Moth Pt.1

An older story, which lacks polish. That said, it moves right along to the action…

Its also very long - nearly 20k words. If you prefer shorter reads, it has now splitting it into chapters - Chapter 1 is here. If you voted for this in the past, those votes have been inherited by the newer version. Votes here are since the newer version - counted as (I assume) people preferring the original.

I considered myself incredibly fortunate to have got a job there.

McQuarry were very influential and respected management consultants, and I had been totally overawed by the selection process after applying at a graduate fair event. I had been about to give up, when after a seminar, I had a short encounter with her in the corridor; I confessed my fears, and she talked to me a little. At the end, she had simply smiled at me, and said;

“Don’t give up. Pretty thing like you; be nice to have you around. I’ll be rooting for you.”

And so I had persevered, and I got a job, despite feeling certain I hadn’t performed terribly well in the tests.

I couldn’t get her words out of my head; why had she commented on my looks? Had I only got a job because she thought me pretty? She was very pretty herself — no, she was drop-dead gorgeous — in a severe, elegant way; dressed in a restrained, impeccable business suit, she still managed to radiate sexual power. I was in awe, my own prettiness being more girly and soft.

So my confidence was low from the start, and I was at all times painfully conscious about my looks. Should I dress sexy, dress smart? Or go the other way, and dress down, so that I could make it clear that I was there to work, not to be a ‘pretty thing’?

It made for a terrible start. Nervous, I decided I had to dress very plainly, not draw attention to myself. Under-confident, I tried too hard at many things, and made many silly errors.

It didn’t help that she, F, didn’t seem to remember me. I didn’t work in her part of the office, but we passed each other several times a day, and she never even acknowledged me in anything beyond the most perfunctory way. I, on the other hand, had developed a bit of a fixation on her — she was my talisman, somehow — my strange attractor.

I was a little confused, actually, because my thoughts about her were sometimes quite disturbing — I would get a little steamed up, imagining stupid little scenarios where — somehow — I would prove my worth to her and she would suddenly pay me massive compliments, and focus all her attention on me. It embarrassed me that I would have these daydreams — that I could be so pathetic. But it didn’t stop them being lovely when I weakened and let them run in my mind. And sometimes, sometimes, in my mind, she would give me a congratulatory hug, which turned into a kiss … and at that point I would get very strange feelings inside and shake myself.

That wasn’t me! I wasn’t into girls!

And I wasn’t. I had never been interested, sexually, in girls — not beyond the little flashes of what I told myself was just ‘bi-curious-ness’. I had had a few boyfriends, and had lost my virginity late, but not ridiculously so. It was just, I told myself, that I had never had the right boyfriend. I only went for ‘nice’ boys, even though I had to admit to myself that they were also a little dull.

Anyway, I had this fantastic career path now — I could worry about guys later, right? Ms F didn’t seem to be married, and she was fine.

More than fine, she was amazing! And then I would feel another daydream coming on, and try to control myself … or not …

Although it was a deeply serious place, there did appear to be a place for young girls who dressed attractively — even quite sexually. These were secretaries and assistants, and although nothing went on that was overt, it was fairly clear that some of them traded on looks, and possibly more. Some of the male bosses seemed a little predatory, and I was nervous of them, although some of the girls in my group seemed to play up to them, I never could — not even if it did seem to do them good.

Of course, I was a management trainee, and expected to be above the role of assistants, once trained. But even there, it was clear that females had to work hard to succeed — that they had to be excellent in all respects. F was certainly the most impressive of all, but there were a couple of other women executives, some of them older, who dressed very well; sexy despite their knee length skirts and buttoned up blouses.

And the after work drinks culture was definitely flirtatious. Despite my dress, I was the target of some risque comments by both younger and older men. I didn’t know what to do with these — the whole atmosphere of the place was too competitive for me, and I stopped going.

It was getting to the point where I knew I would have to quit.

And it got even worse when she did notice me. She took a seminar, and at last, I thought, she had noticed me — even though it was just a long, cool look as we all assembled in the small meeting room. My heart was thumping for some reason — more than usual anyway — I was often very nervous.

Anyway, I was tongue tied then, until at some point she made a point of looking directly at me when she asked a question, and I stammered and fluffed my words, and said something really quite stupid.

She smiled at me then; amused, and after a long, cruel silence, said something that could either be taken as letting me off, or as deeply patronising, and I squirmed. The others laughed a little — not so much being mean, perhaps, as keeping in with her, because she was a powerful presence, but I almost died.

She asked me to stay behind, and I blushed again — it was like being a naughty schoolgirl. And indeed it felt like that as I waited while she had smart conversations with our star trainee, Eric. But nevertheless, I was conscious that I was excited, somehow — I would be with her — she would be talking to me at last. Looking at me.

Because, knowing that she was going to be our seminar leader that day, I had found myself dressing with unusual consideration, and finding it harder than ever to decide. In the end, I had decided that, if she had commented on my looks at the interview, then that look was what she liked. And, for a fact, coached by my old room-mate, I had dressed up for the interview, with higher than usual heels, a tight pencil skirt, and a rather obviously ‘sweet’ lambswool cardigan over a white blouse.

So I had gone for a similar look, and brushed my hair back into a ponytail, the way Ms F’s pretty assistant had it. Ms F seemed to like her…

At last, we were alone, and she turned to look at me, cool, expressionless, not speaking, until I turned red and looked down, feeling stupid — this was supposed to be a work relationship! What was going on?

There was a long silence. The office was very quiet. It was late now.

“So, Paige. You’re not cutting it, are you? Out of your depth.” Her voice was calm, relaxed, unhurried.

My blush deepened. I began to feel really weird. Sort of tingly. And frightened.

After more, terrible silence, I began to say something — I don’t know what — just some burbled excuse,  suppose — anything to fill that dreadful silence…

She cut across me, her voice calm but harder now;

“And you’re embarrassing me, you know. I argued for you, said you’d work out. How dare you?”

I was trembling now, biting my lip, blinking back tears;

“Please … please… I … I’m trying… “

I sounded pathetic, I knew. I had no idea what was happening. All I knew was that I was in despair, that I couldn’t bear it that she was angry with me, that she was being horrible to me.

“Trying? Pathetic! What have you got to say for yourself?”

I couldn’t speak; it was taking all my energy not to collapse, or burst into tears, sob my despair out. Somehow I knew that if I did this, it would be the end; in the end, all I could manage was a weak, desperate little attempt at a smile, which I couldn’t maintain for more than a couple of seconds. I was dying inside.

In the end, she spoke before I could get myself together.

“Listen to me Paige. Do you want to carry on working here? Do you?”

I could answer this;

“Yes! yes  M … m…”

If she had been one of the male executives I’d have called her sir, even though we were generally using first names in the office — I knew that I needed to show respect.

“Yes … Ms F”

It sounded hokey, but she seemed to like it, as a ghost of a smile twisted her lips for a second.

She caught my gaze with hers, and stared, still smiling a little; it was a long moment. I tried to let her see how deeply I respected her, how much I wanted to please her. I was embarrassing myself, but it wasn’t a choice for me — I needed her approval. She had such an effect on me, I needed to have her regard, even if I had to humiliate myself. It went on and on, and I began to tremble; my breathing even got a little ragged.

At length, she smiled openly at me, her eyes predatory. She was expressing some confidence in her power over me — making it obvious that she had some sort of ulterior motive — that she was going to enjoy having power over me. It was the sort of thing I recognised from some careers seminar on workplace bullying — she was making sure I knew she was dominant. I knew I mustn’t, but nevertheless I dropped my gaze, letting her win. Somehow, I kept my position, hoping she could see how urgently necessary it was for me to be allowed to stay — telling her, in effect, that I was OK with being bullied, if that’s what she wanted.

Everything that happened afterwards was in that look, I now understand. I think I understood it then, although I didn’t know it consciously, couldn’t have explained it. It seemed, though, that she perfectly understood it, because she spoke with complete assurance, calmly, in the relaxed tones she had begun with, even though what she said was risky beyond belief.

“OK then; what’s going to happen is this; you’re going to go along to my office now. Then, you’re going to take most of your clothes off, nice and slow, let me look you over. Then I’m going to play with you and fuck you like the little slut you are, and after that I’ll decide if I’m going to keep you or not.”

If she’d said this in any sort of a stressed voice, or too quietly or … oh … any of a thousand different ways, I think I could have walked away then. But everything about her was perfect — just exactly as it needed to be to reduce my insides to jelly.

I was in shock, frozen, but there was not the slightest chance of me escaping her will, and she knew it.

I needed to see her eyes, see how she was looking at me, so even though it terrified me, I looked up, to be even more deeply dominated — because she just looked cool; faintly amused, as if she’d just made a little point in a coffee machine conversation — relaxed and completely confident. I was lost — remained trapped by the beauty of her eyes for a few more seconds, my own eyes wide with shock, before the shame — the anticipatory shame that came from understanding what she had said and realising I was not going to be able to resist — the shame hit me, and I looked down again, her domination assured.

Although my body had, it seemed, already gone a long way down the road with the idea, particularly my stomach — which was having butterflies, and my crotch, which was tingling, it took parts of my brain a lot longer to begin to get the message — it was like a series of small earthquakes as it sank in.

A part of me was clearly and calmly telling me to turn and leave the offices, that this was madness. But already that part of me knew it had no chance. Already, I knew that I could not resist, that I would let her ravish me; that I did not even know how I could begin to resist. At the same time, I knew that nothing could be the same again, that my high hopes, my hard work, my career, were just wisps of smoke now; gone. I looked up, tears in my eyes. My knees were unsteady;

“P … please … no …  please?”

It sounded ridiculously weak and of course, it just confirmed her judgement.

She smiled a twisted smile at me, then leaned in and half-whispered in my ear;

“You’re pretty when you cry. Better not keep me waiting though, or I’ll give you something to cry about. You’re already in for a spanking, but I’ll take a belt to your arse if you don’t look sharp.”

All was said in a soft, almost caressing tone. But there was a core of steel and somehow I knew she wasn’t kidding. The casual certainty with which she spoke of inflicting painful and degrading punishment adding a new, suffocating flood of emotion to my already tumultuous feelings. I needed to speak, to ask her questions, to plead, to protest, but I was frozen. In mounting tension, I still couldn’t move. She began to walk round behind me, and I quivered, but stayed as if my feet were glued to the floor.

And then she swatted me across the backside, quite hard — I don’t know what with, possibly a ruler; whatever, it made me yelp, more in shock than in pain, and made me lose a little more control over the situation. Because nothing in me could bring forth the slightest protest. I just couldn’t find the will — the voice, even — to complain; I couldn’t even move, and when, a minute  later, she did it again, even my yelp was softer — not the smallest hint of outrage, of resistance, of anger — just shame, and weakness.

