The Dark Side of Maggie Moon

by Krys Antarakis

  They passed through into a room that was overtly male. Heavily panelled, it was lit by several large windows that looked onto immaculate gardens being tended by two more naked girls. Between some windows were glass fronted bookcases while a number of fine pictures of distinctly Victorian provenance augmented the other spaces. Some were engravings and some were done in oils, but as in the lounge, all depicted women in erotic settings. Two training cages filled the corners adjacent to the door. Gagged and pinioned within one was Ali. Urged forward and cautiously suppressing the temptation to stare at the caged girl, Maggie walked determinedly over thick carpet that was sensuous to her bare feet. The room with its combination of proportions and furnishing created a tangible aura of intimidation. At the far end Caen sat behind a vast antique desk.

  Checked by Titty’s touch on her arm, Maggie halted, dropping instinctively into a submissive stance: arms and shoulders back to emphasise her pert nipples, legs wide apart and eyes cast down. Caen murmured, ‘Thank you, Titty,’ and the escort withdrew to a corner. Steeling herself to remain motionless, Maggie struggled to appear disciplined.

  ‘Look at me!’

  Trembling like a wayward infant, Maggie raised her head to find herself transfixed by a piercing gaze. She seemed to melt under the scrutiny of his glittering eyes, control of her body and mind overwhelmed by his power and proximity. Intense blue eyes, powerful forehead above, square jaw below, all framed by a neatly trimmed naval beard that showed flecks of grey among the deep brown hairs. It was a confident, inspiring face accustomed to command, expecting to be obeyed. Her instinct was worship; to offer her all, to surrender body and mind to his command or abuse.

  Though unable to tear her eyes from his face, she was vaguely aware of a portrait filling the wall behind him.

  ‘Zelda, my first and favoured slave; magnificent, isn’t she?’

  Maggie studied the painting, absorbing its detail. A breathtakingly beautiful female, naked and aroused, reclining in a pose that concealed nothing. The face was relaxed, happy; the eyes sparkled and a gentle smile graced the perfect lips. The face was instantly recognisable. My god, I’ve just whipped her. What if it wasn’t a test?

  ‘Stunning, as you no doubt observed.’

  My god, what sort of punishment attaches to assaulting his favourite?

  ‘I gather Cousin James made an impression on you too.’

  Is that a question or an invitation to comment? Blushing and uncertain, Maggie remained silent, waiting for a firm indication.

  None was forthcoming. Caen sat calmly surveying her. Maggie studied the portrait.

  Such beauty. I could never aspire to that standard.

  ‘You’re wondering how you match up.’

  Maggie switched her attention back to him, trembling in confusion. A faint smile flitted across Caen’s expression. ‘All the novices admit to such feelings the first time they see the portrait; of course, should they express those feelings then they stand condemned by their own tongue. Syndicate girls must be able to exercise restraint and never, ever, presume. The cardinal rule is intimacy without familiarity. You have observed that, I think?’

  ‘Yes, Patron.’

  ‘Excellent; another achievement. Our regime is not what you might have expected?’

  Maggie hesitated; still uncertain whether her opinion was being sought. ‘No, sir!’

  ‘It is understandable. The practice you had encountered was recreational slavery, a bit of fun, good for bored women looking for a bit of naughty. The Syndicate is rather different: we are aware that some women have a deep-seated need. They can only be truly content in a permanent situation that recognises that need and provides for it continually. You have that need; it was obvious to me when I studied you at the farm. I believe that you are coming to accept it.’ Again he paused as if expecting a response.

  Maggie debated whether to remain silent or take a chance that she had misinterpreted his signals. She took a chance: ‘I am, sir!’

  Caen nodded. Maggie was torn between relief at guessing and regret at avoiding punishment. She thought Caen had sensed her dilemma. He did not comment on it, but continued, ‘You might try to deny your true self, but you will never succeed. You will be a perpetual slave to your orientation. Others have complementary needs: the desire to control and dominate in a sexual content. The Syndicate exists to match up pairs and groups. You have reached a pivotal point; if you prove to us that your inclination is ready to declare commitment we must set in motion the mechanism to pair you with a suitable custodian. Once that point is reached there is no turning back. Commitment to the Syndicate is life-long.’

