Magnolia's Mercy

With my hands tightly cuffed behind my back, I was unable to resist as she gathered my body in her arms and laid me out face-down over her lap. Though I couldn't see, I felt her knees sticking out at angles, as if her legs were crossed.

Bracing for another mighty slap, I flinched when I felt her hand upon my bare buttocks—but instead, she gave me a playful swat, far too soft to sting. She giggled girlishly as I squirmed in her lap, and she rested her hand upon my backside as I slumped over her lap. My cock, still erect, nudged at her thigh as it twitched with arousal, and I savored the sensation of her warm flesh against my sensitive member.

"Oh, Joe..." she sighed. "Every one of my boys tries to put on a tough face, the first time I have my way with 'em. You took that whipping better than I thought you would. But every man has his breaking point, honey—and I know how to find a man's weaknesses. If it ain't one thing, it's usually something else. If whips and chains don't turn you into a quivering wreck, that doesn't make you invulnerable. Maybe it'll take a subtler kind of torture to break you..."

Entranced by the sound of her voice, I didn't think to brace myself for another slap. She noticed, and she caught me off-guard with another fierce slap on the backside—so hard it made me yelp out loud. As soon as I relaxed from the first blow, she gave me two more in quick succession, each one stinging a little more fiercely than the last.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Again, I gave a low moan, focusing on the tingling pain in my backside as it radiated through my body, making my nerves tingle. She chuckled at the sound of my moan, taking it as a sign of a job well done.

"The first time I met you, I knew you were a prideful boy," Miss Maggie said. "You remember your manners, but you've got a real swagger. You think you're tough. And when I brought my whip out, that was just another chance to prove it. But pain comes in many flavors, Joe. That's the beautiful thing about torturing a man: it ain't just about what you can dish out—it's also about what you can take away!"

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

I clenched my jaw and grit my teeth as she joyfully slapped her outstretched hand against my bare ass with wild abandon, and I swallowed back a moan of pain. But she kept it up, and didn't stop until I finally gave a soft whimper.

"There's a hell of a lot that I can take from you, honey," she continued. "Your freedom, for one thing. Your dignity, for another. In this room, everything's negotiable. You might discover limits that you never knew you had. And maybe a few new weaknesses along the way. Pride's one weakness—and it's a fine sin to indulge in. But what about lust? That makes me wonder..."

Before I could brace myself, she seized me by the elbows and flipped my body over, leaving me face-up as she draped me over her lap. My bare ass—still burning from her brutal spanking—was nestled snugly in the space between her crossed legs.

She reached down to caress my oozing cock. I arched my back in a sudden spasm of unexpected pleasure, and I shivered as I felt the shaft of my cock snapping to full, throbbing hardness. I heard her chuckle.

"There we go..." she said. "Now, let's see how much you really want me..."

• • •

There's no clock in the bedroom—at least none that I can see in the darkness. There's no steady ticking to mark the time that I spend in that bed, chained to the headboard by my wrists. I can only focus on the sound of idle chatter from the dining room in the floor below me, where the joyous voices of well-fed women echo through the house.

I hear the clink of drinking glasses and the clang of plates and cutlery, occasionally punctuated by hearty laughter. Not the coy giggles that Miss Maggie let out when she had her way with me; this is full-throated laughter, let out by women who can relax in her presence, enjoying their place at her table. Miss Maggie can't always play the queenly seductress, I suppose. Around her friends, she's just "Magnolia." But I'm no friend—just a plaything.

The cuffs are loose enough that I can rotate my wrists, and I'm grateful for that small comfort. When my legs get restless, I stretch out on the bed as much as I can, twisting my waist to keep my thighs and buttocks from going numb. But the mattress is pleasantly buoyant under my naked back, and the blankets are soft; if I have to be a prisoner in Miss Maggie's bedroom, at least I can be grateful for the luxurious accommodations.

But what about when her guests leave? What kind of torment does she have planned for me then? Is this all just an appetizer for a more perverse breed of torture?

Most of Miss Maggie's house is unassuming enough, but her bedroom is well stocked with all manner of torture implements, though she keeps most of them hidden away. There's the bondage cross, of course. And her favorite leather whip, and her drawers filled with gags and handcuffs and cock rings. But what else?

