Moth is published here already (two years ago!), but it’s a 20,000 word looong read. I decided to split it into chapters, and see if more people would enjoy it this way. Shameless working the back catalogue, lol. There will be some refinements to the text, but no real changes.
I’m copying the upvotes across to Chapter 2, which has the hot sex. I make the rules here.
I’m experimenting again with putting pictures into a little dropdown, for an apparently sfw screen.
Picture: Paige — a pretty young redhead
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 one of the panel in the corridor — Ms Franca; she was very direct, told me, to my face, looking into my eyes, that I looked frightened. I stared at her for a minute, shocked by such directness, and then, pinioned by her eyes, her half smile, her confident certainty that I would answer her, I confessed my fears, and she talked to me a little.
I was unaccountably affected by how she spoke to me. Not that she was kind, or empathetic, or any of those things that women are often supposed to be. If anything, she was brutally direct. It was more that she seemed to understand me — almost know better than I did how I was feeling — and that, understanding me — my uncertainty as to whether I was strong enough to do that kind of work, she wasn’t judging me, wasn’t critical.
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. “
This had almost made me cry, even as I smiled, bravely, gratefully at her.
She had reached out, then, and briefly cupped my cheek;
“Just so. Well, I’ll be rooting for you.”
And so I had persevered, and in the end I got a placement in the trainee intake, 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.
Picture: Ms Franca, her imperious mentor
So my confidence was low from the start, and I was at all times painfully conscious about my looks, horribly confused about how I should present myself at work. 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 an awkward 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, Ms Franca, 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 Franca 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.
Picture: a sexily dressed assistant in the office
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. Ms Franca 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 conservative, plain dressing, 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, too aggressive 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 remembered who I was — 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 when 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, the ambitious, smart and pushy 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.
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.
Picture: Paige in her interview outfit
So I had gone for a similar look, and brushed my hair back into a ponytail, the way Ms Franca’s pretty assistant had it. Ms Franca presumably liked her — it was impossible to imagine Ms Franca tolerating anyone working for her who did not please her in all respects.
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 silence; silence which gradually became terrible, as it lengthened beyond anything normal.
It began to take on a weight, that silence, a portentous, heavy weight. Something was going to happen. I had no idea what, but it was like the gathering of a thunderhead. Something was going to have to go bang.
In the end, despite my uncertainty, I was unable to bear that weight — began to say something — I don’t know what — just some burbled excuse, I suppose — anything to fill that dreadful silence…
She cut across me, immediately, 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?”
If she had been angry- shouting at me, it might almost have been better; but she was talking in her normal, clear, direct tones; it wasn’t her emotion, or bullying for the sake of it— she meant it; she really did think I was pathetic.
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; desperate, all I could manage was a weak little attempt at a smile, which I couldn’t maintain for more than a couple of seconds. I felt I was dying inside.
Picture: Paige, in despair
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 Franca.”
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; all thrown up in the air. 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 assessment of me; of my vulnerability.
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, before, surprising myself, even, 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, until 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 elegantly 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.
As well, though, 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 thought 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 there I was, turning into her assistant’s office, turning again to go into her large, expensively furnished corner office. 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 in this industry because I know they’ll all hear how useless I am through the grapevine. That they’ll all know how I tried to whore myself to be kept 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 stuff 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 smile broadened a little;
“Don’t keep me waiting, pussy.”
Her voice was quiet — even soft, but again there was that steel in it which set my heart thumping. She was threatening me with actual pain; 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.
Picture: Paige Strips
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.
Picture: Paige strips more
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 Ms Franca’s assistant.
Stupid me.
The belt was wide, stoutly made of leather; stiff looking. It was frightening, but also, now that I knew what it had been used for, horribly fascinating.
I was suddenly insanely jealous of Loulie. Ms Franca was mine! If she was doing this to me I wanted, I needed to be special!
Stupid me, again.
Picture: Paige Naked
I hurried to release my brassiere, then — 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.”
Picture: Paige’s tits
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 to me — vital, 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.
Picture: Paige’s Breasts, possessed
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 wildness of it, 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.”
Read Part 1, Chapter 2, of Moth
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