  Although averting her gaze in submission, Maggie had felt herself becoming enraptured by Caen’s apparent solicitude. Lost for an appropriate reply, she reverted to demonstration. Bowing her head she sank to her knees, hands held up and palms pressed together in a gesture of total submission.

  Caen made no comment, but stood to issue a curt command. ‘A further test: come!’

  With Maggie meekly following, he strode across the room and halted before Ali’s cage. ‘Superb, always eager, constantly aroused, rarely satiated; you will appreciate that, I think. Ali has devised an amusing scenario that involves choices. Titty will explain.’

  Clothes felt alien; apart from the gymslip interlude Maggie had lived nude for almost two weeks, nudity was her norm. The dress was cotton, waisted with a short flared skirt, classic simplicity: like the toe-post sandals, minimal yet stylish. In the courtyard Titty handed Maggie a key and a packet.‘Here are your instructions. You must drive at least five miles before you open them.’

  ‘Which way?’

  Titty did not reply, simply lifting the short skirt to land a firm smack on Maggie’s rump. Maggie nodded and climbed into the Corsa. She started the engine, clunked the seat belt and drove away, experiencing a sense of panic. It took her by surprise. She had read of released hostages experiencing similar reactions when leaving the security of confinement, but had not expected to be so affected herself.

  As she drove, the foolishness of her question became obvious: there was only one road. It climbed out of the remote, sheltered valley to emerge on open moor land where it joined a highway. She reached a lay-by; the odometer had recorded five miles. With trembling fingers she opened the packet, finding a printed sheet, a copy of a car-hire agreement and some money in a small clutch purse. Nervously she read the instructions and gasped. Oh, my god! She read them again, concentrating on the final statement:

  “If you fail to complete the task, do not return. The car has sufficient fuel to take you home, simply return the car within twenty four hours to your nearest agency office. Le Patron has enjoyed your presence.”

  Maggie engaged the clutch and drove away deep in thought. About twenty miles on, approaching a town, a roundabout marked the start of a by-pass; the ‘through traffic’ sign was tempting, making her think of her house, of her friends, of Hazel and promotion, yet she chose the ‘town centre’ exit. I can always turn round again. But Maggie did not. Having parked she walked slowly through the town, sharing the streets with the late afternoon shoppers. I can still remember the first time, when Meg made me throw my knickers away. The resulting anger and ill-concealed embarrassment seemed a lifetime away. Today she only felt pride and an overwhelming desire to flash her fanny. Dignity Maggie Moon: maintain your composure. The tea-rooms were easily located. Beyond the smart exterior and automatic doors the vast room exuded a restrained ambience: like stepping back in time – dignity indeed. My god, if they knew what I was planning they wouldn’t let me past the door. The room buzzed with conversation; it seemed that taking tea was a local institution. Maggie glanced around failing to spot any familiar face.

  A uniformed waitress stepped forward, ‘A table for one?’

  ‘I’d prefer a side table,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘I’m sorry,
we have no side tables; this is our busy time.’

  Reluctantly, Maggie took her seat and ordered tea and cakes as instructed. She was surrounded by groups and couples all taking tea. This place wasn’t chosen by chance. Cautiously, trying not to attract unnecessary attention, she eased her posture to flick the short skirt back and settled her bare bottom onto the red plush seat, following her instructions to the letter. Another waitress delivered the order and Maggie strove to appear relaxed and unconcerned. I feel like I’m in a shop window – don’t be a fool, girl, that’s just where you have been for the last ten days. The thought didn’t make her feel better. Needing reassurance she poured her tea and selected a delicate cake.

  ‘I’d like one of those!’

  Maggie looked up with a start as a shadow fell across the table. ‘Meg!’ she gasped, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You will invite me to join you?’ said Meg, taking a seat and adding, ‘Looking after you as usual.’

