Magnolia's Games

Most nights, the finely dressed patrons of the Dahlia look upon the half-nude nymphs on the main stage as mere shadow puppets, willed to life by their darkest hidden desires. In the world of the rich, fine clothes are shorthand for power and influence, and nothing signifies powerlessness quite like stripping down under the glare of stage lights. But tonight, just for one exquisite hour, a finely dressed patron of the Dahlia will know that feeling—and I'll be there to savor each moment of his humiliation.

"Your underwear," I say, smirking. "Take it off. Now. I want you naked."

With his eyes closed, he nods silently and slips one finger into the elastic waistband of his boxers. Then slowly, very slowly, he lowers them down to his thighs and lets them fall to the ground. And in that moment, my neatly composed confidence evaporates all at once.

Damn. I was prepared for anything hiding under Mark's undergarments—a comically small finger-length penis, or the sort of formidable swinging member that makes most women blush. No matter what I saw, I promised myself that I wouldn't giggle or blush or turn away. I was prepared for anything but this.

As his underwear lies pooled around his ankles, I look Mark's tanned, chiseled body up and down, my eyes lingering on his firm, hairless belly and perfectly placed pecs. He stands before me, stark naked but for one adornment: an elongated cage of thin steel wire that encases his cock, tightly secured in place with a hanging silver padlock. His balls are tightly held in the grip of a firm metal ring that hangs just below the cage.

I'm a newbie to most of these matters, but I recognize the shining metal cage immediately. It's a chastity device. From the first moment Mark Campbell walked into the Dahlia, his cock has been locked securely in a state of forced chastity. And now he's been sent to me for a private show—and there's not the slightest chance that he'll be able to enjoy it without the cruel pain of sexual frustration.

I knew Miss Maggie liked her games, but this is a new one. Just as Mark can't tear his eyes away from the sheer lace hiding the curve of my breasts, I find myself struggling to look away from the cold metal enclosure trapping his penis.

I do my best to mask my shock with lascivious glee, but I can't hide my curiosity. I have to know more...

My features break out in a wide smile.

"Kinky. How long have you been locked up in that thing?" I ask.

Mark barely hides a wince of pain as he notices my eyes straying to his exposed genitals. Just the thought of a woman seeing him naked seems to arouse him. And with his cock trapped so completely, arousal must be painful.

"Th-thirty days..." he says. "Thirty days exactly. I've been counting."

Thirty is an awfully precise number. It can't possibly be a coincidence. And if Miss Maggie forced him into chastity, surely she's been counting the days too.

Damn. Is that why she sent him to me? Did she want to give him a reward for enduring a month of chastity? Or did she want to reward me with the most desperately horny of her male playthings? In either case, who would send a man to a strip club when he's locked up tight in a chastity device? Unless...

No. No way. Not even Miss Maggie's that sadistic...

She sent Mark to me for a private show, and she gave me free license to play with him as I pleased. But her orders were crystal clear about one thing: Mark had to be naked before I could start on him.

"It's one of my rules," Miss Maggie had said. "If my boys want to enjoy my company, they have to know their place. And if I send them to you, that means it's up to you to remind them where they stand. Some of my rules are flexible, but others are unbreakable. This is one: No clothes. If a man wants to show his devotion to me, he can start by stripping down while I stand there and watch. If he's not up for that, he can spend his time with some other woman."

Whatever else Miss Maggie had planned for Mark tonight, she wanted me to know about his chastity device. And she wanted me to dance for him anyway, now matter how painful his arousal might be. But why?

I know the answer as soon as the question crosses my mind: this private show isn't a reward for Mark, it's another ingenious form of torture. The sort of immodest erotic display that Miss Maggie would never dare take part in. But she knows that I would.

In spite of myself, I feel my lips breaking out in an involuntary grin. I practically have to bite my lip to keep from giggling.

I'm not a complete sadist, but I can't help but find this amusing. After four weeks in that cage, how many times must Mark have dreamed of a woman's touch? How many times must he have fantasized about a moment like this, with a woman ready to disrobe before his eyes? All that fantasizing, and not the slightest chance of pumping his cock to orgasm. The poor boy's desperate. How could he not be? He's desperate, and now he thinks I've come to set him free. I can only imagine his despair when he realizes that I've only come to taunt him more.

