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MMS- Chapter 14 – Marcy’s Turn

by | mms | 0 comments

As Trudy led me back to my room, I remembered being a child and waiting to be taken into surgery to get my tonsils out. I was sure I was going to die under the knife. I had a lot of the same feelings as I numbly followed Trudy’s instruction.

I didn’t ask as she drew a bath, even though I had taken a shower that morning. I didn’t even really feel any shame as she helped me off with my clothes. I let myself enjoy the warm water and her surprisingly strong hands scrubbing my back.

As I dried off and she brushed my hair, I saw a light white dress laid out on the bed. It reminded me of some horror movie I’d seen. Virgin sacrifice.

No bra, no panties, just a light dress that felt strange on my skin, which was sensitive from the hot water. Trudy got down on her knees and slipped white ballet flats on my feet.

She seemed meditative. Calm and happy. I realized this was all part of it. She was in service to the house. She was dressing the new girl for her initiation.

When her eyes met mine, I tried to communicate my thanks. She knelt next to the bed, between my legs, and I hugged her. She patted me on the back.

“You’re going to be great,” she whispered.

It was so sweet and kind, and yet in that moment, all I could think about was the pink of her bare pussy. The thought made my thighs clench and my cheeks heat.

“Thanks, Trudy,” I said and kissed her on the cheek, desperately wanting to have the bravery to kiss her on the lips.

There was time for that. This was Marcy’s turn.

She led me back down the stairs, through winding hallways, then through the kitchen, which was huge like it belonged in some fine French restaurant. I wondered if there were cooks and staff. There must have been. I was glad they weren’t there to see me at that moment though.

In the back of the kitchen was an extra wide wooden door. She opened it, and I smelled dampness and stone and dust. She led me down a long solid staircase, and we got to a huge room with a high ceiling and a stone floor. There were wooden benches, like church pews. There were also leather covered pieces that looked like gymnast’s pommel horses.

Against one wall were three six or seven foot high thick wooden crosses, only on their sides, like Xs.

I couldn’t believe the room existed. It was like the dirty books I read only far more frightening. A dungeon, a real torture chamber, and I was there to be beaten and fucked like one of those slave girls in the stories.

Mr. McIntyre sat in a large dark wood and leather chair, not unlike the one he had in his office. He had changed into a simple black suit, crisp white shirt, and a thin black tie. Chase stood nearby him, also in a black suit, his only adornment was a royal purple tie and a small matching flower in his lapel. He looked like the king’s guard. As we approached, they both smiled wide.

Then Marcy walked out of some shadowy corner and into my field of vision. She still wore her riding pants and boots. She had added long leather gloves that matched her boots and a leather vest that was skin tight with no blouse under it. Her breasts were pressed together, and the low lapel of the vest showed a deep line of cleavage. Her hair was greased and combed back severely.

She looked dangerous. Her face was dark, eyes done with smoky black, lips an oxblood red.

She was met by Chase, and she eyed me as she spoke to him.

“Tie her to the cross,” she said simply

Chase nodded.

“Ass out?” He asked.

“No, we’ll leave that for Jake. I want her breasts,” she said moving closer to me.

“I want her perfect breasts and her little cunt,” she said, looking me right in the eye.

Chase pulled me by my arm over to the huge dark wooden X that was against the wall. I wasn’t going to escape or even fight, yet the way he pulled me over felt like a kidnapping.

He was so different just then. The funny jazz loving party boy was gone. He was serious, and his movements were precise and economic.

He reached behind me and undid the simple knot that kept my dress on. He pulled the light fabric off me. He knelt and removed my shoes.

Naked in the big room, with the stone floor and walls and the dark wood furniture and the candles, I felt like an animal on display. Four people in fancy clothes, so educated and classy. I was naked for their entertainment, for their pleasure.

It all closed in on me and made me feel even more naked and vulnerable.

Chase pulled me over to the cross and produced a large black sack that turned out to be full of thin brown hemp rope.