  ‘Are you part of this conspiracy; the note said I’d be observed?’

  ‘What conspiracy, what note?’ Meg demanded, taking a cake.

  Maggie opened the purse and laid her instructions on the table.

  Meg scanned the words. ‘You shameless hussy!’ she declared.

  ‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of; my body’s the same as everyone else’s.’

  ‘So you are beginning to understand.’

  ‘It’s been a revelation. I’ve lost all inhibition and just live for sex – no restrictions, nothing excluded: anytime, anywhere, any kind: I adore being fucked.’

  Suddenly aware of women on the adjacent table staring at her, Maggie lowered her voice. ‘I had no idea sex encompassed so much. I suppose I was trapped in the romance myth.’

  ‘You were a mass of confusion.’

  ‘I was. I thought sex was about cocks and cunts. I had no concept of my body’s potential or my mental capacity.’

  ‘Yes, you’re almost there.’ Meg smiled: her sweet, enigmatic, slightly conceited smile.

  Maggie paused to sip her tea: the cup was empty, so was the pot. She recalled her instructions and called a waitress. ‘A pot of tea for two, and bring me the bill.’

  The waitress stared at her with puzzled eyes. ‘For two, are you certain?’

  ‘Of course I’m certain,’ Maggie snapped. The waitress threw her a disbelieving look and hurried away.

  ‘You were saying?’ prompted Meg.

  ‘I can’t fully explain it, but I feel liberated. With Le Patron every minute is mapped out, I’m being controlled all the time, my life is lived to satisfy his every whim, but I feel so free and it’s all down to you.’

  ‘No Maggie, it’s down to you. You’ve made the choices.’

  ‘It was you who made me stuff my knickers in the incinerator.’

  ‘Did I?’

  The waitress returned, pointedly placing a fresh pot of tea and clean cups on the table with a sniffy expression.

  ‘Yes you did,’ Maggie insisted as she poured. ‘And that reminds me, I still don’t know who you are.’

  ‘You haven’t fully understood. But you will, just lie back and enjoy the ride: indulge your desires; life is too short for self-sacrifice. You’re a very special kind of person, not unique as I’m sure you are aware, but privileged. So seize your chance and remember, being different is not a defect, it’s a gift to be celebrated.’

  ‘You’ve said that before, or something very like it.’

  ‘Probably, because it’s true. Now, I’ll stay while you do what you have to.’

  Maggie took money from her purse and laid it on the dish containing the bill. Then, looking round the room with challenge in her eyes she surreptitiously hoisted the draped tablecloth onto her lap, shuffled to the edge of her chair, parted her legs and let her bladder discharge. A healthy stream of urine poured onto the carpet, largely shielded by the hanging linen. The woman on the next table looked across, her brow knitted as if she could not believe what she was hearing. Maggie held her fingers in the jetting stream until they were thoroughly wet then licked them greedily.

  ‘Atta girl!’ whispered Meg, ‘Let’s go.’

  4.3

  Maggie was caged, breasts and inner thighs throbbing from the red scars etched earlier by a purposefully wielded thin cane. Her swollen nipples burned in the grip of malignant clamps. The probe in her rectum was set to high power and discharged pulses of utter agony. Each wild jerk of her body would have been accompanied by a scream of woe had she not been gagged. A rod-mounted vibrator held against her clitoris stoked her almost unendurable desire for penetration while chains from her wrists, ankles and from the thick leather collar round her neck enforced a ramrod posture. Zelda, also gagged, was pinioned within the other cage while Caen worked at his desk in deep concentration. The tearoom and Meg belonged to a different world.

  After a while Caen rose, crossing the room. ‘Sufficient for the day…’ he remarked upon reaching Zelda’s cage. He reached in, removed her gag and turned as if considering Maggie. Shaking his head he left the room.

  ‘No dinner for us tonight.’

  Maggie could only assume that the remark was addressed to her. She tried to make a show of agreement, but another random shock jerked her body rigid and pure refined agony paralysed her brain. When she regained composure Zelda was regarding her with envy. ‘You passed your test and gained your reward.’

