing the comment at

  the retreating figure.

  I was looking forward to mine.

  ‘And this subject didn’t get hers, but we can remedy that.’ Gloriously naked, Isolde stood astride the kneeling Maggie to deliver hard smacks to both breasts, striking with measured determination to set the flesh alight and the hard nipples tingling. Maggie wallowed indulgently as welcome pain possessed her body.

  ‘And my turn to properly demean a novice…’ Isolde thrust her pelvis forward, releasing a steady, concentrated jet of steaming piss, swaying slightly to hose Maggie’s glowing boobs. ‘A grateful recipient will do the donor the honour of drinking.’ she added, lifting the stream onto Maggie’s face.

  Maggie extended her tongue to lap the tangy spray until the flow declined to a trickle, splashing on her belly and seeping down into her warm and eager cleft.

  Isolde stepped away. ‘Ali, return her to her cell.’

  Cell! The truth at last

  Back in her study, showered and seeking some means of relaxation, Maggie settled herself on a dildo. Bracing herself on the bar and footrests she wallowed in the comfortable pleasure of being filled, sliding into a soft hazy trance while gently easing her body up and down. In tiny increments she built the rhythm until she was fully committed, surrendering to the delights of incipient orgasm. The dam burst: she was drowning in bliss. At the height of her pleasure, with her whole body committed to it, she experienced a moment of intense pain, incredible suffering deep in her vagina. In a micro-second it had gone, but not before it had flicked her into a new, amazing experience: supercharged orgasm.

  From her bed, Maggie regarded the dildo, inert and mute now. What power does it possess, and how can I trigger it again?

  Part Four

  4.1

  The sinister, skin-crinkling snarl of a coiling whip filled the cellar until the snaking lash met nak
ed flesh with a vicious crack. She arched under its impact and the scything tip curled round her breast as though intent on severing that luscious orb. Incised fire burned deep.

  ‘Twenty two!’ Maggie croaked, her throat constricted by passion. Only eight more. Suspended by her wrists with shoulders stressed by the strain, her legs dangled uselessly held apart by a spreader bar moist with her dribbling juices. From her cage Pip watched balefully.

  Pip, the girl who had driven the motor-home, was also suspended: hung by two cables attached to a brief leather corset, a variation on the Kirby Flying Ballet rig much used in pantomimes. She too was fitted with a spreader bar. With arms pinioned to her upper thighs by straps, she was partially stabilised by a rod-mounted penis gag and a second rod inserted in her rectum, both anchored to the cage. From the way her body periodically convulsed, Maggie deduced that Pip was being shocked through the rectal probe. It had taken Maggie little time to fathom the secret of her dildo stalk. Once able to provoke its power, she soon became addicted to the pleasure of its intense pain. Maggie regarded the caged girl jealously and wished that this chastisement might long continue so that she could enjoy the spectacle and empathise with Pip’s predicament.

  Caen was reclining in his captain’s chair, savouring the sight of their torment.

  Whoosh! The slicing, wailing whip entwined buttocks and belly, its spiteful tip snapping at her clit.

  ‘Twenty nine!’ Closer, please, closer please; slice through to the bud. Yesterday she had been beaten on there, forty strokes of unyielding leather on naked sex. Such ecstasy.

  Pip jerked again.

  Does she envy my whip as much as I envy her shocks?

  ‘Thirty!’

  The whip was stowed on its brackets and Maggie was left suspended while Pip was released. Pip staggered from the cage. Caen rose, caught her shoulders and swung her round. Without ceremony he plunged his rampant member deep into her anus evoking a cry of utter bliss from his dainty victim. She braced herself, pushing back to match his rhythm as he thrust. Maggie imagined the blissful agony of relentless meat scouring those assaulted membranes and experienced a deep, deep longing.

  Pip was still being shafted as Maggie was led from the cellar. Her naval stud had been replaced by a ring to which a chain could be clipped; Isolde’s idea. Kayt towed her to the salon where twice a week Patty provided beauty care: salves, body massage, depilation, facials, hair dressing, manicure and pedicure; going barefoot was no reason for ugly feet, Caen proclaimed. Patty was beautiful, a gorgeous brunette with deep brown eyes and a ready, generous smile. Maggie loved her sessions with Patty, enjoying the attention and pampering, and not least, the conversation that was permitted. It was through Patty that Maggie was piecing together a concept of how she related to the hierarchy.

  Maggie had established that the girls in The House served individual members of a group calling themselves The Syndicate, some as wives, others as partners or even servants. From time to time they were called to work in the house. Patty was not part of this system, her mistress, Donata, provided her services on contract and described Patty as her playmate. Patty was never totally naked, never less than a pretty thong.

  ‘I love going nude,’ Patty explained, ‘so Mistress keeps me dressed most of the time. I can strip off to do this work, use the pool, the track and the gym, but I must always wear the thong, even when I earn a nice big fuck from Le Patron or one of the syndicate.’