After the third swat I was still for a few seconds more, then, incredibly, I found myself turning — so horribly — turning, the feeling of doom on me strongly; then, under the force of her gaze, taking a step, another, and then I was walking meekly along the corridor toward her office, blinking back tears, trying to keep my quivering lips under control, all my energy focused on two things; first, walking as prettily as I could — for it mattered dreadfully to me that she continued to think me pretty — and second, holding onto my sanity in this surreal nightmare. But as well, impossible to ignore, there were the beginnings of a flame of excitement, of thrill, of suffocating lust, kicking off inside me. It would have been so easy to collapse in a wailing heap on the floor, so easy and oh, so tempting. But I dared not. I dared not lose her, whatever it was that she was about to put me through.

It was late, the office was quiet, but nevertheless, as she followed behind, the feeling that I might meet a colleague at this moment was terrifying. Even though, at that moment, there was nothing very unusual about my appearance or the situation — just walking along a corridor. Already, though, I felt marked by her, ruthlessly exposed.

It couldn’t be real, could it? But here I was, turning into her assistant’s office, turning again to go into her large and elegant room. I heard her doing something in the outer room, and then she was with me again.

I managed something; I turned toward her, looked her in the face, and said;

“Please …? I … I can’t… Please?”

She waited, smiling coolly again, but I couldn’t find anything else to say, and my eyes lost focus again. my chin dropped. At last, she said;

“Please? Please what? Please don’t fuck me, I want to be fired? Please, I don’t want to be able to get another job because I know they’ll all how useless I am on the grapevine. That they’ll all hear how you tried to whore yourself to stay on? Is that what you’re asking?”

Silence from me; more soft tears filling my eyes, my lip quivering, legs weak, rubbery. How could she say such things, such dreadful things, without a tremor in her voice, so confidently, so convincingly, as if this were just normal everyday things we were dealing with? Despite these thoughts, my helplessly submissive body language told her what she wanted to know — that she had me — that there was no resistance that I could muster — that I was hers to command;

“Didn’t think so. You don’t really have a choice, pretty. Start with your skirt, please.”

She sat back against the edge of her desk, hands relaxed at her sides. I was frozen, horrified, unbelieving. But when I opened my, eyes, I was there, just as real as ever, and there she was, watching expectantly, a cool little smile at the corners of her lips.

I looked at her, pleading with my eyes. She seemed to enjoy that, for the grin deepened a little, then;

“Don’t keep me waiting, pussy” her voice was quiet — even soft, but again there was a core of steel that set my heart thumping. She really meant it!

It was as if my brain was fizzing inside; my world had become incomprehensible.

The only thing that made sense was to do what she wanted — everything else seemed unreal, compared with the force of her will, my own need to please her, and somehow, there were fingers, my fingers, fumbling at the button, then at the zip, and my skirt was around my ankles. I was lost.

I had worn my interview lingerie, too; stockings and a matching bra/panty set, and once the few buttons of my blouse were gone, and I had peeled it with agonising slowness off my shoulders, all I was wearing was lingerie. I was blinking back tears again, knowing somehow that I dared not cry, not now, not now…

“My, my, sexy undies; quite the little hottie eh? Panties off now. Keep your shoes on. I like you in stockings and heels.”

I was almost dying with shame, but even tiny crumbs from her were a feast to me, and she had called me pretty, liked me in stockings and heels. I liked it. I liked it much too much, so desperate for anything positive at all, anything about me that she approved of. But the knowledge that this liking was dangerous, that it was taking me down a slippery slope, was all too sharp in my mind, and the jangling warnings from the sensible part of me were at war with what my body was doing; I almost lost it, let the incipient hysterics take over. But the thought of being out of control of myself, around her, was even more frightening — and so I did what I had to do to.

But now she wanted me to take off my panties! I couldn’t! I just couldn’t — I would die of shame. And yet there was no option — nothing else was possible for me — I literally couldn’t think of any other possibilities that made sense. The tension was impossible, and again, my sense of self was the weakest link.

Biting my lip to control my emotions, I slid my panties down my legs, and slowly, so slowly straightened myself up again, in an agony of embarrassment, legs tightly together, chest rising and falling, now rapidly with panicky breaths, now deeply, with a ragged, long breaths I seemed to have little control over. I was so frightened, but now, even worse in a way, I could feel the beginnings of joy. Joy and gratitude. She was smiling a liitle; she wanted me — wanted me like this! I was finding it hard to breathe.

A long silence, while I quivered. She seemed not to mind, her eyes roving over my near naked body. My breath came at last, in long, soft shudders that rippled my belly. Perhaps … perhaps this was enough … perhaps she’d stop … I just couldn’t face baring my breasts to her, being that naked.

She looked to one side; there were a few things on her otherwise immaculate desk, a tangle; she picked something out, showed it to me;

“This is the belt. Loulie gets it a couple of time a week. I think she almost likes it. Certainly gets her hot.”

Loulie was her assistant, one of the girls in the office who dressed to the limit of the dress code and a little beyond. I had wondered a couple of times why she did this when she was F’s assistant. Stupid me.

I was suddenly insanely jealous of Loulie. F was mine! If she was doing this to me I wanted, I needed to be special! Stupid me, again.

I hurried to release my brassiere, though — the thought of being struck with a belt was too terrible. Shamefully, I found myself hoping that my breasts would make me special. They always got a lot of comments, large for my slim frame, but still firm — certainly my boyfriends had always seemed slightly stunned by them. Now they swayed free, and I stopped breathing. I had the urge to cover them with an arm, but I dared not. I was naked in front of my boss, naked but for heels, stockings and a garter belt.

“Lush titties, pussy. Bet the boys all love those pretty things. Very nice.”

She liked them! a delicious little shiver of pleasure and desolation passed through me. Pleasure at her approval; near panic at the realisation that I was such putty in her hands; to have been brought to this, and so easily!

” Come now, come to me! “

Like someone in a trance I had no choice, and my legs took me to her. She smiled, satisfied, and I was pathetically pleased to find myself pleasing her. It was necessary that she continue to find me attractive, and I made myself stand well, resisting the demands of the normal part of me to cower and cover up. My chest was heaving.

She reached out and possessed herself of my breasts. I say it like that because it was as if no one had ever touched me there before, and because of the cool, confident assurance with which she handled me.

It was glorious — a thousand times better in reality than the most far-fetched and shaming of my daydreams. Helpless, I leaned forwards a little, giving myself over to her, a shaming little sigh escaping me.

This shockingly brought home to me that I was in a highly sexually charged condition. I had been so concerned with the shame, with the fear, with the shock, that I simply hadn’t realised how straightforwardly excited I was. It hit me now, like a fire being lit in my stomach.

Her total confidence, her selfishness, her deftness, the sensation of the lacquered nails against my shamefully stiff nipples, made me sigh again, helplessly; a sound so unequivocally communicating submission, pleasure, arousal, that she snickered softly. If she had ever had the slightest doubt about my malleability, my inability to resist her, it must have been extinguished at that moment.

I whimpered, softly; all my weakness, all my trembling anticipatory excitement, all my fear, all my unlooked for pleasure were plainly understandable from that small sound. Again, she uttered a soft, satisfied laugh;

“Just so, pretty; I knew you for a wanton at first sight.”

This sank in slowly, my shame deepening at the implications, at the fact that I could muster no refutation.

She moved sideways, leaving me facing the desk, about a foot away from it. I was lost; I wanted her to touch me again — anyhow, anywhere — I needed her!

“Lean forwards, please, hands on the desk — spread them apart. Wider, pretty — don’t you dare try and hide yourself from me; now, lift your right knee, rest it on the desk. Lower your head. Lower! Just so!”

It was impossible not to comply; at least, for me at that moment it was. My whole body was tingling from the feeling, the implications of the way she had just handled me, and her certainty, her confidence felt like the only certain things in my world at that point.

Leaning forward, hands spread, knee up, thighs wantonly splayed, I felt utterly vulnerable, displayed, controlled. I was panting, close to hysteria; impossible to hide this. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, to regain some control, not to lose it and start screaming.

My nipples, stiff as stones, were occasionally touching the cold leather surface of the desk, a feeling that was both delicious and shocking. I think I sobbed a little, softly. My sex felt unbearably vulnerable.

There was a long pause while I tingled and quivered and tried not to think about anything, since all the possibilities were too astonishing to contemplate, then, softly, almost insensibly, she began to caress my inner thigh with one hand. Her other hand was on my back, exerting no real pressure, but very clearly implying both the will and ability to hold me down, should I seek to move.

The position was so weak, so submissive, so vulnerable! It was frighteningly delicious to accept it, to accept the fact of her control over me.

She caressed me then; casually confidently, softly, increasingly gloriously, for some while, her hand getting gradually bolder and closer to my sex throughout, until I could keep silent no longer, shamefully emitting a series of soft sighs while at the same time, my hips rolled and surged, gently, slowly, with the effect of thrusting my sex toward her circling hand.

She laughed again, low and indulgent;

“Not until you’ve accepted your spanking, pretty; you’ll beg for it when you want it, I know.”

Spanking! I had forgotten that she had said she would spank me! I jerked in shock. The hand on my back held me firmly. A little jolt of fear made me speak;

“Oaaoh! No! Please…  Don’t … don’t do this to me?”

My voice was so breathy and weak, without hope that anything could really change. She ignored me completely, and I made no further move to struggle. My hips wouldn’t stop moving. I felt warm tears drip gently from my eyes, but my thighs were spread obscenely wide, and I knew I was holding them that way, wanting to please her. I was far gone. This was terrible, some part of me knew, desperate. The rest of me just didn’t care, as long as it didn’t stop.

After a long pause, she re-commenced her stroking, starting again from the first, soft touches, as I trembled and then, the dam already burst, I helplessly sighed and made little mewing noises as the need took me. I was lost, and she had hardly touched me!

This couldn’t be happening! It was too strange, too far beyond anything I could ever have imagined. And yet here I was, quivering and sighing, rolling my hips lewdly, shamelessly offering her my pussy, wanting her to touch me there so very badly!

A girl’s voice; breathy, soft, low, needy;

“Please … please … I … you … please …  … … Please, spank me!”

It was me; my voice, and I had just asked my boss to spank me, because she had promised to play with my pussy afterwards. I lowered my head to the cool wood of the desk, cheeks burning, tears in my eyes. But I didn’t regret it, and when she said;

“Say that again, pussy, make it very clear to me”, I was actually grateful — saying it again sent a tingling thrill through my groin.

“Good girl! Both feet on the floor now; spread them wider — wider! That’s it. Now, show me that you can raise your bum up for me — show me that you really want this spanking.”

God help me, I obediently strained myself to do as she asked; and then she spanked me; not hard, perhaps, by my current standards, but hard enough to be shocking, to make it absolutely plain that this was not bedroom games spanking, but real physical discipline, real punishment, that she wanted me to feel pain, wanted me to know that she wanted to hurt me, expected me to accept that she could hurt me.