My mind runs wild as I imagine the possibilities.

Heavy wooden paddles... Slender canes and wooden switches... Battery-powered vibrators and dildos... Spring-loaded metal clamps... Spikes and pins and needles... Hot wax... Chastity devices, equipped with locks and keys...

When my long wait's over, what form will my punishment take?

Just outside the door, I hear footsteps on the floorboards as somebody approaches the door.

I've heard that sound at least half a dozen times since she locked me up, but my heart rate goes up every time. The bathroom's just a few doors down from Miss Maggie's bedroom; every time I somebody walking toward the bathroom, I wonder if it's Miss Maggie returning to check on me.

But this time, the sound of footsteps grows nearer, and it's followed by the distinctive click of the lock in the bedroom door. A moment later, the hinges creak as someone opens the door a crack. Stepping lightly, Miss Maggie steps into the bedroom with a dish in her hand and closes the door behind her.

"Hey, Joe," she whispers. "I hope you don't think I forgot about you."

She walks across the length of the bedroom and reaches down to switch on the lamp on the bedside table, bathing her face in warm lamplight.

"How you feelin', honey?" she asks. "Miss me yet?"

"Always, Miss Maggie."

She giggles.

"That's sweet," she says. "But flattery ain't gonna get you out of your little predicament..."

The tight rubber ring clenches the base of my cock like a blood pressure cuff. For at least an hour now, my erection has stubbornly refused to subside, growing thicker and throbbing more fiercely with every moment. When I lay flat against the mattress, my penis points perfectly straight at the ceiling like an accusatory finger, the head swelling like a fat mushroom.

Miss Maggie chuckles with satisfaction as she looks over my body, her eyes shamelessly lingering on my rock-hard penis. As I feel her eyes sizing up the length of my trapped member, my face grows warm, and my cock twitches. I can feel my heartbeat thrumming along the base of my cock, throbbing and pulsing with animalistic desire.

"Not bad, honey," she breathes.

After forty-three days, I've had plenty of time to fantasize about Miss Maggie and her coy beauty. Now, as she looms over me in her immodest little sundress, I remind myself that she's not just an imaginary temptress; she's as real as anybody else, and her sadism runs deep.

With her eyes shining with glee, she reaches down and wraps her slender fingers around the thickening shaft of my cock, stroking it up and down. After more than an hour in the grip of the rubber ring, my cock is sensitive to the touch, and I shudder with pleasure as she takes it in her hands.

"Shhh..." she chides, placing a finger on her lip. "Don't make too much noise. You wouldn't want my friends to know you're here, would you?"

"N-no..."

When she loosens her grip, I find myself instantly longing for her touch again—though I know damn well that she won't allow me an orgasm. She doesn't back away just yet, but runs the tip of her index finger along the soft underside of my penis, gently tickling me. Held fast in the grip of the plastic handcuffs, I strain against the chain.

"That's it, honey..." she breathes. "You've got no idea how fun this is. There's nothing like playing with a desperate cock..."

She talks about my cock as if she's forgotten that it's a part of me, and she strokes it idly like a toy.

Finally, she withdraws her hand from my cock and stands back up. She walks back over to the bedside table, where her dish is waiting.

The dish is piled high with food: juicy slices of brisket, glazed with fat and brushed with sauce; buttery field peas tossed with bits of bacon; a generous helping of rich, green collards, and a square of crisp cornbread. My mouth grows moist with hunger at the sight of it.

A fork is balanced on the side of the plate. For a second, I hold out hope that Miss Maggie might set me free long enough to eat something. But no such luck.

She picks up the dish and sets it on my bare chest. With the fork in her right hand, she spears up a fat slice of brisket and moves it toward my mouth.

"Open wide, honey," she orders. "I hope you weren't expecting me to untie you..."

My hunger outweighs my indignation. As undignified as I might feel, I obey, and eagerly accept the sliver of glistening beef. It's rich and tender, and the tang of the sauce leaves me eager for more.

She takes her time feeding me, patiently offering me generous forkfuls of collards and peas, and thick slices of brisket. With her pretty face looming above me, I nearly forget to savor the taste of the food. When I've eaten my fill, she brushes the square of cornbread around the rim of the plate, soaking up a generous portion of sauce and juice. Then she breaks it in half and gently places both halves in my waiting mouth.

