Magnolias Mercy

"It's gonna hurt, honey," Miss Maggie said. "I'm not tryin' to scare you, but I won't lie to you either. It's gonna hurt."

Everybody knew that she could be cruel to her lovers, when she wanted to be. But whatever else you could say about Miss Maggie, she was always honest.

"I'm not a malicious woman, but I've got my needs," she continued. "Sometimes, every once in a while, I need to watch a man suffer. Hard and long, until he can't take any more. If you ask me to stop, I will—but if you're gonna spend the night with me, you need to know what you're in for. So I'll tell you again: it's gonna hurt. And I'm gonna enjoy it..."

She never raised her voice, the first time she used the whip on me. That wasn't the worst part about that night—not by a long shot. But it unsettled the hell out of me.

There was no anger in her voice, as she calmly explained how she planned to punish me. But there was no mirth or joy either. If it hadn't been for that little mischievous smirk on her lips as she watched me undress, I might have wondered whether she enjoyed it at all.

When she said those words to me, I faced the far wall in her bedroom, where an x-shaped bondage cross stretched from the floor to the ceiling, equipped with four leather cuffs for my wrists and ankles. I wore nothing but a plain pair of grey briefs, already growing tighter against my buttocks as my erection began to swell. She approached me from behind and took my wrists in her hands, gently guiding them upwards to bind them to the ends of the cross. I felt her warm breath on the back of my neck as she pulled the cuffs tight, and goosebumps rose along my naked back.

As soon as my hands were tightly bound, she reached down to give my backside a playful pinch. As I shifted with discomfort, she slipped one manicured finger into the waistband of my briefs, and slowly—very slowly—she lowered them. My swelling erection twitched and bobbed as I felt my underwear side down to my ankles. Though I couldn't see her unblinking gaze or her amused expression, I felt Miss Maggie's eyes sizing up the contours of my body: my slim thighs, my well-muscled back, my flexible arms, and my taut behind. It was the first time she had ever seen me naked, and she savored the moment; naturally, she didn't wait for permission.

She was the first woman who'd ever truly dominated me, but I had always known about my tendencies. Hundreds of times since my eighteenth birthday, I'd dreamed about nights like this: being stripped naked under the watchful eye of a dark-haired countess, who waited in the shadows to discipline me with whips and chains and riding crops. My cock twitched at the thought of Miss Maggie watching me, but I had never known the sting of a whip. Was I ready for the real thing

?

Everybody who'd met Magnolia Hayes knew that she was a businesswoman; her fine multi-floored manor house, nestled amid the Spanish moss of an old Mississippi plantation, spoke to that. The woman had enough money to get what she wanted, and she was accustomed to paying for the best. But even in matters of pleasure, she was a consummate professional. The first time she proposed our little "arrangement," she didn't bother to flirt with me; she invited me over for tea, calmly outlining her expectations as we sat at opposite ends of her dining room table.

"If you say yes, you'll be agreeing to complete and total submission," Miss Maggie had said. "I'll call you when the mood strikes me, and you'll arrive back here, promptly at six o'clock. From there, the night will proceed according to my desires. I'll recognize your boundaries and limits, and I'll stop if you ask me to—but beyond that, your fate will be in my hands. Can you handle that, Joe? Think hard, now."

I answered "Yes" after barely a moment's hesitation. She gave a little giggle of amusement, seeing my boyish eagerness. At a few years under 40, Miss Maggie was more than a decade older than me—but with her money and her well-aged beauty, she didn't bother relegating herself to lovers her own age. She made a hobby out of courting younger men, and seemed to relish their youthful enthusiasm. When she got busy with her whip in the bedroom, there was something in her brand of discipline that reminded me of a schoolmistress.

A blindfold was her last touch of dominance. I tried to be polite when I was around Miss Maggie, but I knew that my eyes often lingered just a little too long on her body when we met; she knew that I loved the sight of her, and she got a little sadistic thrill out of denying me the things that I craved. But as she slipped the blindfold over my eyes and pulled it tight around my head, I saw her body in my mind as a series of snapshots: the curve of her hips like a well-built violin, her slim neck glistening with expensive pearls, and the graceful sway of her ample bottom under a tight sundress.