I managed not to cry out at the first blow, the second — I don’t know why, some ridiculous notion of pride (in such circumstances!) — but on the third blow I could not restrain a cry;

“Ah!”,

… and with each subsequent one I let her hear that she was hurting me. But I didn’t shift my position once. I let her spank me, my position ensuring that my buttocks were helpfully high for her to target. I just wanted her to be pleased with me. Even then.

Unable to see much apart from the desk next to me (my head was now resting on the leather surface), the sounds were powerful; the faint whisper of her clothes, of the air, as her hand flashed toward me, the ‘smack!’ as her palm hit my taut buttock flesh, the mewl of pain and distress that came, involuntarily, from me, the feel of the leather desktop against my hard nipples. It was unbelievable! this is me! I thought, being spanked by my boss, legs wide apart, crying at the shocking, surprising, humiliating pain, tears dripping from my eyes, but allowing it to happen — more — I was consciously thinking about pushing my buttocks higher, making my bum as easy and welcoming a target as I could — offering myself to her, preventing myself from doing what I desperately wanted to do — to protect myself with my hands, flip myself over, clamp my thighs together, scream at her to stop! All these thoughts went round and round in my head, but didn’t change anything — apart from beginning to take me along the road to complete subjugation, of learned submission to another’s will.

And then it was over. I knew that I could never be the same again, that I was changed by this, changed deeply, changed forever. To have allowed such a thing to be done to me, so easily, so powerfully, was too big an event to ignore. To have allowed her to use me for sex would have been one thing, but this was something else — she had taken control of me, had hurt me, deliberately, and I had asked for it, held myself ready to accept it, and I knew I would do the same again — anytime she asked me. I couldn’t cope; I simply stopped thinking; my head on the desk, arms spread wide; at her mercy, awaiting whatever it is that she chose to do next.

Her hand between my shoulder-blades pinning me to the desk, my face turned sideways now, away from her, looking at the wall; then, what I had hoped and feared, her fingers at my sex. No caresses this time — just direct, unambiguous possession of my most secret crevices, with the same casual confidence with which she had taken hold of my breasts, and with the same astonished, ecstatic reaction from my body, from my mind — from my whole being. I was transformed into pure thankfulness; humble, desperate gratitude.

My moan and twitch were impossible to misinterpret; I felt ecstatic, and utterly despairing, shamefully grateful, immediately responsive.

“O.o.o.ooh, J-Jesus, yes… oh! God ! Ah! a! ah! O … O, O pleeeease!”

This last as she took her hand away from me, something that filled me with urgent need to have it back again.

“My my! Quite the needy little slut, eh? Who’d have thought it? Miss goody two shoes, begging to have her pussy played with. Is that what you want? You want me to play with you? have my wicked way with you? Treat you like a little slut, hmm?”

I could only moan, weakly. I just couldn’t reply to that!

She began stroking my thighs again, my buttocks, tender and hot from the spanking, but still marvellously responsive to her teasing caresses; but none of it was what I wanted. I wanted her hand at my pussy again, now!

I moaned and panted, wriggled my bum, helpless little gasps and mews coming from me as she toyed with me, casual, but always skillful. I began to go crazy, and at last, I heard myself breathlessly begging her;

“Please! please! Yes! yes  I … I want you to … to to play with me … treat … treat me like a … like a … like a … slut. Please?”

“Knee up on the desk, then pussy — remember; feet on the ground for spanking, knee up for offering me your hot little slot.”

I squirmed at the crudity of it, at the lack of any possibility of any pretence, tears in my eyes again. but I lifted my knee, feeling my thighs open, knowing she was watching me, knowing I was doing this to ask her to play with my sex, despair, humiliation and hope warring in me.

Then her fingers were back at my sex, without delicacy — strong and crude; three fingers penetrating my sopping channel; glorious, destructive, invading me. I thought I had never experienced such incredible sensation in all my life.

Big tears of shame came to my eyes and fell, even as I pushed my ass upward the better to offer my sex to her, thrusting my hips eagerly to meet her, gasping and uttering little cries, all dignity, all restraint gone. When she stepped behind me and I felt, for the first time, the slick plastic head of the strap-on, I became hysterical, a little, but she held me down as she slowly, inexorably, wonderfully, terribly, impossibly, cruelly drove it into my slick, tight sex, stretching me more than I had ever been stretched before, bringing from me bizarre, almost animal noises as she drove slowly, steadily, relentlessly deeper.

Huge shudders went through me; I whimpered brokenly as I opened myself as best I could for her; like a moth skewered on a collector’s pin, I was helpless to resist as she pushed deep into me. I didn’t want to resist — it was the most glorious sensation of my life — even if it was also destroying me and crushing me with shame. At last, I went limp, as she seemed to have filled me completely. Some subtle grinding and rotating movements had me babbling softly with excitement again, and then she was withdrawing, slowly again, utterly devastating, quivers running through me. Then in again, out again, the rhythm only slowly, slowly increasing; terrible in its steady, relentless progress, as I gradually became more and more the slave of this huge, inhuman thing that was destroying me, and of the woman who propelled it.

When it was out of me I was desperate to be filled again; when it was in me I lost all knowledge of myself, of anything. After what could have been hours, but was possibly only minutes, she took me to yet another level. One hand slipped under me and manipulated my clit, while the other draped over my buttock and sent a wicked thumb into my rear hole, sending me helplessly, immediately, jerking and squealing to the first of several terrifying, glorious orgasms, which tore my soul out from its roots and reduced me to nothing but a sexual experience, suspended outside time and space. The pace was still unhurried, but fast, relentless, dominating.

When she finally pulled out of me I was a shivering, tearful, palsied wreck. I had been fucked beyond all previous imaginings of the possibilities of the act. My throat was sore from the coarse, guttural grunts that had been forced from me; my pussy was sore from the stretching and ramming of the big hard strap-on; my ass was sore from the spanking, but my heart was full of the warmest, sloppiest feelings of gratitude and reverence. I had come three or four times — each more devastating than the one before. I couldn’t control my muscles for a good while — just lay there on the desk, spasming and quivering, emitting soft, weak sounds.

She left me that way, as gradually my mind began to reassemble itself, to emerge from the maelstrom of wild ecstasy and depravity that had overtaken me, and the enormity of what had just happened began to sink in.

I felt very strange indeed. On the one hand, the utter glory of the series of orgasms I had just experienced made me want to do whatever it took to have a chance of it happening again. On the other hand, there was a sort of frozen terror in me that my life was now going to fall apart — that I was lost, without any firm ground, all sense of who I was cast into doubt. I couldn’t move, while at the same time the wantonness of my position made it imperative that I move.

F handled me masterfully again. Once again she was standing near me, and once again her hand was on my back, while the other one gently stroked me — my buttocks and lower back, this time, and it was ridiculous how grateful I was for her touch, and for the resolution it brought. I was not going to move, because her hands let me know that she had me where she wanted me, and when she touched my ridiculously sensitised pussy, it was the touch of an owner, and my reaction was that of a helpless possession. She took my clit between hard nails and gently squeezed, the threat of pain clear, but I remained soft and open, even lowered my head, let my neck relax. I was hers.

She held me there like that for long enough for us both to understand the significance of it; she gave a soft, satisfied chuckle that made me flush deep red, and resumed stroking me.

After a little while, she spoke.

“I know you’re feeling a little confused right now, pretty, but really, it’s very simple; from now on, you keep me happy. Simple as that. If you keep me happy, you’ll be alright. Just ask yourself, all the time; what can I do that will make F happy? And then do it. Mostly it’ll be easy, because I’ll tell you what to do. You’ll get it wrong sometimes, and then I’ll spank you or use the belt on you — hard, if I have to, since you seem to like it so much — but you’ll learn. And I’ll look after you — make sure you’re OK. You’re going to feel much happier, believe me. You’ll get well paid — and every now and then, you’ll get fucked well and come like you did just then.”

And now her hand dipped to my super sensitive pussy again, the touch unbearable and glorious at the same time,  and I couldn’t help moaning, pleasure and shame mingled. My hips surged, offering her my sex as best I could.

“That’s right pretty. Give me your pussy. It’s mine now. Remember that. I own your pussy. And your mouth, and your tits. I own you, pretty — you’re mine now, you’re going to serve me and you’re going to love it.”

And  I did — what she was doing was so glorious, that I just accepted it. Although some part of my mind knew that what she had just said was outrageous, I really couldn’t bring myself to care. And when she leaned over and whispered into my ear;

“My turn now, pretty. Off the desk now, and onto your knees — time to please me”

I just obeyed — slow, hesitant, but with no thought of disobedience or resistance. I wanted to hunch, to minimise my nakedness, but more powerful was the need to be seen to be attractive — I couldn’t take the risk that she might decide I was not ‘pretty’ after all, so although I was far from brazen, I took care to move well, to hold myself well. In short, I did my best to display myself for her.

I was nervous, terribly nervous, certainly, as I knelt before her chair, tentatively leaned in between her thighs as she sat forwards, skirt above her waist, delicious lingerie framing the tops of her ivory thighs — but I wasn’t really conscious of anything but the absolute necessity of pleasing this goddess that had so comprehensively conquered me.

Every sensation was heightened — it was as if I had grown a whole new set of nerve endings, of sensibilities. Everything came through with preternatural immediacy and clarity; the sway of my breasts as I leaned forward, the faint warmth radiating from her thighs either side of my face, the knowledge that she was watching me, naked, on my knees, preparing to lick her sex, a woman’s sex — something I had never thought of, let alone actually done, the pulsing of my hot blood in my nipples, the bizarre feeling of rightness as she guided my arms behind my back, out of the way, irrelevant, and, her hand in my hair, pushed me down into her groin. I nearly fainted, then without thinking, put out my tongue and began to lick the little gusset of her elegant white knickers, my heart thrashing erratically in my chest, blood roaring in my ears, but doing it with desperate care, gradually with a little more confidence, as I discovered that it was not so hard to imagine what she might like — I had simply to think of what I would like, and try it.

I knew I was getting deeper and deeper in with every passing moment, every little obedience, but at that point I didn’t care. She offered me security from my fear of the knowledge that everything I had planned for in my life was hollow and meaningless. and she had said she would give me more orgasms.

There came the realisation that I was giving her pleasure — very subtle at first — a slight widening of her thighs, opening herself up a little, and then, a little later, a small, soft sigh. The knowledge of this was like brandy flowing through my veins; hot, warm, exciting. My determination to please became deeper, and I began to really work at it, until eventually, greatly daring, I reached up and pulled her panties away with my teeth (my hands still behind my back where she had put them). Tasting her for real, feeling her sex lips under my tongue, was an incredible feeling, and again I swooned a little. She had moved, sensuously; whatever I was doing, it did seem to be working. I lost all my shame, all my inhibitions, and began to serve her with all my heart, desperately wanting to know that I had given her release.

