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’
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 Ms. Fiammina 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 had 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 that incredible experience became harder and harder to believe, and the reality that I was almost certainly of no importance at all to Ms Franca— 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 quickly rejected the idea. It was of paramount importance to me that I look my best at all times, and a night of drinking would certainly not help with that. Instead, I spent hours bathing, shaving, waxing, toning, moisturising, trying to focus on what I was doing, not to think too much. I was in early the next morning.
I did see her that day, at a distance, along a corridor. Once. I was sure, on and off, that I would get some message to meet her after-hours or be asked to 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 totally, that she had experience of dominating girls, having done it with Loulie (and, I strongly suspected, other girls too— she had seemed so confident, so casual in her control of me), 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, though; 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 without doubt the most important thing that had ever happened in my whole life. It consumed me.
Despite telling myself that I must work harder, do better, in practical fact I found it almost impossible to concentrate at all. And it got worse every day, because there was nothing; nothing to hold on to but the memories of that incredible intensity, that almost incredible experience. She simply didn’t make any sort of contact.
Every night was torment, as the scenes of my debauch and abuse went round in my head (I had had to accept, in my mind, that she had not just used me, but abused me; and had had to accept, too, that I was OK with that; that I wanted her to do it again; that the idea of being abused by her thrilled me, deeply). I masturbated constantly, without ever managing to achieve anything but a pale shadow of the feelings I had experience from her usage of me. Even the belt seemed wonderful in retrospect— without having lost its ability to terrify me; 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, before dissolving into pathetic tears, softly , helplessly moaning, wailing, sighing hours away, before eventually I cried myself to sleep.
Every morning, though, saw me gripped, determined, needy; dressing with elaborate care, preparing myself with a desperate need to invite her approval, to please her. Each day destined to become yet another shaming desert, a day without contact from her, a day 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, without anything at all having followed on from them. It made no sense, no sense at all, and 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 (I had no way of knowing, until much later, that she knew nothing at all at that point). Ms. Fiammina was on the ‘phone, looking down at papers on her desk, and didn’t 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 which Loulie had indicated while the call went on; it was a long call, and Ms. Fiammina never once gave any sign that she acknowledged my presence. It did, eventually finish, but still, she ignored me, working through the file in front of her, making copious notes. Only after an agonising five more minutes did she stack her papers neatly and look up at me; mild, casual, taking it for granted that I had been kept, ignored, for at least fifteen minutes.
She looked at me; expressionless, eyes cool, for the longest while; testing me, assessing me, I realised. Not that the understanding helped in the least; 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.
“Well, well … the pretty wanton. Hmmm. Let me see. I do have that right, don’t I— you are the willing little slut who likes to be thrashed with a belt before taking two cocks at once, aren’t you?”
My heart thumped, the tears spilled; how could she say such things! So casual, so cruel!
But, as the silence lengthened, and her smile grew more sardonic, more dismissive, I discovered that I had to answer, and that there was only one possible answer, and then I heard myself say it, and was appalled, and simultaneously fizzing with excitement;
“Yes, Madam.” It was true, after all; I did like two cocks at once, even after being thrashed with a belt. 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 just did it, with only a brief little hesitation that she must have known was fake, because her grin showed me how little she was fooled by it, how entertained she was by my false modesty.
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, that I wanted her to look at it, that I wanted her to know she could have it, any way she wanted. At the same time, 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.
Oh Gods but I was humiliated. And Oh Gods, was I grateful to be allowed to humiliate myself for her!
“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, her thumb pressing onto my clit hood. 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, your pussy lips and you mouth 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; nowhere else. 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 half 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, made a late appointment, then went to 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 seemed that Ms. Fiammina 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, as a pretty girl like you 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, the dying of my lips, and then at the end, the thing I had been building up a fizzing, bubbling dread of— and simultaneous excitement about— 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’.
With that, she turned on a little butterfly thing that was strapped to two fingers of her right hand, and casually, but somehow perfectly ‘professionally’, began to caress my sex. I jerked at first, but she firmly but gently restrained me until I settled back, again in a very businesslike manner, and carried on until at last, mortified, I could not suppress a little breathy moan.
She stopped at once, as if all this was normal, and smiled 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 Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms. Fiammina 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 some old Western movie! 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 if I was her property; that she would want to acknowledge it. 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. Fiammina. 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, sharp! 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 — Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms Franca’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.
I went to bed early, and masturbated dreamily, until an intense but gentle, throbbing orgasm relaxed me enough so that I could sleep, my alarm set for 6:30.