"Thank you, Miss Maggie..." I whisper.

"You're welcome," she says. "But I'm not finished with you yet. Not by a long shot..."

As she stands back up, she slides open the drawer and pulls out two short lengths of rope. Forgetting my manners, I groan as soon as I see them. Apparently, the handcuffs aren't enough for her.

"No complaining, honey," Miss Maggie says sharply. "I make the rules, remember?"

"...Yes, Ma'am."

"Good. Now spread your legs. Stretch them out to the bedposts."

I obey, straightening my legs and stretching them as far as they'll go. With practiced ease, she winds each length of rope around the bedposts, loops them, and pulls them tight. Then she makes another loop in each rope and pulls them around my ankles, leaving my legs splayed out in a spread-eagle position. She stands up straight and juts out one hip as she admires her handiwork, giggling as I struggle against the tight ropes.

The loops are just loose enough that they don't chafe my ankles—but they're tight enough that I can't bend my knees, and I can barely move my legs an inch. The soft mattress still feels comfortable under my back, and the silky sheets still feel smooth against my skin. But with my legs bound with rope, I can't even lift my bare buttocks from the mattress; the bed feels even more like a prison.

Miss Maggie turns her back to me and crosses over to her stately wooden armoire at the other end of the room. When she swings the doors wide and opens it, I'm greeted by an unexpected sight. I was ready to be confronted by the sight of leather whips and iron chains and wicked instruments of torture; perhaps even another imprisoned lover, tied up and left to struggle in the darkness.

Instead, I see something more mundane: a flatscreen television. It's perched atop a little DVD player, and at least a dozen little disks are neatly lined up next to it, shut up securely in clear plastic CD cases.

Is Miss Maggie seriously showing off her DVD collection?

She drags her finger along the row of disks, then smiles as she selects one. She switches on the TV with the button. When she slides the disk into the DVD player, a video instantly starts. Although the scene in the video is dimly lit, I recognize Miss Maggie's bedroom by its furniture; a timestamp marks the time and duration of the video in the upper right corner of the screen.

In the video, I see Miss Maggie sitting cross-legged atop her bed, wearing that flirtatious little sundress patterned with lilies and irises. I remember the dress well; it shows off the generous swell of her cleavage just as well as it always did.

But Miss Maggie isn't alone. Someone else is laid out over her lap, face-down. It's a fair-skinned man with short chestnut hair. He's completely naked, his hands are tightly locked in a set of handcuffs, and his bare buttocks are noticeably pink; he's clearly endured a spanking over Miss Maggie's knee.

The nude man lets out a deep groan of pain and frustration as Miss Maggie brings her hand down hard against his backside, her eyes flashing maliciously as she spanks him three times in quick succession.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

I feel a twinge of sympathy. I've felt Miss Maggie's sadism myself, and I know how brutal her tastes can run. But something about this scene strikes me as oddly familiar...

Then, in the video, I finally hear Miss Maggie speak. When she does, realization hits me like a slap across the face.

"The first time I met you, I knew you were a prideful boy," she says.

No. It couldn't be...

"Pain comes in many flavors, Joe," she continues. "That's the beautiful thing about torturing a man: it ain't just about what you can dish out—it's also about what you can take away!"

I don't want to believe what I'm hearing. But as soon as she uses my name, there's no doubt in my mind. My stunned expression makes her laugh out loud.

It's me! The man in the video is me!

"You... You filmed that?" I stammer. "Everything we did that night?"

For the first time that night, Miss Maggie looks slightly sheepish. She almost seems guilty at the accusation.

"Not everything, love," she admits. "I waited until I put the blindfold on you, so you wouldn't see the camera. And I put it away before I took the blindfold off."

I want to protest. I want to complain. Deep down, I want to order her to destroy the DVD. But for the moment, I can't tear my eyes away from the scene unfolding on the screen.

Somehow, being forced to look at my own naked body is far more humiliating than letting somebody else see me like that. My cheeks burn with shame as I watch her gleefully smacking my bare ass, and I notice my body faintly trembling with fear as she readies her hand for the next spanking.