I had become quite good at fellatio during my high school years, trying to preserve my virginity, and had grown to enjoy it too — to enjoy the ability to give pleasure, to make a boy jerk with a little wriggle of my tongue, to make them gasp just by letting a cock-head go down my throat a little, Serving F was a little similar, except that she was so cool and reserved that the signs of her pleasure were small, somehow dry.

Even so, I knew that I was succeeding in pleasing her, and was almost able to lose myself in the effort — almost able to forget the enormity of what I had allowed to happen to me, when a hand in my hair pulled my head up;

“That’s enough for now, missy. Time for another spanking, and then some more fucking.”

To have this said to me, so straightforwardly, so casually, was devastating; I was obviously to be allowed no respite, no escape from humiliation, from the knowledge of my own weakness. At the same time, her words produced an instant sensation of heat between my legs. I wanted it — wanted it all — wanted anything that she wanted.

I closed my eyes, dazed by these astonishing thoughts. She slapped me, forwards and backwards, across my face, while still holding my hair. Not hard, really, but to devastating effect.  I realised that I was nothing, that I was incapable of any resistance, any independence at all. That I was, for the time being at least, hers, as she had said. That if she wanted to spank me, that I would be spanked, that if she wanted to fuck me, I would be fucked, that if she wanted me to lick her pussy, I would lick pussy, if she wanted to slap me, I would be slapped.

I heard myself apologising;

“Sorry M… Ms F”

And I stood, meekly, as prettily as I could, and arranged myself over the desk again, in the spanking position, without needing to be told. I wanted her to tell me, didn’t want to do it voluntarily, but she was silent, and I caved in first, doing what I knew she wanted me to. It was another little submission.

“Now, pretty, now that you’re settled, now that you’ve offered yourself, when you think you have my attention, now is the time to do a little more — open your legs just a little wider. Do it every time — remind me that you know your pussy is mine, that your ass is mine, that you are eager for me to use you.”

And I was happy to comply; eager, spreading my legs and tilting my hips to lift my ass for her, breathless with excitement and fear, but utterly, gratefully dominated.

The spanking this time hurt more — I was already tender — but was also much sexier — I knew that last time it had been a prelude to that glorious fuck, and I suppose I was already beginning to associate the humiliation and pain of being punished with sexual pleasure.

I cried out with abandon, now, and once again, she had me in tears, the unique sensation of subjecting yourself willingly to another’s sexual cruelty eating a little further into my self-image. When she stopped, I stayed in position, sniffing, tears on my cheeks, just waiting — waiting to be told what to do. A picture came into my head of what I must look like, naked but for stockings and heels, legs spread lewdly, bottom thrust up in an obviously un-natural position, face wet with tears, hands submissively, palm down on the desk. It made me hot, and I bit my lip in shame, but I couldn’t help it.

She came round the desk, leant down and spoke, her voice completely calm and relaxed, close to my ear.

“You are very lovely, little slut, I’m enjoying this. I’m going to ask you a question now, and I want you to think very hard before you answer. It’s trick question, and every time you get the answer wrong, you get the belt. And every time you get the belt, you have to follow some rules, or you get the belt again. The rules are these;”

“You hold yourself very beautifully to receive the belt,”

“You stay silent under the belt — no screaming or crying out,”

“You say ‘thank you’, very sweetly and sincerely once you have calmed down.”

“Do you understand me?”

A panic alarm was going off in my brain; it couldn’t, it just couldn’t be true that I was here, experiencing this! It was insane! She couldn’t beat me with a belt! I couldn’t bear it!

But then again, neither, it seemed, could I manage to make myself stand up and tell her enough was enough. In fact, the very idea of this seemed ridiculous.

In the end, I found that I was saying, in a pretty, girlish voice;

“Yes … yes Ms F … I … I understand.”

She kissed me, then, on the cheek — a soft, slow, simple kiss that nevertheless made my heart do queer flops and brought more tears to my eyes. How twisted a version of my silly daydreams this was. How twisted and yet how much more wonderful. I was almost impatient for the belt, then.

“Okay, pretty, the question is; Would you like to take 6 with the belt, right now? Remember, think before you answer…”

My brain didn’t seem to work — I had spent so much of the last — how long had it been — probably only half an hour, though it felt like days — operating on instinct, on feelings, finding that thinking just brought stress — that now she was asking me to think, I had almost forgotten how.

Did I want the belt? No! No, I didn’t — that was the answer, surely? But she had said it was a trick question. So, did she want me to say yes — to say what I assumed she wanted — that she could use the belt on me? Must that be it? To teach me that I must answer with what she wanted?

I decided it must be. But it was one thing coming to a decision, and quite another saying the words out loud. I took some calming breaths as best I could, dimly remembering yoga classes, until I could trust my voice;

“I … I would like to … take … 6 … with the belt. Please. Please, Ms F.”

There, I had said it. And now that I had I was glad — it was somehow the sweetest feeling, to know that I had offered myself for pain and humiliation in the hope of pleasing her — to offer her evidence of my worship. It was frightening, this feeling, because it had the flavour of something addictive.

“That’s a good answer, pussy, but it’s not the answer I want. You’re going to be punished now. Tell me you did wrong, and what the punishment is, and ask nicely for it.”

It was so simple, what she was doing, simple and diabolical. I knew she was exploiting me, using all sorts of mental manipulations to get me more and more under her thumb, to make it harder and harder for me to come to my senses. But the terrible thing was that I was grateful, that I was going willingly down the path she was laying out for me. Fresh tears were in my eyes, but I was quite calm and my voice, though small, was very clear as I told her that, because I had got the aswer wrong, I was going to be punished, and then asked her to punish me with the belt.

I took it docilely, too, although that isn’t to say it didn’t register a whole new level of pain and shame, because it did. It was just that it … made sense. It made sense that I should be here, naked, posed, being thrashed, at her whim. I was the sort of slut who would let her do this to me, and so it was right and proper that I be treated like this. I was fit for nothing else, nothing else in my life meant anything, compared to this.

I thanked her in the same small, calm voice, and was rewarded by cool, insolent fingers at my splayed sex, to which I responded instantly, without restraint, with a roll of my hips and a soft moan that sounded as sad as it did ecstatic.

She caught my clit savagely between two lacquered nails, twisting. I moaned in pain, but managed not to flinch away from her, sure that this would displease her. And, truth be told, the sensation brought pleasure as well as pain. Desperate, panting sobs came from me as I endured, hips jerking, until she laughed, and at last let go.

“Little slut!”

I winced with shame at the same time as feeling a warm little wave of happiness pass through me. How could shame and pleasure be mixed? The pace of all of this was terrifying. and there was no let up.

“I’m waiting for the right answer, pretty. Think now!”

Again I found it hard to think. What did it matter what I wanted anyway? It was up to her what happened — I was just her pawn. And then it became clear, what she wanted, and I said it, only realising the implications as it sank in;

“I … I want … whatever pleases you . Ms … Ms F.”

That was it — she wanted me to tell her that it didn’t matter what I wanted — even with something like taking six from the terrible belt — that I wanted her pleasure to be what counted.

A silence stretched out, during which I began to tremble, terrified lest I had it wrong again — though god knew the outcome was likely to be the same.

At last she stroked my back, delicately, making me quiver.

“That’s right, Pretty — that’s almost always the right answer. It doesn’t matter what you want, not any more, not ever — it is what will please me that matters in your world from now on. Remember that. Remember it well.”

Her hand strayed down to caress my buttocks, joined by the other. She leaned in;

“And right now, pretty, the idea of thrashing this lovely arse of your is just irresistible. But I want to see your sweet tits jiggle at the same time, so I think we’ll have you kneeling on the coffee table now.””

She had me spread my knees apart — wide apart, of course; cross my wrists in front of me and lean my forehead on them, raise my bum high. She leaned in and caught my breasts in her hands, owning them as she had before.

“These lovely soft breasts will feel the belt, one day soon, pretty. I want you to think about that. When you’re ready for it, when you want it — you’re to tell me — ask me to thrash your lovely breasts — make you scream and cry. Tell me that you’ll be happy to suffer for me that way. Do you understand?”

Trembling, I managed to tell her that I did. Turning my face to one side, then; slowly, but remorselessly, until my neck screamed, she kissed me properly, on the mouth, lips open. Not an aggressive, hungry kiss, but soft, sensuous, slow; nonetheless it was utterly dominating and ruthless. A glorious, all consuming kiss, in which I drowned, a kiss that I never wanted to end.

When it did, soft, delicious, she stayed near me, and told me it was time for me to ask for the belt — that she wanted me to ask her to be cruel, to really hurt me.

And I did, my voice throbbing with love, or something.

She did hurt me, laying the strokes on harder than the first time. Somehow I managed to obey the rules; holding myself as she wanted me, not screaming or crying out — although I moaned through lips clamped shut — and even managed, each time, to find my voice, to thank her; each blow seeming to be an epic struggle.

When the six were up (I assume it was six — the possibility of counting had long gone) she said, very simply;

“Scream and cry all you want now pretty — you’re going to get 6 more. Ask nicely now. Ask me to make you scream.”

And again, I did. She used me harder still, and by the end I was sobbing and crying out, although I had not lost my pose once even. I was nothing, nothing anymore but pain, shame and shock, the lust which had been riding me forgotten, beaten out of me.

There was to be no reprieve, though, no letup. Her fingers between my legs were thorough, practical, ensuring that, whatever my state of arousal, my sex lips were still tellingly slick. I heard myself moan, helpessly, as the synthetic cock-head thrust smoothly, deeply into me, the moan not of arousal, but of weakness, of pain, of shame — of deep agony of despair.

Again, though, there was more, more to bear, more to accept, more imposition of degradation, as I was shocked into silence by a cold slickness at my anus, her fingers there now, and then I stiffened in shock as it became clear that whatever it was that was being introduced into that passage was not her finger.

Tears pouring from my eyes, I nevertheless maintained my position, eyes clamped tightly shut, mouth twisted in humiliation and pain as the two dildos slowly, so devastatingly slowly, inexorably, filled me, making me squeak, transfixed by my inability to reject this despoilation, this shameful, agonising violation.

She held it that way for a small eternity, then slowly began to withdraw. As before, this was a long and slow fucking, not violent but relentless, and to my mingled shame and gratitude, I began to respond, helplessly, my hips rolling, my squeaks as the twin dildoes of the double strapon filled me so destructively turning slowly into panting and moaning, followed by high-pitched little cries as she withdrew; my body blatantly offering itself to her again and again as she thrust into me.

Finally, I lost it completely when one hand found my breast, the other my clit, and I dissolved into an express train of slamming climaxes, my stomach muscles spasming so violently that I was sore for days, my cries less controlled than when she had beaten me.

At last she withdrew completely, leaving me trembling, slowly toppling into a foetal crouch on the table, my brain a blank, my body a throbbing mess, taste of bile in the back of my throat.

