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.
This is Chapter 2, which starts off with the same votes as the original story— this is the hot sex chapter!
Read Part 1, Chapter 1, of Moth
“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; helpless, 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, during which 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.
My 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, for some while; increasingly, astonishingly, glorious to me; I was drowning in sensation, 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.
Picture: Paige, caressed intimately
She laughed at me again, low and indulgent, sure of herself, sure of me, of my submission to her will, of her complete control of the situation;
“Oh no! 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 found I did not dare to make any further struggle. My hips wouldn’t stop moving, though. I felt warm tears drip gently from my eyes, but I knew I was stretching my thighs, opening them as widely as I could, to allow her, encourage her, 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 making me wait for so long that I heard myself mewing my need, making little puppy whining noises, without having intended to, she at last 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 louder mewing noises as the need took me. I was lost, and she had hardly touched me!
Picture: Paige, caressed more
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, without finesse or warm-up, she started spanking 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 would hurt me.
Picture: Paige, getting spanked for the first time
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 allowed her to spank me, held my position for her, just as she had told me to— making sure that my buttocks were helpfully high for her to target. I desperately needed 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, deep in me, right away, that I could never be the same again, that I was changed by this, changed inside me, changed forever. To have allowed such a thing to be done to me, so easily, so powerfully, was too big an event to simply ‘move on’ from. 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, 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.
Picture: Paige, her sex manipulated
My moan and twitch were impossible to misinterpret; I felt ecstatic, and utterly despairing, shamefully grateful, immediately, helplessly, deliriously 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, again without any delicacy at all— 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 ever, what I realised, after some frantic speculation, was the slick plastic head of a fat strap-on dildo, I became hysterical, a little, but she held me down as she slowly, inexorably, wonderfully, terribly, 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.
Picture: Paige, fucked with a strap-on
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 increasing, 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 Ms. Fiammina 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. Give it up to me— as fully as you can— no holding back— never. 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 then, 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 Ms. Fiammina 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.”