"Don't worry, Joe. I haven't shown anybody," she says. "My private video collection is for my own amusement. I like to keep little souvenirs of each of my boys, for after I move on. Every once in a while, I like to relive my favorite moments in this room. I've rewatched this little recording at least five times by now. It always gets me real hot and bothered..."

That little admission dulls my shame, but only a little bit.

Soon, my shame is replaced by confusion. After she's taken a good few minutes to enjoy the recording, she walks across the room and takes a seat in one of her leather lounge chairs, positioned just a few feet from the bed. She gets comfortable in the chair, slouching her back and relaxing her muscles. Then our eyes meet.

The recording continues to play. In the video, Miss Maggie flips me over and lays my body out over her lap, speaking in soft tones as she strokes my twitching cock.

"Um..." I stammer. "D-don't you have a dinner party to host?"

She raises one eyebrow.

"Sure I do. What's your point?" she asks.

I consider my words carefully.

"Uh... I mean... Aren't your guests gonna wonder where you are?"

She laughs—a refined, patrician sort of laugh, reserved for a witty remark at the dinner table.

"Maybe they will..." she says. "But it's my house. And they're my guests. They know it's rude to pry. And if I want to duck off for a few minutes to amuse myself, what business is it of theirs?"

Two words in that sentence give me pause.

"Uh... Amuse yourself? W-what do you mean by that?"

She smiles, and presses an index finger to her lips.

She looks at the TV screen, then back at me, then back at the screen again. On either side of her, she's greeted by the sight of the same imprisoned lover, naked and bound for her enjoyment. As she entertains herself watching me struggle, she hitches up her sundress, exposing her panties—an intricately patterned little lace number, stitched from blue fabric that matches her pumps.

As our eyes meet, she slips her fingers into her panties, which are growing visibly moist. Moving her hand in tight circles, she digs her fingers into the folds of her vulva, massaging her clit and caressing the slick lips of her labia. Feeling voyeuristic, I feel the urge to look away—but she keeps it right up, shamelessly fingering herself in full view.

I feel ashamed for enjoying this, but I can't tear my eyes away from her exposed panties, and the spasmodic movement of her bucking hips makes my eyes glaze with arousal. She throws her head back in a spasm of pleasure as her breathing speeds up, and she smiles naughtily as our eyes meet.

"Pervert..." she says teasingly. "I bet you're loving this, aren't you?"

After all the times she's seen me naked, I suppose this is the least she can repay me.

She bites her lip and closes her eyes as she hits that sweet climax, her low moans building to a crescendo. She withdraws her hand and spares a moment to lounge in the chair as she catches her breath. With her sundress pulled up, I'm grateful for the peek at her panties.

She stands up from the chair, straightens the hem of her dress, and walks over to the bed. She bends down over her drawer, then pulls out a small object that I recognize instantly. It's a blindfold—the same one that she tied over my eyes the last time I was in this room.

She dangles the blindfold over my face before she leans down to pull it over my eyes. She knots it and pulls it tight, then switches off the lamp on her bedside table.

"Don't worry, honey," she says. "Just a little while longer. But I can't have you getting too comfortable, can I?"

"No, Miss Maggie..." I say obediently.

She giggles, and gently strokes my cock before she walks out of the room and leaves me in the dark.

This time, she doesn't lock the door.

• • •

I savored the friction of her manicured fingers against my skin as she took the full length of my cock in her hand. Her hand was soft, but her grip was masterful. She moved her hand lazily—fast enough to make my head swim with arousal, but gently enough to deny me my sweet release.

Warm droplets of pre-cum dribbled down my shaft, making my cock slick. She moved her hand slowly enough to torture me, loosening her grip when she felt me on the verge of spurting all over the bedsheets. She dragged her fingertips along the length of my shaft, tenderly caressed it with her palm, and naughtily tickled the head of my cock with one finger; it was never enough to send me over the edge, but it was just enough to keep me rock-hard and desperate for more.

"You like that, honey?" she asked coyly.

I wanted to say "Yes," but my desperation was beginning to overcome my arousal. As an answer, I gave a low moan—half in frustration, half in euphoria. That suited Miss Maggie just fine, and she giggled cruelly as I squirmed in her lap.