When I finally felt able to look up, needing to see if there was more, still, in store or me, she was leaning, calm and cool, against her desk, watching me like a contented cat. I couldn’t meet her gaze, but was instantly conscious of the need to look good for her — that this jumbled post orgasmic heap was not attractive, and tried to pull myself together.

“That’s better, girly; always stay pretty, stay sexy for me. On your knees, now, hands behind your back. Thighs spread, shoulders back — let me see those pretty tits sway. That’s right — Good little slut. Obedience and sexy presentation won’t necessarily get you anything, but the opposite will certainly bring pain and humiliation. Do you understand?”

It took a while to find my voice, and when I did it didn’t sound my own, so husky was it. Sexy as hell, though, I thought, ridiculously.

“Yes … yes Ms … F”

“I think we’ll have it as ‘Madam’ from now on — when we’re alone, at least. OK pretty?”

I gulped. She was relentless — no letup in pressure at all! But it hinted at future meetings, and, somehow, crazily, I was insanely relieved. It seemed entirely possible that her usage of me just then had used me up, for her; that there might be nothing more that i could offer her; that I would be discarded, lke an orange with the juice sucked out of it, a husk.

Just the prospect of more attention from her was like warm sweet milk, offering my life and hope, and I redoubled my efforts to present myself as I hoped you wanted.

“Yes, Yes, Madam.”

God, but I liked calling her that, liked the smile on her face that I caught as I lowered my gaze yet again.

“Come!” was all she said next, raising her skirt, and I shuffled toward her on my knees, and served her as best I could for many minutes, my tongue aching as at last I felt her thighs stiffen and grip my head briefly as she took her tribute. I cried again, briefly, as she stood away from me, aware that I had just been used as few women ever allow themselves to be, and that I was going to be putty in her hands, knowing that I was weak, so weak; my shoulders slumped and I sagged.

Masterfully, she leaned down and lifted my chin;

“Just so, pretty; you’ve learned something this evening That you are a helpless, hopeless slut — that you are anyone’s for the taking. But that’s all the more reason to present yourself well, pussy. Show me those tits nicely now, or I’ll take the belt to them this minute.”

I shivered, as much because, as she knew it would, the images brought a new flush of heat, as from fear or shock at the crudity of her threats, But I complied as best I knew how, blushing red at the same time.

She grinned;

“That’s better! Remember a few things now; one, an ugly slut is a useless slut, two, call me Madam as I’ve asked you to, while we are alone, and three, don’t forget that it is my pleasure that matters, not your own. Got it?”

No sooner had I meekly nodded and said; “Yes Madam ” in a steady, husky voice, than she looked down at her desk, and almost absently said; “Very well, get dressed now and go straight home.”

And that was the last thing she said to me — she immediately became fully absorbed, not looking as I dressed and crept from the room, a girl whose life had been smashed to pieces in the course of an hour.

I don’t know how I got through that night — I wish I could say, but my mind was in such turmoil that I have no idea what I thought, did or imagined. The next thing I can remember is that, at 6am, I suddenly felt a cool grip on my heart, and became calm, knowing suddenly that there was no option for me but compliance with her orders, acceptance that her will ruled my life now — that every other conceivable path had been explored by my feverish brain over the torrid night, and been rejected, because none of them carried the hope that she would choose to use me again as I had been used the previous evening — the most incredible experience of my life — the experience I was willing to sacrifice everything to repeat.

I dressed with incredible care the next morning, choosing the sexiest lingerie I had, the most revealing outfit I dared wear to work, the highest heels.

I walked into work with the terrible feeling that everyone would know; that even if they didn’t know, that it would somehow be obvious that I had sexy lingerie on, that I had allowed F to violate me so comprehensively the night before. That a large part of me was hoping, against all rational consideration, that she would ravish me again, as soon as possible.

I didn’t see her, and didn’t discover until the afternoon that she was out of the office that day, working at a client’s premises. I almost cried when I heard that news, and had to pretend to be sneezing to cover up the crumpling of my face.

The day turned gray, and I have no idea what I was supposed to be doing. I doubt I was the slightest use.

That evening was almost harder than the one before, as the incredible experience became harder and harder to believe, and the reality that I was almost certainly of no importance at all to Ms F — just an office slut, became more and more obvious. I became hysterical a few times, and had to work hard to control myself. I considered getting drunk, but immediately realised that it was of paramount importance that I look my best at all times. I spent hours bathing, shaving, waxing, toning, moisturising. I was in early the next morning.

I did see her the next day, at a distance, along a corridor. Once. I was sure, all day, that I would get some message to meet her after-hours or wait for her somewhere. When I wasn’t sure (about half the time), I was in dread that in fact she had decided that I was a disgrace, or had just moved on, having had her fun.

Of course, it was impossible to carry on as I had been — with the knowledge that I was capable of submitting so completely, that she was capable of dominating me so completely, that she had the experience of dominating, having done it with Loulie (and, I strongly suspected, other girls too — she seemed so confident, experienced), it was an impossibility. I found it terribly hard to even pretend to care about the job I was supposed to be training to do.

On the other hand, I was desperate not to continue to let her down, as she had said I was doing, and so I tried. I really tried; it was hopeless, my concentration was almost non-existent, I couldn’t bring myself to care much about anything. The enormity of what had been done to me was such that everything else seemed insignificant. I lived for the moment when she would call me to her again — for whatever she wanted. Whether this was in dread or anticipation changed from moment to moment, hour to hour, but it was the most important thing in my life.

Far from working harder, I found it almost impossible to concentrate at all. And it got worse every day, because there was nothing. She simply didn’t make any sort of contact.

Every night was torment, as the scenes of my debauch went round in my head. I masturbated constantly, never managing to achieve anything but a pale shadow of the feelings I had had with her. Even the belt seemed wonderful in retrospect — without having lost its ability to terrify me, nevertheless the memory of kneeling, holding myself open, hearing the swish of it in the air, knowing I was letting her hurt me….

Then, afterwards, would come feelings of shame and guilt and disbelief that I had let myself get into such a state. The rational, sensible part of me would finally get to be in charge for a while, and I regularly planned different ways of escaping, then eventually cried myself to sleep.

But every morning saw me dressing with elaborate care, preparing myself with a desperate need to invite her approval, to please her. Each day was another shaming desert, when my inability to connect with the training programme became harder to mask, while the desperate need for some sort of … something — something that would make it at least clear that what had happened was real just got stronger. For it was increasingly strange to me that I could be remembering such astonishing, shocking, improbable and extreme events. In the absence of anything from her, I began to wonder if it had really happened. Had I had some delusional experience? Were the daily rituals of carefully preparing myself, selecting fancy lingerie, dressing with elaborate care, walking as sexily as I cared up and down her corridor whenever I got the chance — were all these things symptoms of madness?

So that, when it happened, I was, as she had of course planned, putty in her hands — utterly vulnerable.

She called me to her office on the Thursday afternoon. Loulie showed me in, with a quiet smile that I of course interpreted as expressive of secret knowledge of my shameful truth (although I had no way of knowing, until much later, that she knew nothing at all at that point). F was on the ‘phone, looking down at papers on her desk, and never looked up. I stood, in utter confusion, not knowing what to do with myself. Loulie closed the door behind me, and the ordeal began.

Ignored, I dared not sit, but stayed exactly where I had been ushered to while the call went on, and on. At last, it finished, and still she ignored me, working through the file in front of her. Only after an agonising five more minutes did she stack her papers neatly and look up, mild, casual.

She just looked at me expressionless, eyes cool, for the longest while. I was on the verge of tears, and at the same time trying to lift my chin and throw my shoulders back to emphasise my breasts for her — feeling like a slut as I did it, and so, so frightened. What was going to happen to me? Why had I allowed myself to be put in this position again? Why did I ever want to be anywhere else but this position ever again?

When she finally spoke, I jerked in shock, felt my face crumple in fear momentarily, knew myself to be pathetic. Knew that she held my future in her hands, so lost was I, so sure was she. Knew that I must do whatever it took to have her want me.

“Oh yes; the pretty wanton. Hmmm. Let me see. I do have that right, don’t I — you are the willing little slut who likes two cocks at once, aren’t you?”

My heart thumped, the tears spilled; how could she sat such things! So casual, so cruel!

But I had to answer;

“Yes, Madam.” It was true, after all; I did like two cocks at once. Only half an hour earlier I had been imagining them driving into me…

This was it — I was lost. My life was over. My heart was breaking. At the same time, I was deliriously happy to hear her say;

“Show me”, and to know that she wanted me to lift my skirt and show her the sexy panties I was wearing — that had been chosen with her in mind, the panties that only just covered my throbbing pussy, to know that she wanted to see — to hope that she would want to touch; to penetrate…

And I lifted my skirt, and showed her, and made the little move she had told me to, opening my thighs a little wider, to make it obvious that I was showing her my sex, and a little, weak, hopeful, silly smile was on my lips, and I giggled like a foolish, slutty schoolgirl about to be fucked by an experienced older man.

“Okay, very sexy — now lets have the panties off, eh? Yes, pretty, it is ok to let your skirt down for a second. Tricky being so eager to obey, isn’t it? Knowing that the slightest mistake might result in six of the best across those lovely tits of yours? Now, show me again.”

It was harder this time, my knees trembling, as I lifted my skirt hem to show her my naked pussy.

Her laugh deepened my shame.

“A delightful little slot. My My! Tell me, pretty, are you wet for me? Right now?”

I was. I was soaking. I had been since a minute after receiving her summons, but it was hard to admit it in such crude terms;

“Yes, Yes, Madam.”

My reward was delirious — she stepped toward me, and two, then three fingers found their way inside me, to wondrous effect. My eyes closed, my knees almost gave way. Her voice, soft in my ear, said;

“Slut.”

And I said; “Yes, Madam.”

“Do you want me to beat and fuck you now?”

I nearly answered with a ‘yes Madam’, but remembered just in time;

“If … if it pleases you Madam.”

She mocked me;

“Very good, sweety, very good! But this time I want to hear what you want, what you really want. Tell me.”

This was going to be hard. I knew, at once, what my answer was going to be, but actually saying it was going to be very difficult indeed. I had to control my wild breathing first, to quell the surges of panic that threatened to overwhelm me. How was it that she was so relentless? It was terrible! At the same time, of course, it was glorious, and I was so very humbly grateful that I couldn’t disappoint her.

And so, even though I had had nightmares about the belt, I heard myself saying with obvious sincerity;

“Please … Please madam, I … I would like you to … to beat me and … and f.fuck me.”

My hips were rolling, offering my pussy to her fingers, I was far gone already. I was so ashamed, and utterly unable to resist.

“Good, that’s good to hear. Unfortunately for you, pussy, I am far too busy at the moment, much as the prospect of seeing the tears roll down your pretty cheeks is enticing…I’m going to have to satisfy myself with hurting this soft little clit, aren’t I? Keep quiet now, open yourself, let me hurt you… that’s it, lovely, take it… take the pain … welcome it. Bite your lip now — don’t let me hear you!”