He pushed me against the wooden X they kept referring to as “the cross.” He put my hands up on the top of the thick boards and spread my legs, so they were parallel to the bottom pieces.

I was facing him, my breasts and belly exposed.

“I was a Boy Scout, did you know? Almost made it to Eagle Scout, but then there was an incident,” he said mournfully as he twisted the rope around me expertly.

“Then I was sent away to a boarding school and in the summer,” he said suddenly culminating his various ties and knots to pull one line and spread my legs wide.

I let out an embarrassing yelp.

“I worked on my uncle’s boat. He raced it in a regatta every August. So I’ve had plenty of lessons about knots and pulleys and tension,” he said, finishing things up behind me.

My arms and legs were spread. I couldn’t move either, nor could I move my torso. It was all comfortable though. It felt a bit like an embrace. Maybe like the comfort of being swaddled as a baby.

He came around and looked me in the eye.

“You make me proud, kiddo. And remember as scary as this is, it’s also hot. It’s things you’ve dreamt about. Don’t forget that. Enjoy it. You only get to do it the first time once,” he said and kissed me tenderly on the forehead.

He went and sat down on a bench next to Mr. McIntyre’s chair. Trudy sat on the other side of Mr. McIntyre. They were positioned right in front of me, like an audience. I was the day’s show.

Marcy stepped in front me, eclipsing everyone else. Her beautiful face looking older, more serious, more intense than the other time’s I’d seen her. My naked body shivered from the chill of the room and the power she emanated.

“Here is the plan, little flower. I’m going to hurt you, and you are going to ask for more. Every hit, you ask for more. No counting, no talking. Just more. You ask for more until you can’t take any more. You ask for more until you think I’m satisfied,” she said as she paced in front of me.

“If you want me to stop, say stop. Say no. Say anything but-“ she stopped and looked at me expectantly.

“More,” I said with as much strength as I could.

She moved closer and brushed my cheek with her gloved hand.

“I was jealous of you. Do you know that? So young and pretty and pristine. His secretary. His puppy. You should hear how he talks about you. How he waited for some sign that you might be ready,” she said coldly.

Then her tone changed, softened.

“I had to get over that. I would not hit someone in jealousy. I would not sully our house with that kind of pettiness,” she continued, then she moved closer and spoke softly into my ear.

“Then I met you. I came to your little hovel of an apartment. I dressed you. I teased you. I tested you. I saw some of the things he saw. That you may be young and sweet but under all of that is a hunger, an animal hunger, a desperation to serve, a beautiful need,” she said and kissed my neck.

“And when I felt that tight little cunt of yours and how wet it got from just some simple taunting,” she said with a throaty laugh, “I knew I had to have you too.”

Then she pulled away, so suddenly I gasped.

Chase wheeled over a small table. On it was an array of tools, most long and leather or wood. Marcy picked up her riding crop, the same one Mr. McIntyre used on her.

She walked around in front of me, testing the crop on her gloves hand. Slap slap went leather on leather.

“Oh, such a treat you are. Look at your breasts with your arms over your head. How they rise and fall as you breathe. As your heart races. It makes me want to rip you apart,” she said, backing up, her voice hardening again.

She moved forward and groped me. Her hard leather gloves closing around one breast then the other. She closed her hand around my neck. She examined me. The warmth in her gaze was gone. I was like a horse she was going to put through its paces.

The crop was long, almost two feet. A black leather hilt, a black fabric covered shaft, and an inch thick loop of leather at the end.

I didn’t grow up wealthy enough to have riding lessons as a girl, but I certainly read enough books about horses. Black Beauty being my favorite. I knew the loop at the end of the crop was called the “keeper.”

It looked wicked in her gloved hand, like a scorpion’s stinger. She pointed it at me as she walked around. She let the soft leather keeper trace my collarbone, then down to my right breast, finally circling my nipple.

I was starting to feel cold in my hands and chest. Not from rope or temperature, but from fear.

I looked at her as she teased me with the crop. I didn’t want to, but my eyes begged for mercy.

Everything was still in that moment. Her eyes met mine, with softness, kindness. She mouthed the words, “you can do this.”