Her hair was dark and lustrous, arrayed in a playful waterfall of elegant curls that fell around her face like a wreath. Her face was cherubic, with a distinctive rosy glow in her cheeks. Her body was pleasantly plump in all the right places, but she knew how to hide her curves under immaculately tailored dresses. She dressed in summer colors that night, her dress patterned with lilies and irises.

She didn't bother to give me another word of warning before she turned her whip on me. I heard her footsteps on the floorboards as she walked towards me—but until I felt that first stinging blow, I didn't even know that the whip was in her hand.

It came down in a fierce diagonal slash, the leather tails raking me from my shoulder blade to the small of my back. Every tail was fixed with a little leather knot, just hard enough to scratch at my skin. The first blow caught me off guard; my nerves singing with pain, I felt my knees go weak, and I shifted on my feet as I clenched my hands tight.

Miss Maggie put a hand on my shoulder to hold me steady.

"Stand up straight, honey," she chided. "You can yelp and moan all you want, if it helps—but stay still."

I didn't even have a chance to say "Yes, Ma'am," before she brought the whip down again, even harder than before. She kept it up for a solid ten minutes at a time, beating me at a fast clip. Whenever she got tired, she gave me a brief respite from the whipping as she pinched, squeezed and slapped my bare ass, and reached around to stroke and fondle my twitching cock—teasing me until I felt it throbbing with arousal and drooling with pre-cum.

"Your body belongs to me tonight, Joe," she said mischievously. "And I can think of all sorts of naughty uses for it. There are a lot of ways to torture a man—and I've got a hell of an imagination."

Then she went to work with the whip all over again, bringing it down left-to-right, then right-to-left, until the fresh welts made a wide crisscrossing "X" on my back. As it went on and on, my breath grew heavy as I struggled to keep my legs straight, and I found myself moaning rhythmically with mingled pain and arousal as my cock grew harder.

I didn't dare relax until I heard the sound of a drawer sliding open as she tucked the whip away. My muscles grew tense when I felt her hand on my wrist as she undid my bonds. After enduring a good long whipping, I was too weary to resist when she pulled both of my hands behind my back. But goosebumps rose along my back when I felt a tight ring of hard plastic clamp down upon my left wrist, then my right. She'd put away the whip, but brought out a pair of handcuffs.

As soon as she'd undone the bonds at my ankles, she draped her arms around me and pulled me in for a tight hug from behind. Through the thin fabric of her tight sundress, I felt her soft breasts pressing against my back; her hair was fragrant with oil, smelling faintly of brown sugar and ripe peaches. With manicured fingers, she caressed every part of my body she could reach, brushing her hands along my chest, my thighs and my stomach. But then her right hand strayed to my exposed balls, and she squeezed them hard enough that I winced.

"You took that well, honey," she said. "Maybe a little too well..."

She slackened her grip, and I let my breath go. But she kept her fingers tightly wound around my engorged cock as she led me to the bed.

"I like a man who can take a whipping without a complaint. But sooner or later, I want to hear you beg for mercy. And before this night's over, I think you will..."

• • •

For forty-three days, I wait on her call. When it comes, I don't know whether to be excited or apprehensive.

I still remember the terms of our agreement by heart.

"I'll call you when the mood strikes me, and you'll arrive back here, promptly at six o'clock,"

she had said. But when her text message reaches my phone, it plainly says

"Saturday, four o'clock."

At first, I wonder if she made a mistake—but I know better than to question Miss Maggie's orders. So I reply with a simple

"Yes, Ma'am."

Four o'clock... She's summoned me two hours early. But why?

Knowing Miss Maggie, I doubt she's that eager to see me. And with all the time she spends running her bustling little café, she never has many free hours to spare. As busy as she is, she's always selective about how she spends her leisure hours. She'd never change her plans on a whim. She'd never call me on a whim, either. Whatever she's got in store for me, she's had time to plan it.

When Saturday comes, I shower early. Naked and towel-dried, I give myself an hour in the bathroom to calm down, breathing deep breaths as I keep my eyes riveted on the ceiling fan. Most mornings, I can't resist the urge to touch myself in the shower—but Miss Maggie's instructions were clear.