Somehow I obeyed her, and somehow, although the pain was hard to take, it wasn’t particularly difficult to hold myself open for her — the need to please her already embedded; deep and powerful. When she let me go, and walked back to her desk, I naturally fell to my knees, unable to stand. My hands still held my skirt high, my thighs were deliberately splayed. I was breathing heavily, and I let my breasts move obviously, everything subjugated to the need to be what she wanted of me — to offer myself as a vehicle for her sexual entertainment. I was, again, pathetically, stupidly grateful to be abused. I suddenly realised I wanted to kiss her shoes, thinking that this would be something I could do to show her how happily I was accepting my position. How much I was hers.

But I dared not move. I bit my lip, my head boiling with contradictory thoughts and emotions.

“I’m taking tomorrow off. So are you. You will meet me in the foyer of the Grand Hotel at 10.00. You will wear something very skimpy and very sexy — but at the same time perfectly respectable, plus your sexiest heels. Bring nothing else that won’t fit into a tiny clutch purse. Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“Ummm … no …No Madam.”

My heart was beating wildly — she wanted me for the weekend! Friday and the weekend! Three days with her. I felt tears come to my eyes, and my lips quivered. I was ecstatic and terrified at the same time.

“Good. This evening, you will tell your flatmates that you are going for a weekend with some relatives. Don’t give them any details. Do you understand?”

“Yes … Yes Madam, thank you madam.”

She grinned;

“You can see if you want to thank me tomorrow, pussy. Now, off you go. Oh yes! Something you need to do this evening: take yourself to a beauty parlour and have your pussy shaved to leave a pretty little brazilian and nothing else. Get your legs done at the same time. You also need to ask them to dye your nipples, pussy lips and lips a darker red — they have something that lasts a few weeks or so — not too extreme — just a little darker. Here’s a card for the place I use. Go there. Off you go now!”

And I was dismissed, once again immediately ignored as she turned back to her screen. Desperately, I pulled myself together, tried to calm myself, to cool my overheated cheeks, breathe normally.

Again, I had to pass the gauntlet of Loulie’s smile until I could scuttle away. Needless to say, my mind was shot, and a quarter of an hour later the woman I was working with got so exasperated that she told me to take the rest of the day off. I was so far detached already that I didn’t really mind about this — even though at the back of my mind I knew that it must be a pretty serious thing, that it couldn’t bode well for the future.

All I really wanted to think about was my clothes for tomorrow and how I would manage to ask for what I had to at the beauty parlour — such intimate things!

I went home to shower first, then spent a time going through my clothes, before deciding that nothing was good enough, and realising I would have to go shopping. I called the beauty parlour, which would be open late, and went and spent money I didn’t have on three different credit cards, to buy new shoes, two dresses, and some very skimpy underwear indeed.

The beauty parlour turned out to be easy, if embarrassing. It turned out the F had told them to expect me, and they somehow made it clear that I should just let them do their job with me — that I shouldn’t really speak.

“Don’t you worry, Miss — we know what she wants. We’ll get you looking just the way she likes. Honestly — just sit back and be pampered, like a pretty girl should be.”

And they did make me look wonderful, too, shaved my legs and armpits, plucked my eyebrows, trimmed my hair, as well as the embarrassing shaving of my pubic hair, and the even more embarrassing painting of my nipples and sex lips. For these latter, the woman explained, it was important that they be a little ‘excited’. And with that, she turned on a little butterfly thing that was strapped to two fingers of her right hand, and began to caress my sex. I jerked at first, but she casually and gently restrained me until I settled back, and carried on until at last, mortified, I could not suppress a little breathy moan.

She stopped at once, completely calmly, and giggled at me a little; “That’s good. She likes sexy girls. Lie still now!”

And she began to paint my sex lips and clit hood with whatever they used for a dye, which was a delicious feeling, and made me moan again, much to my shame and embarrassment. But Mrs Boynton, as I had been asked to call her (even though her name badge said Trudy), just carried on, until she straightened up and said;

“Nipples next… I’m going to need those stiffened up — yes, I see that they are quite nice already, naughty girl, but I think I’m going to need to hurt them a little”

On the word ‘hurt’, she had pinched both nipples rather tightly, making me squeal a little. It was over in an instant, and, despite my shock, it seemed somehow easy just to accept it. She was so casually confident, and seemed to know far more about what F wanted than I did, that I was in too much awe of her to question anything she did, and when, after finishing with my nipples, having painted them a deep dark red that did look incredible, she leaned over and said;

“I have an idea: something F hasn’t asked for but which you could ask for to please her. Shall I do it for you? Won’t take a minute, and it’s on the house.”

I just found myself nodding — thank you! I didn’t even think to ask what it was, just lay back again, and didn’t demur even when the small insistent pain at my belly, just above my sex and to the right lasted for longer than a minute. To tell the truth, I was feeling rather sexy, and I was daydreaming a little, and the pain just seemed part of the day dream.

When she showed me the elegant but shockingly obvious F, a deep red brown, seemingly burned into my flesh. I gave a shocked cry. Again, without seeming to try, she restrained me easily for a second or two until I was calm again.

“It’s temporary — it will last two or three weeks at the most. It’s a laser branding — but with the power down to minimum. Believe me, she’ll like it. Her Loulie has a permanent one, of course, and some of the other girls, too, but this is fine for now.”

Branded! I had been branded! like property! Like a cow in a film! In a few seconds of shock, I realised what the emotion that was flooding me was. It was happiness. I was shedding little tears of joy at having been marked as her property. At some point later that evening I was going to feel very weird indeed about this, but at that moment I just wanted to enjoy the feelings that had washed over me.

“Thank you! Thank you!”, I heard myself say.

“Anything for Ms F’s girls. It’s a pleasure.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off it, and when she suggested I look in the mirror I stood, shy, naked but for stockings and suspender belt, looking at myself.

I was again overwhelmed by gratitude. I had never known it might be possible for me to look so good — so hot; the darkened skin at my nipples and pussy lips, around my clitoris were subtle, but at the same time, drew the eyes like magnets. Again there were tears of joy, and of fear, too; this was happening so fast! I was lost, so badly lost, in a dark and dangerous forest; I knew it, and I wasn’t even trying to find a path out of the forest, but rather eagerly following the directions of the wicked witch…

Mrs Boynton broke in, briskly, on my weakly wandering thoughts;

“Now pretty, get dressed. We want you back here at 8 in the morning. Yes, we do! We’ll not let you meet her not at your best, and you can’t wear make-up all night. You’ve a lovely face, but we know just what she likes, and I’m sure you want that, too, don’t you, sweetie?.”

And she packed me off like a mother hen. It didn’t seem necessary to pay — they just smiled at me and shook their heads — F must have paid for it all.

Later, as the spell of the place began to wear off, I began to feel rather strange about the whole thing — the casually intimate way that Mrs Boynton had handled me, the slutty obviousness of my dyed sex parts and nipples, and of course, the fact of having been branded with F’s initial. But the strangeness somehow never turned into anything, and in the end it began to feed back into my euphoria about spending the weekend with F, so that I got a little light-headed.

That night, I found I didn’t want to masturbate — I wanted to be fresh for F the next day — I didn’t let that part of me which was always trying to flag up warnings about how dangerous all this was get the smallest look-in; locked it down tight with thoughts of how her fingers felt in my pussy, how it was to be naked for her, spreading myself open, have her call me pretty. And it worked; I simply went straight off to sleep in a way I hadn’t for days, my fingers tracing the soreness in the shape of my wonderful mistress’ initial, marked indelibly into my flesh, without my consent, but with my grateful acquiescence.

In the morning, I dressed in my new underwear, new dress — a little coat dress with only 6 buttons in all, very low-cut and short, with a flyaway hem. I was at the beauty parlour early, and even though it was a different girl on reception, she knew who I was straight away, and shushed me as if I had been naughty when I tried to speak, finger on her lips;

“Just do as you’re told, miss, and everything will be fine. Go into room three and take off your things; everything, mind! Then sit into the treatment chair. Ms Gardner will be there shortly.”

I didn’t understand why I was to take off my clothes — surely they would only do my make-up? But I didn’t dare disobey, and so I was naked and sitting in the mechanical chair — like one from a gynaecology clinic — when an older woman, very strict and straight-looking, came in and came straight up to me;

“The lovely Paige! What pretty breasts; aren’t you the lucky girl?”

I was blushing, suddenly feeling desperately vulnerable and shameful. But there was nothing for it, as she gently but firmly put my legs into the stirrups and leaned in to inspect my sex.

“Trudy’s done a nice job with your pussy, too — and I see she’s marked you. F will like that — a nice touch. Right then. Ms F has asked to us give you a thorough spanking this morning, make you suffer; so I think we’ll do it before your make-up — no use having tear tracks in the mascara is it? So if you’ll hop down off there and arrange yourself leaning over the table, I’ll call Margie in to see to you.”

She spoke so matter-of-factly that it took a little while for the words she was saying to sink in, and I lay there, in a sort of fog, finally only able to say a feeble “but…”

She came right back at me, calm, but also intimidatingly confident;

“But nothing, pretty miss. F is a good customer of ours, and a friend of mine. If she wants you spanked, then you’ll be spanked. I’ll not stand for any nonsense, and you should know better than to think of anything but pleasing her.”

I could find nothing in me to resist this, and so there seemed no option but to swallow my shock and panic; I blushed crimson as I slowly and hesitantly obeyed, lifting my legs from the stirrups, standing and walking toward the table.

Sounding foolish, I blurted; “How … how many?”

“That’s for us to know and you to suffer, pretty, but I can tell you that cheek will only result in more. Speak only when you’re required to, please, and you’ll call everyone here Madam; show some respect, little slut.”

Could this be real? Could this be me? But it was, and there I was, saying, in a tiny voice; “Sorry Madam”, and leaning forward over the table, naked, finding myself very keen to position myself as F had wanted, hoping I could remember it correctly, flinching but not daring to rise as the door opened behind me, hearing heels clicking as the presumable Margie came in, trembling with shame and fear and, it has to be admitted, excitement. This was just so incredible — to be presenting myself meekly to be spanked by strangers, at F’s request.

A hand on my back made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck — I was being touched, casually and confidently, by someone I didn’t know, whose face I couldn’t even see — now her other hand was on my inner thigh, pulling a little. Her voice was soft and pretty, but her assurance was complete as she said;

“You need to open your legs wider pretty — you know that, surely?”

And I had to shuffle my feet apart until she was satisfied.

“Better. Now, head down, buttocks up — I’d like you on tippy toes, please, and your lovely nipples — how stiff they are — are you enjoying this? They should just touch the table top. Better. Lovely — you have such gorgeous buttocks — its a shame this is only a spanking. Still, I will enjoy this.”