And then she hit me.

I remembered Chase’s words. I remembered in college finding a little bookstore off campus with dirty books. Little novels about runaways and kidnappings and whips and chains. I remember the magazines too, Bettie Paige in a bustier with a whip. Pretty girls in stockings tied up in the floor.

That was me, naked and trussed up with a pinup girl about to attack. I closed my eyes and remembered walking home with a brown bag full of secrets from that bookstore.

How I imagined getting hit by a car and the ambulance driver finding the books and phoning my mother.

How I got home and locked myself in my room and furiously read and squirmed in bed and rubbed and rubbed myself until I was sore.

And now she was right in front of me, the woman in the magazines, the seductress on the covers of those dirty little paperbacks. A crop in her hand and a wicked smile on her beautiful face. The devil woman. The temptress. The siren.

The first hit was like a bolt of electricity.

The crop landed on my chest, just above my right breast, and looking down a saw a little red mark the shape of the keeper.

I was ready for pain, the fear building me up, preparing me. I wasn’t prepared for the heat that radiated through my body. I wasn’t ready for how immediately my rebellious sex grew wet.

“More, please,” I whispered.

Marcy let out a slow laugh. I couldn’t look at her.

She knew.

She hit me again and again, quick light flicks of the crop, then a few harder hits, around my breasts, then creeping down into the soft tops of them. I felt my nipples hard in the cool air. The flash of realization that everyone was watching, that Mr. McIntyre was seeing me naked!

“More,” I choked out.

She purred a little, stretching her neck a little and landing a hard strike a millimeter from my nipple.

“Let me tell you a little story, Abigail,” she said, with a quick flick of the crop on the tender side of my belly.

“More,” I hissed.

“Marcia Elizabeth Peterson, eighteen, just out of a prestigious college preparatory school for girls, was given a very divisive internship in Daddy’s favorite capital management office. Women did not get such positions, but Daddy was grooming me for a place in his empire, and so exceptions were made,” she said, emphasizing some of her words with a few more hits, one down close to my nipple, making my hips buck.

“I come to the big office with a chip on my shoulder. A little spoiled rich girl who was used to getting everything she wanted,” she said, with a few more hits to the tops of

my breasts.

Looking down I saw overlapping red marks, dozens of them.

“And the minute I got to the office I decided what I wanted was Jake. Tall, brooding, and totally ignoring me no matter how I bent over and flirted and teased him. It was so frustrating. I’d seduce boys in school, even teachers in college. Who was he? It drove me crazy,” she explained, and she went back to the various tools on her little table.

She selected a much larger implement. A thick black handle with a few dozen long strands of leather. She lifted it and tested its weight. She swung it around. I couldn’t imagine how it would feel.

“So I try and try to bait him, tempt him, nothing. The summer ends, and my short internship ends and that was it.”

Marcy paced in front of me, swinging the thick tool and eying me.

“Somehow though I wouldn’t let it go. I sniffed around for information about him. I generally made a nuisance of myself.”

She hit me once with the big toy. I would later learn it was called a flogger. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected, but was a solid heavy pain. It got both of my breasts with a low twack. She did it again for good measure.

I felt like all of my skin was alive. My breasts burned. My hips involuntarily thrust up every time she hit me. I felt like a lithe little slave girl, like in the books, in the dungeon of a castle, begging for another hit. Yet, just as much I was aching for the next part of her story.

“Eventually I found out about some party he was going to. I turned 19 by then. It was at the house of a woman I knew. I somehow got myself invited,” she continued.

She hit me again with the flogger, on my bare belly, it was light, but it stung.

“There he was, Jake McIntyre, who could imagine he was the life of the party. He had two girls on his arms, both gorgeous. He shocked the little crowd at the party when he kissed one and then the other over and over again throughout the night. Both women seemed to love it. I writhed with jealousy.”

Her next hit was on my lap, the heavy leather on both of my thighs, just inches from my hungry pussy.