"You're forbidden to cum without permission, as long as our little arrangement still stands. And I only give permission in person. As long as we're doing this, you'll have to get used to a little bit of frustration. But I promise you: I'll call on you, before too long. And if I'm feeling merciful, I might just give you some relief..."

As soon as I remember those words, I can't help picturing Miss Maggie in her tight little sundress, staring impassively at me from across the length of her bedroom. And as soon as I think of that, I feel my cock go rigid—though I resist the temptation to stroke it.

Forty-three days is a hell of a stretch. I can't remember the last time I went this long without an orgasm. I've always had my fantasies about dominant women—but fantasies are comforting things, and they can end at my leisure. This powerlessness is a new sensation. Still, there's something oddly thrilling in it.

For forty-three days, I've done my best to keep my composure and my dignity, but I've stolen plenty of unnecessary glances at my phone, always daring to hope that the call might finally come. Even in calm moments, I've felt my mind running wild with infinite possibilities, always braced for something unexpected. Whatever's going to happen tonight, I know that Miss Maggie knows more about it than I do. And I'm sure that thought satisfies her.

I dress in khakis, a simple t-shirt, and a light sweater, and leave the house with two hours to spare. As I make my way through the sun-dappled countryside—resplendent in the last days of Summer—I take my time on the back roads, letting the sound of the radio calm me down.

The first time we met like this, Miss Maggie told me that our little arrangement wouldn't work without trust. With that in mind, I remind myself that I still trust Miss Maggie, as much as she might relish my apprehension. When her house comes into view beyond a gentle patch of hills, I repeat that reminder to myself like a mantra.

"Trust her... Trust her... Trust her..."

As I coast into her driveway, my phone vibrates before I have a chance to stop the engine. It's a short, simple message from Miss Maggie:

"Come on in. I'm at the door."

I park the car, lock the door, and make my way down a gravel pathway lined with potted flowers. Sure enough, she's waiting for me at the door. It's been forty-three days since I last saw her—but she's still dressed for summer, and her smile is as beguiling as ever.

Her sundress is porcelain white, patterned with an elegant floral pattern of china blue. It billows around her legs, its hem just short enough to expose a tantalizing glimpse of her powerful thighs. The neckline is low, allowing me a generous peek at her cleavage. The dark ringlets of her hair are gathered in a neat bun, held in place with a pair of lacquered sticks.

As I approach, she extends her hand to me and offers a highball glass filled to the top with sweet tea. Ice tinkles in the glass, and droplets of moisture gather along its slim slides.

"Good to see you, Joe," she says. "I was just enjoying the sun. Here, take this. It's a long drive from your apartment. You must be hot."

I give her a quick smile, doing my best to look relaxed. I accept the glass and take a long sip, tasting the sweet tang of lemonade mixed with the tea. Before I have a chance to make my greeting, she opens the door and waves me inside.

"Go on, now," she says. "I'm all ready for you. Let's get started..."

I make my way through her living room, a fine oak-paneled room filled with tasteful white leather furniture. A decanter of bourbon rests upon her glass coffee table, surrounded by a set of tumblers. Further back, a majestic wooden staircase leads upstairs.

As soon as she shuts the door behind me, the savory smell of roasting meat invades my nostrils, mixed with the sweet, spicy aroma of a flavorful sauce. This isn't the crisp smell of chicken on the grill, and not the bloody scent of steak on a skillet. It's deeper and richer than that, with a hearty aroma accompanying the tang of sauce.

"Is that brisket?" I ask, sniffing the air.

Miss Maggie gives a brief beam of pride.

"That's right," she says. "I picked up a beautiful cut this morning. And I got my special sauce to go with it. It was on the grill all morning, and half the afternoon—but now I'm just keepin' it warm in the oven. It takes forever to get the flavor just right, but it's worth it."

She cooked a meal before I came? Odd. She's never done that before... But I don't hear her offering

me

something to eat, so I keep my mouth shut about it.

"You can leave your glass on the coffee table, if you're done with it," she says. "You remember where my bedroom is, don't you?"

"Sure," I say.

She raises one eyebrow.

"Then what are you waiting for? Get your ass up that staircase. I'll be right behind you."

She doesn't sound impatient, but she's clearly eager to begin. Maybe not as eager as me, but I can tell that she's been looking forward to this.

