Ali returned and Maggie followed meekly. What will it be now? I need another fuck. In the cellar Ali installed her charge in the cage. Half of it was hinged. Ali swung this open, ushered Maggie inside and locked it. The cage itself was circular and constructed from steel mesh. Being only fifty centimetres across, it forced the occupant to stand. It's like being inside one of those things people fill with nuts to feed birds; perhaps I am nuts to be in here.

Maggie understood that the cage meant restraint. Ali began to insert thin metal rods. The first was passed between Maggie's thighs, high up so that she was forced onto tiptoe to admit it. When it was clipped to the mesh and she had settled back it was firmly within her slit and bearing a large proportion of her body weight. Moving back and forth applied friction to her clit and labia, causing her pussy to cream freely. A bar below her shoulder blades forced an upright stance while another below her breasts lifted them and forced her backward. Rods threaded under her armpits and more at wrist level pinioned her arms. There was no give in the fittings at all and Maggie was glad not to be gagged by a bar as Ali had been. This relief was illusionary, for Ali produced a large, black, cock-shaped dildo fitted to a shortened rod. Reaching through the bars Ali forced the dildo into Maggie's mouth and clipped its bar to the cage. Maggie pleaded with her eyes.

Ali stepped away to survey her work. 'Relax and enjoy!' she remarked and retreated to the furthest wall, adopting a meek stance. The lights went out leaving them both cloaked by darkness.

Relax! It's bloody well impossible! Maggie was feeling angry. Her calf muscles were already aching from the effort of lifting her weight, but relaxing provoked agony in her sex with the unrelenting rod pressing against her pelvic bone. Her breasts were not actually hurting, but the upward pressure was unusual, quite different to an uplift bra, and it too increased if she relaxed. She tried wriggling to free her arms and press down on the cross bars, but she was held too firmly to achieve this and the thick dildo in her mouth was inclined to tilt her head and induce neck pain if she lowered her position. She concluded that her only option was to suffer the ache in her calves. In the dark silence she slipped into introspection and a curious serenity enclosed her. It was a sensation she had already encountered when hooded. Then it had come in waves, transient moments of peace, this time it was more stable. If I persist perhaps I can capture this tranquillity. Is this what it's all about? She thought she heard Meg's voice again, distant and indistinct.

After a long interval the lights came on. With elegant, nude Kayt in deferential attendance, four figures wearing evening dress strolled toward Maggie: Caen she now recognised; the others were strangers. Two men: one considerably older. His tuxedo hung loosely on his thin body. He looked uncomfortable; this was echoed in his general behaviour. His young companion appeared equally ill at ease in a dinner suit that fitted only where it touched his brawny body. The rugged features suggested an outdoor life, but the wholesome allure of this weathered manliness was marred by the obvious leer directed at the cage.

The fourth was a girl, hardly yet a woman, who came close to study Maggie critically. Their eyes met: the ice-cold gaze made Maggie shudder: emerald eyes set in a sharp, hard face surrounded by close cropped ginger hair. Everything about her expression and posture spoke of someone expecting to be indulged. She wore classic white over black velvet: expensive clothes that her posture contrived to make cheap and tawdry. New money, easily gained, not valued.

Regarding Maggie with disdain, the girl spoke sourly, the voice harsh and uncultured. 'Is this her? She's old!'

Is this she? Maggie corrected instinctively.

The younger man's leer cracked: he spun round, snapping, 'You'll be lucky if you look that good in ten years time Cilla.'

She rode the jibe without flinching, turning on him meanly, 'Stow it Duane.' Swinging back to Caen she demanded, 'Is she suff'rin'?' The question was loaded with presumption.

'There is mild discomfort.'

'I want her to be hurt,' she demanded, all but stamping her foot. 'Make that cut her cunt!' She pointed at the crotch bar

'The cage floor can be lowered.'

'Do it then!' The demand was scathing, reproachful; petulance overlaid by wrath.

Caen’s eyes glittered. Without comment he beckoned Kayt forward.

Padding over, she slowly eased a lever set beside the cage. Maggie felt the floor quiver beneath her toes and tensed herself for the inevitable pressure on her pussy.

Cilla snorted. Lunging forward she barged Kayt aside, snatching the lever from her grasp. 'Don't fanny about, pull the bloody thing!' She yanked hard and the cage floor fell away, dropping Maggie savagely onto the bar. She did indeed feel as if her sex had been sliced through and let out an involuntary howl of distress.

'That's 'ow y' do it!' Cilla cried in triumph, almost dancing with glee at Maggie's obvious misery.

If I was free… With temper blotting out her agony, Maggie obliged Cilla with her most baleful stare. The floor had dropped only three inches, a small amount, but sufficient to leave Maggie suspended on the crotch bar. The chest bar was forcing her firm breast tissue into shapes never intended by nature, causing real pain.

'I want her to plead for release,' Cilla stated coldly.

'She will not do that. She will accept her lot and suffer until I grant her relief.'

Cilla regarded Caen with pity. 'Then order her to be hurt more – cane her.'

'Do you wish to do it yourself, or will you watch while Kayt canes her?'

'I'll do it; I want to know she's really 'urtin'.

'Very well. Kayt, release the subject.'

Kayt restored the lever and began to pump a handle. The floor rose slowly.

The elder man stepped forward, peering at the construction. 'It works like a car jack,' he declared with obvious satisfaction. Caen replied, 'Just so George, simple but effective.'