And the fact was that I was enjoying it as well — although perhaps enjoying is the wrong word for the breathless mixture of fear, shame, humiliation, sexual excitement and anticipation that filled me, obliterated all thought, reduced me to just a body. I heard some clicks and dimly realised that pictures were being taken, that perhaps I ought to object, but did nothing. In fact, a moment later, when Ms Gardner asked me to jiggle my tits a little, telling me she was making a little video, I complied as prettily as I could, thinking of F and what she liked, biting my lip at the sensation of the table top against my stiff nipples.

“Now, pretty, ask nicely to be spanked.”

And I did, straining my bottom upward as requested.

I remembered the rules of the belt, and thanked them nicely after each smack. I think she gave me thirty, but I lost count. I began to yelp about half way through, and to cry a little after that, but I kept my pose, determined not to let F down, although the despair and shame gnawed at me, and it was hard — so hard to hold myself open when I knew there would be another hard smack coming, and that each one hurt more than the one before, and that I had been all but unable to jump up and run to the corner, try and save myself, when the last one hit.

They left me in my pose after she stopped at last, and discussed me a little — my tits, their size and firmness, approving of them being natural, speculating how it would be to see me take a dog-whip there. My sex, too, saying how wise F was to have had my lips dyed, how inviting I was, how wet I appeared — Ms Gardner proved it by running a finger lightly along my crack, and I did nothing to stop her, simply accepting it, meekly, although I was both shocked and mortified.

This time was worse than the spanking, which had stopped me thinking. Now I was made all too painfully aware what a sordid situation this was, how degraded I had become, how powerless, how weak, how subjugated. At last, Ms Gardner said;

“Very well, it’s time to get her prettied up. Will you see to her Margie?” And she left the room without speaking to me.

Margie, when I saw her at last, was a pretty girl in her mid 20s, dark brown hair in a severe bob, dressed in the white housecoat uniform of the place. She was smiling at me, conspiratorially.

“It gets me hot, too — isn’t it naughty? But lovely too — Madame will probably spank me, too, once you’ve gone — and maybe more. But I mustn’t think about that now — I need to concentrate on you. Let’s wash your lovely face first, cool your eyes down to get rid of the puffiness.”

And she talked me down, babbling inconsequentially as she worked. She was skilled, and when she had finished it certainly didn’t look as if I had lots of make-up, while at the same time everything about my face seemed brighter, clearer, prettier.

While she worked, she seemed keen to talk, and although it was impossible to forget that she had been the girl who had hurt me, made me cry, humiliated me just a few minutes before, she was so sweet and friendly that I couldn’t ignore her. And besides, I didn’t want to — here was someone who knew something about what was going on — more than me at any rate, who was not imperious and who didn’t seem to mind me asking questions.

The knowledge that she too, knew what it was like to be spanked just made it easier to confess to her, when she prompted me, that I supposed that F would beat me later that day, that I would let her, and that I would try to take it well; and to tell her, blushing deeply, how incredible it had felt to be plowed by two thick strap-ons.

She giggled; “Maybe Madame will … lend me to her one day. That sounds amazing!”

“Lend?” I asked, perplexed.

She explained, blushing herself, that she had an ‘arrangement’ with Madame.

“What sort of arrangement?”, I asked.

“Well …well … I … I sort of … belong to her. She .she … owns me.”

This got stranger and stranger — and at the same time more and more exciting. I had a growing bubble of feeling inside me that this was something I wanted to know more about, something that I needed to get closer to, at the same time as it was uncomfortable — like an itch that had to be scratched, even if something might be laid bare in the process;

“Like … like, you mean, you are … under control?”

“Well … yes-s-s — but … more than that. I mean, I … I’ve said she can … own me. Really own me.”

I stared for a second, then said, softly this time, feeling an unknown force take me over, making my whole body feel strange, otherworldly as I said;

“Like … like a s-slave?”

My chest heaved. How could I be talking about slavery to this pretty, normal enough girl, in a white nylon housecoat, while she did my eye make-up? I wouldn’t have been anywhere else for worlds; I scanned her face minutely, alert for — I don’t know what — but I would have seen the slightest trace of in-authenticity as she said;

“Well … yes. Exact … exactly like a slave … only  … only … only she said I would be more like … more like a thing, than a person. A … a handbag, she says — that she might show off, but also … just … use — any way she likes … maybe … maybe wreck it… damage it; not — not really care because she … she can get another one.”

Staring at her, at her soft, frightened, hopeful little smile, I suddenly knew that I would be in the same relation to F as she was to her Madame. A thing, a possession. My heart banged inside my chest. I was terrified. And fascinated. And hot as hell between the legs.

At last, I spoke;

“But … but — that’s illegal — she can’t own you — no-one can — its not allowed!” I wasn’t really talking to her, of course, just arguing aloud to convince myself that this was nonsense.

“Of course it isn’t … isn’t a legal thing — just an agreement. I’m part of it, too — she gave me some choices, and … and that’s the one I picked… And … and I’m happy I did.”

Her voice sounded almost defiant, and her cheeks were red. I loved her then — loved to see that she had struggled with the same conflicts which I had just begin to understand. More darkly, I loved that she had allowed herself to give in, my throat constricting, thickly, with excitement as the idea sunk in that this beautiful, sexy young woman had asked Ms Gardner — had chosen to ask Ms Gardner to consider her in the same light as some trivial possession — as of no more importance, as no more worth consideration of, than a handbag. That it was obvious, so obvious, that I was going to be offered some similarly degrading choice by Ms F.

She took a deep breath, reset herself, gave me a pretty smile — although her eyes were moist, and then calmly, stood and prettily undid the bottom button of the housecoat, and slowly, gorgeously, lifted the hem to reveal her bare sex above sexy stockings, held up by a white lace corset, very tight. Her honey-gold pubic curls were tightly clipped into a little tab that arrested the eye and drew it to her pretty sex, and then to the shocking steel ring — that I thought was through her clit but found out later was in the hood, and then the further two rings, larger, piercing the base of the labia on each side, joined by another ring from which hung a a disk with the letter G stamped through it. Above her neatly trimmed and shaped pubes were the words; ‘PROPERTY OF G’. The lettering was the same as the letter ‘F’ on my own belly. Where the F was positioned on me was in just the right place to allow the ‘PROPERTY OF’ to be added and centre the whole arrangement on my sex. On Margie, though, the letters were nearly black. I guessed that the laser had been used on high power, and that these marks were more permanent than my own.

I actually sighed with instant and powerful envy, looking up into her eyes;

“God! That … that’s so… You — you’re beautiful!”

She blushed, and smiled an embarrassed smile. She dropped the skirts of the coat, but didn’t redo the button.

“Thank you.”

A pause — neither of us could speak, the air thick with shared emotion, for which there were no manageable words; she worked on my face some more, then, in an even softer voice, very low, she spoke again;

“It’s an incredible thing, though — like … like a spiral … down … You see, if … if anytime I … refuse to do what she wants, or get stroppy, she will punish me, hurt me, force me to obey.”

“And … and it’s fair enough, of course — because I already agreed, told her I wanted her to own me, accepted, asked her to … to beat me … to … to force me — knew that she — she would want to … to degrade me.”

“Both … both of us know what my limits are — things I can’t or won’t do. And … and what she does is push them — all the time, push. So that she puts me in a situation where something is asked of me that is just a little too far — that I don’t think I can do. And then she lets me think that, if I refuse, or fail, than she will have had it with me — that she’ll abandon me and get someone else. And … and I get so frightened, thinking about that — because I couldn’t bear it — that — well, whatever it is, I do it as well as I can — give … give myself completely to … to whatever it is, and then — well she always makes me do it lots, for a while, until — well usually I end up … responding to it — more and more.”

“Like the spanking, you know — just sore and embarrassing at first, but then, somehow, sexy and … exciting. And then, of course, she has pushed me further along, and I’m even more her slave, and I find it even harder to imagine being without her, being … rejected….”

Another silence, as I willed her to carry on — carry on teaching me about … about myself, I suppose.

“And, of course, then she pushes something else, and takes me even further.”

More silence.

“And … and I love it. Love it … too much. I … I don’t want her to stop.”

Neither of us could speak. I was quivering with mingled excitement, fear, horror, anticipation. She was so weak, so beautiful, so vulnerable. I realised at that moment how she could have spanked me. I wanted to see her scream and cry myself, at that moment, see her forced into some shaming sex act, see her come against her will, see her accept that she was a wanton slut. My heart thumped.

After a little while she shook herself, smiled a lovely soft smile at me, and got back to the make-up. I too tried to calm myself, shocked, knowing that I had a great deal to think about. Then she helped me dress, exclaiming at the prettiness of the little thong, the lacy bra. By the end of it, I really was half in love with her.

We were checking me over before I left to meet F. She suggested that it would be better to not just undo, but actually remove one more button from the skirt of the dress. This would leave the lowest button just inches below my sex — when it flipped back almost the whole of my inner thigh might be visible. I just let her do it. Then she walked with me to the door, where she gave me a soft and delicate kiss on the lips.

“I like you, Paige. I … I hope I’ll see you again.”

I grinned, simply and delightfully happy. I was somehow taking it for granted that a girl who had enjoyed spanking me until I yelled and cried, who was a willing sex slave who connived at her own degradation could be a friend. My world had shifted. Been shifted for me.

I was terrified of being late, so I scampered into the waiting taxi then. It was hard, I now discovered, to sit in the dress — especially with a missing button, without feeling sure I was showing my panties (what little there was of them) to the driver via the rear view mirror. But there was nothing to be done, and so I sat as primly as I could until we arrived at the Grand with only minutes to spare.

It was an imposing building, with an awe inspiring foyer, and many uniformed staff, some scurrying, others still and dignified. Here was a stratified society, and my dress, although reassuringly expensive, was not as elegant as many of those I saw around me, and very obviously intended to be sexually inviting — not at all subtle. I blushed, and climbed the imposing steps, suddenly feeling very young and foolish. I had no idea where to start looking, but as I stood uncertainly, beginning to blush, a cool and elegant member of the reception staff approached me and said;

“You are Paige?”

“Ummm . yes” It was obvious that in a place like this, all clients would be called Sir or Madam, or by some title. But I had been called Paige. I blushed, very conscious of the skimpiness of my outfit.

I nodded, too embarrassed to speak. She smiled a little smile that might have contained a sneer, and simply walked off, leaving me to follow. There, at last, was F, looking absolutely heart-stoppingly cool and suave, at a table in a relatively secluded little alcove. For a minute my legs faltered. Was I really up for this? Could I cope? Why not run away? But somehow they recovered themselves and delivered me to her. I couldn’t meet her gaze, and instead looked at her shoes as the concierge asked F if she had everything she needed.

“Yes, yes, thank you. But don’t go for a minute, girl. You’re very pretty — you have a sweet face and a lovely bosom. I want to thank you for helping me out. What is your name?”

— and she held out a 50 note.