I tip my head back and drain the last of the tea, letting the ice cool my tongue. It's a simple sensation, but it calms me down in the last quiet moments before our big rendezvous.

Keeping my hand still, I set the glass down on a coaster and walk toward the stairs, retracing the steps that I took on an unforgettable night forty-three days ago. It's a simple path—up the stairs and to the right—but it brings back a torrent of memories.

Her room hasn't changed one bit: her stately armoire of polished mahogany is still standing by the bed, her shaded porcelain lamp is still sitting on her bedside table, and that damn bondage cross is still right where it was when she tied me to it.

As soon as I walk through the door, I feel her hand on my shoulder as she shuts the door behind us. My muscles tense at first—but she keeps her hand on me until she feels me relax. She points to the far end of the room, where a simple wooden chair is discretely tucked into a corner. Her first order is a simple one.

"You can leave your clothes on the chair," she says. "Take your time. We've got all night."

Avoiding her gaze, I walk over to the corner and turn my back to her. I slip my shoes off and slide them under the chair, then pluck off my socks and stuff them into my shoes. I peel off my sweater and drape it across the back of the chair, then strip off my thin t-shirt—a simple v-necked garment, as blue as my eyes. As I fold my shirt into a neat square and lay it down on the chair, I feel my hands begin to tremble. The sweat cools the light glaze of sweat at the small of my back, raising goosebumps along my skin. For the first time, I realize how cool it is in this room; Miss Maggie giggles when she sees me shiver.

My pants go next. With my hands still trembling as I fumble with my belt buckle, I slip them off and let them drop to my ankles, then fold them into a neat square and lay them atop my shirt. I'm never a neat freak at home—but with Miss Maggie watching me, I'm conscious of every movement.

With my back to her, I take a deep breath as I slip a finger into my briefs and prepare to slip them off, but she stops me before I can remove them.

"Not just yet, honey. Turn around. I want to get a good look at you."

I do as I'm told. When I turn around, I see her leaning nonchalantly against the wall, smiling smugly as she looks me over from head to toe, with nothing but my underwear to preserve my modesty. Her expression is as self-satisfied as ever; she knows how nervous I am, and it seems to amuse her. At least the last time I was naked in this room, I didn't have to look at her face while I undressed...

Suddenly self-conscious, my eyes drift to my feet, but she clicks her tongue in disapproval as she points to my face.

"Keep your head up, honey. I know you're nervous, but don't look at your feet. Look me in the eyes—and take that underwear off. I don't mind if you blush."

I obey. I keep my gaze riveted on her emerald eyes, as fiercely green as oak leaves in the summer sun. I savor the sight of her soft cheeks, still pleasantly rosy from the sun's glow, as I imagine myself planting a shy kiss on her cheek. Her unblinking stare fills my field of vision as our eyes stay locked; as I hook my thumbs into the elastic band of my briefs and pull them down to my thighs, her smile widens. As I let them drop to my ankles, I feel my cheeks grow warm—and again, I feel a prickle of anxiety at the small of my back.

Standing as straight as a wooden soldier, I keep my eyes ahead. I know she'll never let me cover myself—so I place my hands behind my back, my fingers laced together.

For a moment, she doesn't even bother to look over my exposed cock and balls. Instead, she just takes in the sight of my face: my eyes wide with anticipation, my brow furrowed in anxiety, and my cheeks flushed with humiliation and shame. She savors my helplessness and vulnerability for a good fifteen seconds before she tilts her gaze downward, admiring the body of her nude captive.

I'm too self-conscious to look down at my exposed penis, but I can feel myself growing rigid as she looks me over. When her gaze drifts down to my twitching member, she raises one eyebrow and nods to herself—her expression betraying a hint of faint approval. She clearly likes what she sees, though she'd never give me the satisfaction of saying it; that thought dulls my nervousness, but only a little.

She takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. As she saunters around me, her eyes still flitting over my nude body, I take an instinctive step backward—but she impatiently snaps her finger at me, motioning for me to keep still.

"Hold still," she orders.

She walks around me in a tight circle, glancing over my body from every angle. Then she stops behind me and brushes her fingertips down my back, tracing over every part of my body that once felt the sting of her whip.