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.

Read the previous chapter of ‘Moth’


“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 of me; would beg her to take it from me.

I closed my eyes, dazed by these astonishing thoughts, at which point, she, devastatingly, defintively, broke my world by slapping me, hard; forwards and then immediately backwards, across my face, while still holding my hair. Not really hard, actually, but to instant and devastating effect. 

My inability even to react, stunned by the violence, the affront, the shock of it, let alone to protest, made me see that I was nothing, that I was pathetic, undeserving of respect, of any consideration 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. Fiammina.”

And I stood, as prettily as I could, meek and submissive, 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, expectant, and I caved in first, doing what I knew she wanted me to.

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 with each slap. 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, for each swipe, as soon as 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. Fiammina… 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— anbd now she was asking me to think?

It was as if I had 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. Fiammina.”

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 … it made sense. Somehow it made sense of all my strange fweelings over the weeks, made sense that I should be there, right then, 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, then, twisting and pinching, completlely without restraint, it seemed. I moaned and yipped in pain, but managed not to flinch away from her, sure that this would displease her. And, truth be told, the sensation brought pleasure in knowing that I was doing something for her, as well as pain in my poor body. 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. Fiammina.”

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, please.”

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, in sweet, caressing, intimate terms, that 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 as she wished. 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.

Trembling, face wet with tears, lips quivering helplessly, 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 despoliation, 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, relentless, controlled; not violent, but forceful, powerful, annihilating; 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, the acid 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 in 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 think about how you present yourself to me; 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 …Fiammina.”

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

I gulped. She was relentless— demanding more with each interaction! 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 she wanted.

“Yes, Yes, Madam.”

God, but I liked calling her that, liked the satisfied little 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 to me, pussy. You need me to take care of you, to manage you. 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 at me, then— like a wolf;

“That’s better! Remember a few things now; one, an ugly slut is a useless slut, two, while we are alone, call me Madam, 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 in her work again— a true professional; cool, matter of fact, effective, 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; a girl who would never be effective again.

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.


Read Part 1, Chapter 4, of Moth