She hit me again, for the first time using all of her weight. It was a low dense pain that seemed to resonate through my body. I felt my legs wobble.

“What do we say, Abigail?”

I winced, shocked at the intensity of the pain and how it seemed to further ignite my desire.

“More, please,” I whispered.

She moved forward abruptly and took my hair in her gloved fist.

“No, no, louder for those in the audience.”

I cried out, my scalp burning.

“More, please!” I shouted.

I saw Mr. McIntyre, sitting back in his seat, watching with a grin. His hand was on Chase’s knee. Trudy, as she did before, had her hand between her legs.

She was playing with herself as she watched me, the way I did with those dirty books. I was the pornography of the day. I was the naked spectacle.

Marcy hit me again and again, sometimes lightly sometimes hard, moving from one thigh to the other and then, when I was gasping, she flicked the flogger, so it tapped me right between my legs, the pain bright and flashing white behind my eyes, then like a hot snake the pleasure slithered up my belly.

“More,” I moaned.

She let out a long rumbling laugh.

“Oh, you’ll get more,” she whispered to me.

“As I was saying, I followed the big guy out, with his two little tramps, and cut him off before they all got to the limo he had rented for the night,” she said, now teasingly brushing the flogger between my legs.

“He seemed surprised. He didn’t say anything. I asked if he had room for one more in the limo. One of the women he was with got bitchy with me, but the other one giggled and said I was cute. He just eyeballed me. Looking me over. Weighing his options. Then he opened the door to the car and let the two girls in and then towered over me and said something like ‘if you get in my car, you follow my rules.’ Something like that. All I know was I pretty much soaked my panties looking up at those blue eyes and just nodded. He didn’t like that though, he made me say yes out loud. I was a goner from that point on.”

It was a beautiful story. It made me sad that I wasn’t as brave. I couldn’t imagine doing any of that.

I considered looking up at Mr. McIntyre, but I couldn’t bear it.

Marcy put the flogger back and picked up something long and mean looking. It was a simple wooden cane, but I had read about that sort of thing in books. It was something thing they used in England to discipline children and even criminals. My body involuntarily stiffened.

What came was a very light tapping on my thighs. The cane was thin and flexible, and Marcy was able to make it flutter on my skin, bouncing over and over again like a stick on a drum.

The pain came slowly, as the cane hit the same spots over and over again, from a kiss to a bite, to something more.

More than the other implements, something about the cane made little sparks of electricity crackle between my legs. It was like each little bee sting was also a slow finger rubbing my aching clit.

She knew. I saw it in her face.

“More, please,” I whispered.

“Ask me again,” she whispered back, slowing and then stopping the cane.

“Please, more,” I begged.


“Please, Ms. Marcy, please I need more,” I whispered.

If I could have gotten on my knees, I would have.

She moved closer.

“Are you sure? The next one will be for real. Do you want to feel what this cane can do to you?” she purred into my ear.

“Please, please, yes, more,” I said, feeling tears rising.

What happened next, I don’t think I will ever forget.

There was a sound, sort of pretty, a woosh, then I was struck by lightning.

That’s really the only thing I can imagine hurting as much. She had started from high up, the cane in the air, her arm all the way back. She swung it fast and hard and connected with both of my thighs.

I screamed. I felt myself shake and strain against the rope. It burned and burned, as if she was holding a hot iron to my skin.

Then there was the solid realness of her hand on my chest, pushing me back against the cross, holding me still.

“Take it in,” she whispered.

I sobbed. I didn’t think it would be like that, a real pain. Everything else seemed so superficial. The fire ran up and down my legs. My cheeks were wet with tears.

“What do you say, Abigail?” she whispered.

“Thank you, Ms. Marcy. More, please,” I said, hesitantly.

The second hit was fast, almost as hard, just below the first. I was able to grit my teeth against the scream.

I tried to breathe, breathe through the pain, but it seemed so huge. For a moment, when I closed my eyes, some part of my understood that my inner thighs were soaking wet. I was so wet I was dripping almost to my knees. I wished she would hit me with something between my legs again.