To taunt a man with my naked body, when he's already ravenous for a woman's touch... When I first donned this immodest set of lingerie, I felt vulnerable. But now that I realize Mark's predicament, I feel powerful. For now, at least, there's nobody on Earth who he wants more than me. He wants the gift of my body, and I intend to make to make him beg for it.

A moment passes. Mark's gaze lingers on my feet, and he shifts uneasily as he stands naked before me, then kicks aside his discarded underwear with one foot. Suddenly self-conscious, he looks down at his trapped cock.

"You didn't, uh... You didn't bring a...a key to this thing, did you?" he stutters.

As he says that, my composure finally breaks. I laugh out loud, covering my mouth with one hand to stifle my giggles.

It's true. He really thinks I'm here to unlock him. He's in for one hell of a disappointment.

"Sorry, honey," I say, shaking my head. "You're not out of the woods yet."

He winces, then nods his head, resigned to his fate.

He might have given me one hell of a surprise when I saw that chastity cage, but I won't let it show on my face. As far as he knows, I've known about it since the beginning of the night. So I'll play it coy.

"So how does it feel?" I ask, raising one eyebrow. "Getting a little tight down there?"

He notices my eyes riveted on his caged cock and his clenched balls. Natural modesty kicking in, his face flushes, and he goes to cover himself with his hands. But he's not getting out of this that easily.

"Uh-uh. No," I say, snapping my finger in his direction. "Hands behind your back. Now. I want to enjoy this."

He obeys, and clasps his hands together at the small of his back.

"And look at me when I talk to you. Got that?"

My voice is soft, but effortlessly authoritative. I know that he doesn't dare disobey me, so I don't bother barking orders. His face stays flushed with humiliation, but he raises his eyes to look at me. For a moment, I let our eyes stay locked, his eyes helplessly drawn to my sweet smile and my unblinking stare of pure brazen confidence.

Yeah, honey, I want to say. This is happening. Whether you like it or not.

After a minute, he caves into the urge to blink. With that, I walk towards him, closing the distance between us. I walk around him, looking over his nude, vulnerable body from every angle. I savor every exposed part of him: his rippling, well-muscled back, his slim, sculpted thighs, and his perfectly firm, taut butt.

As my arrogance gets the better of me, I reach over with my left hand and give his backside a playful smack, just hard enough to make a sound. He groans and winces with discomfort, but he maintains his perfectly straight posture. But as I walk back around to his front side, I see why he groaned: his cock is thickening and dark with blood, involuntarily straining to escape the confines of his chastity cage. My touch pushed him over the edge; he's been struggling to keep himself from getting too hard, but now he can't help it. As his cock swells, the wire of the cage begins to cut into it.

I think I might enjoy this more than I thought...

"So..." I say. "This is a special night, and you're my guest. But while you're here, you'll remember your place. If I'm gonna dance for you, you're gonna behave yourself. Aren't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am..." he breathes.

"Ma'am." When has anybody ever called me that?

"Good. And remember the rules: no matter what happens, you don't get to touch me. Ever. Understand? Those are the rules of the Dahlia. You obey the rules, or you leave."

No touching. It's the classic "stripper rule," but it seems all the more cruelly tantalizing tonight. For at least a month, he's been forcibly denied a woman's touch. Now he's been sent to me, but he's still not getting what he craves.

"Yes, Ma'am. I...I would never..."

"I know you wouldn't, Mark. You're a good boy. Now that we've got that out of the way... Sit."

He obeys, and plants his bare backside down on the leather couch. As I loom over him, he looks up at me with a glazed look in his eyes. Within the shining metal embrace of the cage, I see his cock twitch.

"What, uh... What do you want me to do now?"

I smile.

"Watch. Watch, and suffer."

"...Yes, Ma'am."

I look up to a corner of the ceiling, where a tiny black camera lens is discretely hidden behind one of the hanging lamps. Miss Maggie told me that these rooms are always under constant video surveillance—just to keep the girls safe.

"Whenever you're ready, just look up towards the camera and nod twice," she had said. "Then they'll know to start the music. Then dance. Just let it all out."