  Today, Maggie noticed with surprise that Patty was encased. A broad leather girdle was strapped around her hips and buckled to this was a silver cap tightly cupping her pussy. Maggie remarked upon it.

  Patty smiled ruefully, ‘Mistress is feeling peevish so she’s put me in this chastity device, but Le Patron will still have me: he always does. He’ll pull the back strap aside and bugger me; it’ll be beautiful.’

  ‘Do you have to wear it under clothes?’

  ‘Of course. Sometimes it is more troublesome than others. At the moment we are in flapper mode: so it’s short skirts, low waists, stockings with garters, directoire knickers and flat chests – that’s a problem!’

  ‘Sitting must be awkward.’

  It is; I call it “canned cunt”. When we reach home she’ll probably punish me for “allowing a man to know me.” Then it’s “caned cunt”, what more could a girl wish for?’

  ‘Being naked all the time?’ Maggie suggested.

  ‘You lucky girl!’ laughed Patty landing a sound smack on Maggie’s bottom.

  I suppose I am.

  How many days since I arrived? To Maggie it seemed as if she had lived in this strange environment for many months as each day repeated the routine of exercise, stimulation, deprivation, beatings and sex; repeated but always varied, especially the sex – wonderful totally satisfying, glorious sex. She lay in darkness, waiting for the lights to announce the star of her day, contemplating while gently stimulating her clitoris and enjoying the peace it evoked. She generally woke early. Some mornings she might caress her bruises; drawing comfort from re-living the moment. Kayt was expert in all forms of corporal punishment, able to deliver the right level of humiliation and inflict real pain without causing lasting injury. Maggie recalled the long and exhausting beating with the tawse that had been the culmination of yesterday’s session and knew that when she flaunted herself before the mirror the only evidence would be a mild darkening of her buttocks. The big mirror was a constant companion, especially useful for such personal inspections. She had all but forgotten that it was a window in which she was displayed. In the same way she had grown used to being perpetually naked. This serenity had developed gradually while resentment had simultaneously declined; she considered herself privileged.Lying quietly, enjoying the agreeable responses flowing from her clitoris, she could acknowledge that the strict regime and continuous stimulation conferred a sense of freedom surpassing anything that responsibility had been able to endow. In a moment I shall get up and impale myself on the dildo; will he approve?

  Only one dildo could deliver shocks, this was the one she habitually chose. The charge came through either the little nodule or the stem, and sometimes through both. Maggie constantly experimented; attempting to influence different effects, for when the charge was delivered direct to her nub it induced pain of indescribable intensity – the zenith of suffering, the peak of pleasure.

  She got off her bed and settled onto the dildo; the delight of its presence was beyond description. She twisted her pelvis, rubbing herself onto node and stem to provoke a response. The lights went up at the moment of discharge. A watcher might have seen a girl in extremis. Actually she was enthralled by the ecstasy of agony, desperately convulsing to initiate a second assault.

  The door rumbled. Maggie turned: the girl at the door was new. Tall and strong, she had large soft breasts with immense areolas and big plump nipples. Her hair was collected into a severe bun, generating a hard faced look that was refuted by her sparkling eyes.

  ‘Come down from there!’ she ordered. ‘Today is busy, so eat your breakfast quickly. There is no time for a shower and no pissing until you are told.’

  She turned away and the door closed. Maggie puzzled over this new departure as she dismounted and waddled over to the muesli and fruit juice on the shelf.

  The new mentor returned quickly, fitting Maggie with wrist and ankle restraints and a black leather helmet. It fitted tightly, sealing her mouth and stopping up her ears; small vents below her nose permitted breath. Maggie felt something lifted from its crown and realised that she was being hooked to a dangling chain or cord. She was left in this situation for more than two hours and ideas germinated. Like the slave in the van; I wonder if she was this girl. Is this a step forward, or a punishment? Either way I must succeed.

  When she was released it was to go out on the trim track. No relief was offered and the continuous exercise and pressure on her bladder at each sta
tion began to have a devastating effect: she was straining to retain control. On the penultimate lap she was called in and presented with t-shirt and gym slip. The touch of fabric on Maggie’s skin was very strange, the cotton material feeling as heavy as leather.

  Slightly distracted by the unfamiliar weight of clothes she listened sketchily to the instructions. ‘In the copse the path divides, as you will have observed. Take the turning. It will bring you out onto the fields and you must run to the crest. There you will find a refuse bin. You should remove your clothing, place it in the bin and return here. You may meet people on the path and you should to speak to them only if they greet you. You may explain that you are a naturist enjoying a moment of freedom. If you are petitioned to provide sexual favours you must do so. On no account must you piss. Is all that understood?’

  ‘Yes ma’am!’

  ‘Very well! When you return rejoin the circuit and complete your final lap. Go now!’

  Beyond the copse was rising ground. Running barefoot uphill over rough fields was hard work and the imperative pressure in her bladder imposed great demands on her self control.