While Maggie was being installed on the caning block, two more people joined the party. From the corner of her eye Maggie recognised Jacques and licked her lips in anticipation. He was accompanied by a stately woman wearing an elegant silver lamé gown that was completely backless, plunging low enough to expose the swell of her buttocks. Her tanned skin was smooth and perfect. The soft draping panels rising to form the halter top covered unsupported breasts that swung softly, naturally. If we both look that good in five years time, Cilla, we'll think ourselves blessed indeed.

Caen greeted the new arrivals. 'Ah, Isolde, welcome.'

Maggie marshalled her resources ready to receive the coming punishment. The sense of quiet submission surprised her. This mixture of apprehension mingled with fear was strangely satisfying; here was the power to ignite extreme reactions. Understanding was slowly forming: punishment was a catalyst, triggering the process by which she might connect with a profound inner serenity, itself the key to amazingly gratifying sex. Thank you Cilla, do your worst.

Cilla struck hard: four slicing cuts delivered in frenzy. The cane bit into bruised flesh, driving a million darts of intense pain even deeper: intense agony; exquisite. Maggie twisted and bucked, mentally soaring on waves of pure indulgence.

Caen's voice was censorial. 'No, no Cilla; you're not tenderising steak. Deliver short sharp strokes using wrist action. Allow intervals, let the pain sink in and allow the subject time to anticipate. Waiting makes the pain more intense. The aim is to build up the suffering layer on layer, incrementing until it becomes total. You seem to be intent on stripping flesh from her bones.'

'Thanks for the lecture grandpa. That's exactly what I'm trying to do, you old fart.'

'Enough!' This was Isolde. 'Insults achieve nothing.' She paused, allowing her anger to subside. 'Learn from us. You seem intent on dispensing brutality. Our object is to deliver suffering not injury. It requires subtlety; the pauses are as important as the blows, just as in music. Acquiring the skill requires long practice. Take off your bra: empathise!'

'Back off crone, I ain't flashin' my tits for nobody. What is it; don't you get enough kicks from your freaky slaves?' Cilla's voice rose shrilly as she vented her ire.

She's gone too far! Maggie could sense the tension, it was almost palpable. She was certain Caen must intervene, but it was George who acted. 'Behave yourself, Cilla. Show respect, we're guests here.' Cilla spun round spitting invectives. 'Go fuck yourself Daddy! You could buy this creep and his weirdo circus twice over, so bugger off you sad old wanker.'

Cilla turned her back on him and, wielding the cane like a whip, laid into Maggie with uncontrolled venom, lashing at flesh already raw. The tempest beating down on Maggie's buttocks was relentless, inflicting total agony on her defenceless body, each cut sending its squelching, slicing whine echoing round the room. God, she's drawn blood! With extreme willpower, Maggie held her posture, curbing the instinct to turn and twist between strokes; they were coming so fast that any movement was potentially dangerous. In extremis, she fought off the incipient faint and was saved by Caen's intervention: 'Kayt, Jacques!'

Cilla screamed. 'Get off me you filthy perves. Let go, I need a fuck!'

Maggie risked a peep. Jacques and Kayt held a struggling, spitting Cilla between them; pinioning her arms and dragging her away. The cane, thankfully untainted, lay discarded on the floor.

Isolde was urging Maggie to stand. As she lurched to her feet she saw Ali offering water from a sports bottle. Maggie took the nozzle, gulping greedily.

Meanwhile Kayt and Jacques were forcing Cilla onto the cradle that Maggie had just vacated. Jacques held her down while Kayt lifted the skirt to reveal French knickers, which she pulled down to expose skinny buttocks framing a grotesquely hairy pussy.

Maggie stood quivering from exhaustion while Caen and Isolde conferred secretly as they considered the trussed girl. A snatched remark from Isolde caught Maggie's ear, 'It would count as punishment for both, she to suffer the ignominy, the other to be made to do it.' Caen nodded, grinning wickedly as he signalled to Ali.

Ali produced a harness that she rapidly fitted, enclosing Maggie's pelvis; fastening straps over the hip bones. Staring down, Maggie goggled at the huge pink penis sprouting from her pubis. 'Straight up her cunt!' Ali murmured conspiratorially while guiding Maggie into position. The cradle was well designed, raising the waiting pussy to exactly the right height; all Maggie had to do was steer the tip of the great prosthetic onto its target. Ali parted the labia in preparation. Cilla bucked in protest, rejecting the assisting fingers. 'Stop piddling about and fuck me; shag my brains out.'

Only too pleased to oblige. Filled with vengeful contempt, Maggie rammed the shaft into the narrow slit. The resulting howl was psychologically rewarding. The straps digging into recently scourged flesh hurt, but the base of the false cock clamped firmly against her clitoris compensated for the mild discomfort.

'Hey, this is a fuckin' dildo – I want real cock.' Cilla's raucous protest was muffled by Jacques ramming her shoulders hard into the cradle. With real glee Maggie jammed the shaft deep and hard. She soon got into a rhythm and drew satisfying pleasure from the cadence induced in her swelling clitoris, enjoying the experience of highjacking Cilla's selfish desires. Possessed by depravity she poured energy in her obsessive desire to violate this unattractive body. Pulsating jerks racking the hateful girl signalled an onrushing orgasm, driving Maggie to greater efforts. Intensifying mental images flooded her brain as she plunged into an orgiastic trance in which the only reality was the need to inflict suffering. Discarding reason, Maggie hammered that captive vagina with every fibre of her body and plunged into an overwhelming orgasm.