So with my eyes fixed on the camera, I nod twice...and barely five seconds later, the music starts: a creeping bass line accompanied by a sassy saxophone riff.

I start out slow, easily sliding back and forth on my bare feet and shifting my weight from one knee to the other. I twist my waist back and forth, rolling my shoulders as I caress my bare flesh with unsteady fingers.

"Don't be afraid to touch yourself," Miss Maggie had said. "You've got a gorgeous body. Just because he can't touch you, that doesn't mean you have to deny yourself the pleasure..."

My slender fingers slide across my exposed belly as I begin to sway my hips this way and that, slowly bending my knees as I ease myself down to the ground. But them—just as my backside is barely an inch from the floor—I pop back up in one easy motion, perfectly synchronized with a soft drum roll that builds to a cymbal crash. As the crash of the cymbals rings out, I bend over ever so slightly, teasing him with a playful shimmy that makes my breasts quiver.

And before I can savor the hungry look in his eyes, I'm already turning around, gracefully pivoting at the tip of one toe. In the mirror that stretches across the wall, I look myself in the eye as I turn my back to Mark, silently daring myself to take it further. The music builds, with the low drone of the bass giving way to the sweet jangle of a piano. As my confidence swells, I let the pendulum motion of my hips draw Mark's eyes, swinging them back and forth as I hook my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my sheer panties and tug them down by a fraction of an inch, teasing him with a fleeting glimpse of the crack of my buttocks. And as the piano lingers on a high note, I bend my knees and playfully bounce my ass up and down as my hips twist, my fingers sliding up my sides and through my hair as I caress my body.

I'll never rule the main stage as a headliner at the Dahlia—but tonight, just for one glorious evening, I'm the lace-clad nymph of one man's dreams, and the glaring headlights of this room are mine. For years to come, this will be my most cherished fantasy; not a vision of the perfect bedroom coupling, but a memory of this moment of triumph, when I watched a goddess dance in the depths of a mirror while a man hungered for my body.

Positioned at both ends of the room, the mirrors capture my reflection from every angle. From one, I meet my own mischievous gaze, the dimples in my cheeks deepening as my gleeful smirk widens. From another, I fix my gaze squarely on the shapely curves of my ample butt, hugged so delectably by the tight fabric of my sheer panties. The song goes on, and I speed up a little bit with every beat. As the steady bass line returns, my hips are practically bucking, my ass twitching spasmodically. And just before I twirl around to face Mark again, I let one palm slide down to rest on my right ass cheek, and a well-timed smack rings out as the chorus line gives way to the bridge.

When I look down at Mark again, his torso is glazed with sweat, his chest is heaving, and his engorged cock futilely strains at the polished metal of the cage. With slow, deliberate steps, I walk towards him, then ease myself down into a sitting position and lazily loll out on the far side of the wraparound couch, massaging my breasts with both hands as he drinks in the sight of my body. Then his eyes meet mine, and I give him my most innocent smile.

As soon as he feels my gaze on him again, his trapped cock gives a fierce twitch, and he closes his eyes, a faint moan of pain escaping from the back of his throat. Taking that moan as my cue, I stand up and saunter over to the other end of the couch. For a moment, I stand still as I lean over him, letting him inhale the fierce floral scent of my perfume—picked specially for tonight. But then I bend my knees and straddle his body in one easy motion, feeling his caged penis brush the velvety fabric of my panties as I grind my body against his.

Even through the cruel metal cage, I can feel the rock-solid flesh of his member, and I savor the warmth of his naked body as I lean in close to playfully kiss his ear. As I feel my breasts brush his bare chest, goosebumps spreading across his skin while he shivers, I whisper in his ear.

"Tell me again, honey... Tell me I'm beautiful," I say.

His voice is breathy. Lightheaded, he fumbles with each word as he tries to speak.

"You're... Y-you're..." he stutters.

To encourage him, I take his trapped cock in my hands. Through the unyielding wire of the cage, I naughtily tickle the engorged head of his member with one thumb. The sound of his hushed breath goes up an octave as he struggles not to moan.

"You're... You're an angel... You're a goddess... Y-you're... You're the woman of every man's dreams..."

"But am I beautiful?" I ask, pouting playfully as I cup his balls in my hand.