“More,” I whimpered, a tiny broken version of my voice.

“More? Hm. I think we are getting to the end of this portion. How shall we end things?” Marcy mused.

“Any thoughts?” she said, turning and asking the audience.

I opened my eyes and looked at Mr. McIntyre and the rest. Trudy and Chase were kneeling, each clutching one of Mr. McIntyre’s legs. I only saw the back of Chase’s head as it bobbed between Mr. McIntyre’s thighs. Oh. Still, his face looked placid. He cleared his throat.

“Perhaps, five of your best?” He offered.

Trudy’s eyes mat mine. Her dress was up around her waist. Her fingers between her legs. Fingering herself like the dirty little girl she was.

“Five of her best!” Trudy said in her brattiest voice.

I had a horrible idea of what they meant.

Marcy turned to me and smiled. She put down the cane and slowly pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time.

“That means you only have to take five more hits, but they are going to be mean ones. What do you think, Abigail? Can you take five more? You get to pick what I’ll use,” she said plainly.

With her gloves off she stretched her reddened hands and arms and cracked her knuckles.

She went to the row of tools and picked each one up in turn.

“The crop, the flogger, the cane, the paddle, the tawse, the whip,” she reeled off.

My thighs throbbed, but I was still standing. I took the most painful thing I imagined.

I took a deep breath.

“What would you have asked for, back then? Since you wanted to recreate your date with Mr. McIntyre,” I asked quietly.

She smiled.

“The cane, of course,” she said simply, picking it up.

“Then five of your best with the cane, please,” I asked, feeling like I was paying my own executioner.

She looked impressed. I felt myself grow dizzy with fear and pride all at once.

She moved forward and pressed her body against mine. Her leather vest felt cool against my burning breasts. My mouth went to her neck. I couldn’t help but kiss her. She allowed it.

“You’ll count each one, followed by our special word,” she said with a sigh in my ear.

“Yes, Miss Marcy,” I whimpered.

“And when we are done, when everyone sees what a good girl you’ve been, I’ll take you upstairs and kiss all your tears away myself. Would you like that?”

I gasped a little. I felt so connected to her. I felt like she had my life in her hands. Should could crush me if she wanted to. The thought of her comforting me after was shockingly comforting.

“Yes, please, I can’t imagine anything I’d like more,” I whispered, my words only for her ear.

She smiled and eyed me with a look of profound examination. I took a few deep breaths.

I didn’t expect the excitement to be there. The eagerness for more pain, which mixed and mingled with the almost overpowering fear. Still, there it was. Then there was the desire to take it for her, for him, for all of them. To show I could do it.

Marcy held the cane up to her face, the way fencers saluted their opponents.

The whooshing sound came, and I closed my eyes. The white-hot burning across my thighs.

“One!” the word pushed its way out of my mouth.

“More, please!” I said in a rush, hoping for it to go fast.

The second came and hit against some of the first strikes, causing a burning that felt like my skin was bursting. It was so much, but I felt the pain starting to mutate in my head. It wasn’t so much pain, but some powerful energy in my body.

“Two, more please!” I said, my mind losing focus.

The third came, and I felt myself start to break. The tears were starting to flow again, hot and wet down my cheeks. I opened my eyes to try and center myself. The room swam in my vision. I looked down, which was a mistake. I saw red stripes on my legs with purple around them. Real bruises, like nothing I’d had before.

“Three. Thank you. More,” I said with a clear voice that didn’t seem like my own.

Four seemed to pass through me. Like I had come out the other side of some long tunnel, and I was past pain. It was all just fireworks behind my eyes now.

“Four. More.”

There was no extra ceremony for the last. It came like the others. Perhaps the high had that made the last few seem less painful was subsiding, because five, like one, just hurt.

“Five,” I said as clearly as I could.

No more.

Then the dam broke. I fell forward as much as I could. I cried and cried and sobbed as all the tension, and all the waiting and all the anxiety seemed to pour out of me. I cried, and I shook, and I closed my eyes and let myself fall.

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