  She’s right, I didn’t expect praise, but I have gained recognition-- Arrgh!’ Another nerve-numbing surge blotted out thought.

  Zelda continued. ‘Thank you for my beating, it was delicious. You are welcome among us. You have a gift, Maggie Moon, a rare gift. Someday, somewhere, a lucky girl will treasure you.’ Maggie’s response was blocked by a mind-shattering trio of charges exploding in her rectum. Oh, glory, such suffering: why do I love it so?

  Maggie was suspended. A strong tape under her crotch had been carefully threaded between her labia to settle in her slit and crush her clit. It also held a large butt plug in place. The tape’s ends were hooked onto cables that lifted her just enough to prevent her heels from resting on the floor. With her legs strapped together at ankle and knee, and her arms confined, she was virtually immobile. The choice was to endure the strain of supporting her weight on her toes, or suffering the tape squashing her clit: she was caught in an exquisite dilemma.

  Since the tea room episode the tenor of her life had changed. The daily routine of exercise, practice and chastisement continued, but her contact with Caen had increased. He had assumed direct control of her training. She no longer occupied the study, instead a small but comfortable bedroom was allocated although she spent few nights there since mostly they were spent as Caen’s personal plaything. However, the previous night had been one she had spent alone. Kayt had roused her, denying her use of the en-suite toilet. After a breakfast of milk and porridge her arms had been pulled into a stiff leather sheath that was then tightly laced. A ball gag and earplugs were fitted, followed by a black fabric hood secured by a leather collar buckled firmly round her throat. Thus distanced from reality, Maggie had been walked through the house. Without guidance she stumbled frequently and fell twice. It was almost a relief to arrive and be strapped up and hoisted.

  Maggie now had no idea where she was, except that it was an enclosed room with a carpeted floor, probably a bedroom. What she did know was that she had been there for hours. Her bladder was protesting and she was in dire agony. I’m being tested again. Am I expected to hold out or invite chastisement? A tit thrashing would be lovely.If only someone would explain. But no-one did explain; they rarely did and then the explanation was regarded as a punishable transgression. As Maggie was beginning to understand, the mark of commitment was to instinctively know what was expected. She sensed she had not yet attained the pinnacle.

  Long periods of practice had taught
her to empty her mind of extraneous thoughts and most times, when immobilised under the hood, she had been able to lapse into a state of meditation that she supposed was akin to yoga. Today, with her mind full of issues, she was unable to achieve that condition. Although time had little meaning here, she knew that in a few days she must return to real life, report for duty and prepare to transfer to her new post. Thus, many of the daily pressures and anxieties recently set aside were returning decked out in full regalia.

  Do I really want that promotion, or is it my destiny to become a Syndicate Slave? Caen might decide he doesn’t want me after all, this whole thing might be just a con to get inside my knickers – figuratively speaking.And what if Greg is waiting for me: did Greg have an agreement when he ‘sold’ me and will I ever find out what it was? God, I wish I’d had time to talk this over with Greg before I was bundled away. But Greg didn’t seem interested in me; he sort of buggered off to sniff after that Lady Jane, if she is a lady, which I doubt. I wish I’d had longer with Meg the other day. I could have asked her about some of these things. She always seemed to know. I still haven’t found out who she is; perhaps I never will. Oh why won’t someone tell me what’s going on? You’re a slave, slaves have no rights. The voice came from nowhere, but somewhere; Maggie heard it only in her head, yet it was not her own. My god, I’m hallucinating; things are coming to a pretty pass. I NEED SOME ANSWERS. She shouted the words in her head and received no reply.

  Try as she might, Maggie could not focus her mind on any single theme. Tangled images continued to flood her brain without pausing. I wonder what Hazel would think if she could see me now? Now what made me think of Hazel? The image in her brain switched, now she was seeing Hazel naked except for a faceless hood, the disturbing yet potent surge of desire gripped her bowels. Ohh – that was weird, quite frightening, yet nice. How could I imagine that? I’ve never seen Hazel without clothes.