Again, he shivers as my grip tightens.

"Y-you're... You're the most beautiful woman under the sun..." he breathes.

And just as he says that, a single sound brings me crashing back to Earth: the sound of an opening door.

Stupid. I spent all that time focusing on the door that led into this room from the main floor, and I didn't bother to notice that there are two doors here. The second one stands on the far side of the room, leading somewhere backstage. And now, as it swings open in one graceful motion, a familiar figure stands in the doorway.

Miss Maggie.

She looks down at both of us, our bodies entwined on the chair, with a smirk of faint amusement on her face. Without a word, she saunters over towards us, an expensive-looking black leather handbag tucked under one arm.

Though I may have felt like a goddess a moment before, Mark and I instantly know who's in charge now.

"Well, well, Miss Renée..." she says, raising one eyebrow. "You two kids certainly got friendly with each other."

Suddenly self-conscious, I slide out of Mark's lap and move to stand beside the couch, looking Miss Maggie in the eye. I won't let Mark see the apprehension on his face as I await Miss Maggie's judgment.

How did I do? I want to ask. Did I make you proud?

But I can't. As far as Mark knows, I'm just another dancer at the Dahlia. So I keep my mouth shut.

Miss Maggie's wearing more than I am, but she clearly dressed for a private rendezvous. She chose a tight dress of black silk, embroidered only with a thin line of black sequins along the neckline, which rides just low enough to expose the broad swell of her cleavage; along her midsection, the dress is tight enough to show off the contour of her hip as she provocatively juts it out to one side, her dainty hand resting on her thigh. Her feet are clad in fine black high-heeled pumps, each one decorated with a little silver ribbon on the toecap. For just one moment, our eyes meet, and she smiles with fond remembrance as she looks me over, dressed so exquisitely in that set of lingerie that she selected from her dresser drawer. But then her eyes rest on Mark, and her expression is pure predatory satisfaction.

She seems to stare at him for an eternity, admiring my handiwork as she savors every exposed inch of his naked body. Then Mark looks up to meet her gaze, and his face twists with shame. His lips twitch as he summons the courage to speak.

"I-I'm sorry, Miss Maggie..." he whispers. "I thought I could handle it. Being locked up like this. It was even kind of fun, when it started. But thirty days..."

Miss Maggie grins.

"That's right, honey," she says. "Thirty days. Have you been counting?"

He nods.

"Well, so have I," Miss Maggie says. "You may have felt ignored, Mark. But I never forgot about you. Every night I'd think of you, locked up tight in your cage. I never let the key out of my sight. Sometimes I'd touch myself while I wondered what you were up to. I always thought about how desperate you must have been. I know you've been looking forward to this day. Well, so have I..."

As she says that, I suddenly notice the thin little silver necklace hanging around her neck. Most people wouldn't give it a second thought, but I happen to know that Miss Maggie's partial to pearls. She almost never wears metal jewelry...

Then I see it: a tiny little silver object hanging from the silver necklace, nestled snugly between Miss Maggie's breasts, faintly glittering under the low lights. It's a key.

Mark must notice it too. His eyes are suddenly riveted on Miss Maggie's cleavage—and not for the obvious reason. He knows that release is in sight. But will she be merciful?

Normally, Miss Maggie would chide a man for staring at her breasts—but as undignified as Mark must feel, she allows him that little indulgence.

"Well?" she asks. "Anything to say for yourself, honey?"

He chooses his words carefully, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I...I only ever wanted to please you, Miss Maggie. I know sometimes I talk back, and sometimes I don't do as I'm told... B-but...I never wanted to make you angry. I don't know what you decided to punish me for, but—"

Just then, Miss Maggie cuts him off with the sound of her laughter, chuckling out loud in cruel amusement as she shakes her head.

"Oh, Mark..." she says, still chuckling. "Did you really think I was angry at you all this time? Is that why you think I locked you up? Oh, honey... I'm sorry you had that on your conscience. Don't you worry about that one more moment. No. I'm not mad at you. You didn't do anything wrong. If you did, we wouldn't be having this little rendezvous."

His brow is still furrowed—but now with confusion, not shame.

"Then why?" he asks.

She looks down at him, her eyes flashing with arrogance and sadistic glee.