The girl lost her super-calm and cool demeanour. Her eyes widened a little, and a colour came to her cheeks. She looked around her, quickly, then back at F. She made as if to shake her head, but stopped, seemingly caught by F’s imperious gaze.

She blushed a little more, smiled weakly, and nervously took the note. She had to clear her throat before she spoke, her voice sounding more girlish now;

“I … I’m called Candace, Madam.”

“And a lovely name it is for a lovely little puss! Well, I have a question for you, Candace. Have you ever been spanked?”

I gasped, a little — she was so bold!

The girl’s eyes grew round — but there was … something — I don’t know what to call it — something in her eyes. And, incredibly, after a long, tense silence (tense for me anyway — F was smiling, amused, not seeming to care what the girl did in response to that uncomfortable question), incredibly — she answered;

“Yes. Yes, I have.” She was going pink now, and fidgeting a little. But she was riveted to the spot, caught in some field that F projected.

“And who has spanked you, pretty?”

I was blushing too — F was ignoring me while she did a number on this other girl, while I stood meekly, waiting. I was just another girl — nothing special. This little routine proved how easily she could find girls who responded to her. I remembered how Margie was so scared that her Madame would drop her for a new girl.

“M … my f-father … used to. And … and now my … my boyfriend does,  … sometimes.”

“He does, does he? And tell me, is that a sex thing, or as a punishment for naughtiness?”

Candace was bright pink now, but showed no signs of freeing herself from F’s spell. It took her a long time to answer, though;

“U … Umm . a … A bit of both. … Usually, he is cross with me, and … and then I … I ask him if he’d like to  … to do it and … and afterwards we … we make out.”

“Indeed! Tell me, do you think your boyfriend would mind if I were there, watching you getting spanked?”

The girl’s eyes widened in shock at this, but it somehow seemed natural to me, the relentless pushing. Surely she would turn and run off now? After all, there was little that F could do if she did.

But she stayed, and she answered, though her voice was small and breathy;

“I … I guess he … he would like that. He would like that a lot.”

“He would? Well, that’s excellent! Write down his name and number here.”

“Thank you, very good; Brad. Hmm.”

“Well pretty, I have a message which you must give to him; in person, not on the ‘phone. Tell him today, as soon as you see him, when you tell him about our little conversation. Tell him this. That he must start spanking you every day — at least once a day, whether you have been naughty or not. That he should start today.”

“And tell him the truth — that you can take it harder than you have been; quite a deal harder, tell him — that my opinion is that you are the sort of girl who will respond very satisfactorily to harsher discipline; he must carry on until are crying loudly and helplessly each time — he is to make certain that you are properly messed up each time he spanks you — this is most important.”

“Tell him, too that he should only fuck you immediately after a spanking.”

“Now, you know that he will be angry if he finds you have disobeyed me, when I call him, don’t you? That there is no point in not telling him, since in any case I will.”

“You do understand, don’t you, pretty, that I have trapped you? That you have no choice but to do as I wish?”

And the lovely, immaculate young woman, blushing hotly, trembling visibly, eventually, nods and says, in a voice that is almost inaudible;

“Yes, Madam, th…thank you Madam.”

F held out another 50 note.

“Very well. It has been lovely talking to you Candace; I am looking forward to seeing how you take a harsh spanking, to hearing your pleas for mercy, seeing you broken and tear-stained. You will dress prettily, won’t you — when I come — have your puss neatly shaved for me — I like a little landing strip in the centre, to draw the eye — you know what I mean. Oh — and work hard to sure your place is spick and span, too, please — I know what dirty things young men are. You’ll make sure of that won’t you, Candace?”

The poor girl, flushed pink, jittery as anything, mumbled something affirmative sounding and, released by the simple fact of Ms F clearly losing all interest in her, she scurries off, no doubt to have a very confused internal dialogue for the rest of her work-day, and probably a lively evening too…

As for me, I had become quite worked up by this display of power and sexual dominance from F. My breathing was obviously not calm, and I had a little colour in my cheeks.

She left me, standing, for a while as she tucked away the slip of paper, took her time about looking me over, smiling wolfishly at me.

“I gather that you’ve already been spanked this morning, pretty — am I right?”

God I loved the way that she was so relentless, even though it was terrifying and humiliating.

“Yes  … Yes, Madam”

“And tell me, by whom?”

“A … A girl called Marjie, Madam”

Oh yes, one of Ms Gardner’s little harem. Tell me, do you like her?”

Such a penetrating question! I blushed even more as I nodded, not daring to be anything other than completely truthful, knowing that a world of information would be in my face, my body language, my voice as I said;

“Yes … Yes Madam.”

She laughed;

“I see that you do.! As it happens I’ve just watched a video of that little episode, and I heard Margie say that she’d like to take a dog-whip to your pretty tits. Given that, it is rather interesting that you like her so much, but since you do, I think I’ll make that little wish come true for her, next time you meet her. Will you like that?”

I had to close my eyes and bite my lip to stop myself from doing something crazy, then. This was too fast, too frightening! But I felt her watching me, knew that I must answer — saw the same pushing — the same downward spiral that Marjie had described being forced on me, and knew that I would not resist her — didn’t really want to, even if I could…

I was blinking back tears as I nodded, and made myself say;

“If … if it pleases you, Madam.”

“Good girl. Now, Show me!”

It took a second for me to realise what she wanted, and then I froze for some while longer. Of course, it would be the easiest thing in the world to simply lift the hem of the coat-dress to show her how I had prepared my sex for her, show her the initial burnt into my flesh — but here? In this swanky, upmarket hotel? Of course, the corner we were in was quiet and relatively private — but it was still a public space!

I felt my heart thumping — in my throat, it seemed, and then, tears brimming in my eyes, I did it; fingers trembling, biting my lip, knees shaking, but despite all, doing everything I could to make the move elegant, pretty, and revealing. She had me hold it for agonising long moments before she coolly said;

“Thank you, that will do for now. I see you have had my initial burnt into you. How do you feel about that?”

“I … I like it, Madam.”

Then;

“I really like it, Madam.”

She laughed then, a lovely laugh, genuinely amused;

“My, my! Aren’t you just a little pushover, you sexy little thing? Sit down now, and we’ll have a little coffee and a croissant or something.”

And for the next hour or so, she talked to me in such a genuine, friendly way that I began to relax a little — and although I didn’t forget to call her Madam, or to pay attention to looking pretty, I was melting inside. She asked lots of questions about me, my life, and though I knew at one level that she was pumping me for information, it didn’t stop me getting warm and fuzzy feelings — and it was clear that she was listening, and that she understood things about me. After a while, there came a pause, and I relaxed, happy with the silence, smiling shyly at her, then dropping my gaze, then looking back up a little while later. Suddenly I was on the verge of tears, thinking of how it could be to actually be with her, be loved by her … only that was never going to be my lot. That if I was lucky, I might aspire to be as important to her as a handbag.

She smiled at me, infinitely understanding, and spoke in a more serious, but still friendly tone;

“So, pretty, now I know a little more about you. You’re a lovely girl, with some ambition, and although you may not quite be up to McQuarry standards, you’re certainly not without assets. On Monday, McQuarry are going to fire you, with immediate effect and an acceptable reference. If you let me, I am going to exploit the hole in your life that that will leave, and seek to control you — rather completely, taking you in a direction which will afford me maximum entertainment and diversion. While I am happily certain that this is a direction which you have a vulnerability to — indeed a direction in which you will be in some senses exalted, it is certainly not the direction that many people would wish for a pretty young girl like you.”

“Now. In this envelope is 5,000 in cash. I suggest to you that you should take it and leave, right now; not come into work on Monday, stay away from me, resign from McQuarry and go and live another life — use your talents in some other sphere, and remember all this, if you like, as an odd little diversion from the path of your life — a mistake.”

She opened the flap, showed me the stack of crisp notes, then closed the envelope and laid it on the table, close to me.

“On the other hand, if you’re going to stay, I’d like you to open this pretty box and put what you find inside it on; then we’ll go shopping for, among other things, a dog-whip which will taste your lovely tits this very day, although it won’t be Marjie who uses it.”

It was the sort of elegant, stupidly expensive box that a gift set might come in, from some expensive jewellers, although I didn’t recognise the name of the firm, so elegantly impressed and gold blocked on the side. It was intimidatingly large.

“Now there’s a choice a girl doesn’t face every day! You have five minutes before I walk away with the box.”

Sudden reversal of mood — that was another tactic she used to great effect. From friendly chatter to this stark and terrifying choice!

Why terrifying, you might think — surely it’s simple? I should have left with the money. And of course, you’re right. I should have done.

In reality, it took less than a minute for me to timidly push the envelope of money towards her, unopened, and to open instead the elegant gift box, fingers trembling, not daring to look at her, tears once again trembling on the edge of my eyelids, heart pattering, cursing myself in my head for being a crazy fool — but all alongside that, a feeling of peace and calmness. I wasn’t going to have to worry any more — I would do what F wanted, and life would be simple.

In the box were a collar, two rather heavy bangles, an ankle chain and what I realised must be a belly chain. Obviously hand-made, rather elegant, rather austere in stainless steel, and obviously very solid. Each had a sturdy ring dangling loosely from it, ominously. From each ring hung a round metal tag with a pretty edge detail to it — like a characterful old coin. I looked at one; both sides were blank apart from the pattern at the edge.

“They have no writing at the moment, pretty, but before long they will tell a very obvious and powerful story about you. A story that will make you special.”

My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I was deafened by the pulse that thumped, fast and erratic, in my eardrums. My vision clouded, briefly, as if I was going to faint, and everything became very distant. All I could feel was my belly, tense, and my sex, so hungry. I felt my thighs spreading apart, without any conscious intention, opening, opening for her.

I wanted to go to my knees.

I did, my head lolling forward until my forehead was on the cool glass of the low table. At last a breath seemed possible. It racked me, ragged, terrible, gasping, a low and helpless moan sounding like someone else, someone at the end of their tether in a torture scene from an old horror movie.

I stayed there, like that, in limbo, for what seemed an age, but was perhaps only a few tens of seconds, until the inevitable made itself clear to me, and, bizarrely, I found myself laughing. Softly, sadly, but laughing.

It had all been so meaningless — every thought, every dream, every aspiration, all the insanely hard work for grade points, awards, stupid shit that looked as if I cared, things I really had cared about, everything, every single thing I had ever said and meant it, before that fateful evening when she had taken me, all nothing. Worse, all ridiculous, laughable, embarrassing nothing.

Everything about me was a joke; everything except this, now; that F wanted me. Wanted to play with me, wanted to have me as her toy. And I was going to give my life to her, my body to her, so that she could take me down. And fuck me, and whip me, and have me branded, and chained, and used by others, and …

I lifted my head then, flushed, shamed, but certain; blinking tears from my eyes, but making myself smile for her, I reached out for the collar, and handed it to her, leaning forward again, lifting my hair out of the way, so that she could claim me.