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 night, I found I didn’t want to masturbate— I wanted to be fresh for Ms. Fiammina 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 had felt in my pussy, how it had been 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. Ms. Fiammina will like that— a nice touch. Right then. Ms. Fiammina 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 Marjie 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. Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms. Fiammina 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 Marjie 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 Ms Franca’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 sweet, 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— it’s 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 Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms. Fiammina 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, while my tears dried on my cheeks. They talked about 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 Ms. Fiammina was to have had my lips dyed, how inviting I was, how wet I appeared.
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, which went very quickly from a general emotional overwhelm to an intense and specific one, as Ms Gardner stepped forward and, very directly, laid two fingers along the length of my sex lips, her sharp lacquered nails curving in, pushing into me, proving to herself, as well as me, just how shamefully slippery I had become down there;
“You’re right Marjie; swollen and juicy, the little minx! She’ll be putty in Incantata’s hands. It’s really quite sweet how lost she is!”
I did nothing to protest, simply accepting it, meekly, although I was both shocked and mortified.
“Get the camera, Marjie, I think we can have a little fun, here. Now, pretty, since you seem to have become somewhat hot and bothered during that spanking— which I think will please my friend, but which should make you rather nervous— I’d like her to see just how easy you are. I’m just going to leave my fingers, here…”
And she pushed the two fingers against me, very firmly, maintaining contact across the length of my sex, grazing my clit with her nails, forcing a humiliating, but unstoppable sigh of mixed despair and sexual weakness from me;
“… and you’re going to move yourself, get yourself all het up; show your mentor just how hot you are for her. Oh, and don’t forget to keep your nipples just grazing the counter top; you’re putting on a show here; this is not for your pleasure, but for Ms Franca’s. Understand?”
I did understand, but was too overcome with shame to speak, until she smoothly shifted her fingers to take my clit, which seemed tighter and more sensitive that I could remember it ever being, between her nails, not hurting, but with a smooth threat very powerfully implied, and said, softly and gently;
“I asked, whether you understand me, girly.”
At which point I gulped— had no choice, because something had caused my throat to spasm, and bleated, in a weak and quivery voice which didn’t sound like me at all;
“Yes, yes M … Madam,” and began, obediently, to flex my hips, to rub my sex against her fingers, which had firmly relocated themselves in my slit, as if they were the rightful owners.
It was deeply humiliating, and at first it was just me, moving myself, and dying of shame.
Very quickly though, things changed; Ms Gardner put her other hand to the back of my head, took a big handful of my hair, and forced my head up and back, so that I was staring into a mirror on the wall facing me, so that I could see her, standing behind me, see Marjie, clearly making a video, and, most powerful of all, see the whole scene reflected in another mirror, opposite; the rear view of a young woman, clearly being abused, exploited, but equally clearly complicit in her abuse, bent over the counter, her arms stretched wide, her legs spread, hips rotated to present her buttocks, Ms Gardner’s hand jammed into her sex.
It was beautiful, and it was fascinating, and it was shockingly dirty, but most of all, that young woman, being abused, aiding and abetting her abusers, was me.
That girl; that slut, that helpless dirty slut, working herself urgently onto the hand of a stranger…
I whimpered then … and lost the plot; gave in to a surge of emotion, gave in to the power of this Gardner woman, to the enormity of the scene, gave in to my body, and began to move in earnest, doing whatever my pussy asked me to, in order to build the feelings there, the heat, the yearning, the pressure, my hips moving in little jerks at times, slow and hard at others, hearing myself panting, and whining, and moaning, unable to stop watching the porno scene that was me, behaving like the most hopeless nymphomaniac, really whining now, like an excited, needy puppy, until;
SPICKK!
“Ack!aaaahahahaaaa…Aahahhahahahaaaa…”
She had hauled off and delivered the most tremendous slap, right between my legs, catching my clit, too, so that I twisted and turned in shock and hurt, but somehow maintained my pose, in tears all over again, wailing my pain and shame, knowing immediately that it had been planned to go that way, swamped by a wave of humiliation and bleakness that just had to be borne, if I was to get my reward, my time with MsF.
“Very good. I think Incantata will find that amusing. I certainly did. You did well, pretty; always control yourself. Your purpose is to please Ms F, isn’t it?”
It took me a while, but an answer was definitely expected, so that I had to get out a ragged, tear-stained;
“Yes, Ms Gardner.”
“Just so. Remember that at all times, girly, and she might keep you around.”
“Now, Marjie, it’s time to get her prettied up. Will you finish her off?” And she left the room, just as if this was a perfectly ordinary beauty parlour session.
Marjie, 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, someone who was chatty, rather than imperious, and who didn’t seem to mind me asking questions.
The knowledge that she too, understood how it felt to be spanked just made it easier to confess to her, when she prompted me, that I supposed that Ms. Fiammina 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, surprising myself how good it was to share, 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 her 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 Ms. Fiammina 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— it … it’s 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, similarly wonderful, equally dangerous choice by Ms. Fiammina.
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 Marjie, 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, and couldn’t help flinching at the thought of how much pain she had been subjected to, to be marked so; how it must feel to know that they were permanent; that she was never going to escape from what they said about her.
And then a deeper feeling came over me, and I actually sighed with as a shockingly powerful knowledge of deep envy grew in me, as I looked up, looked into her eyes, and breathed;
“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.”
I judged her then, automatically; judged her harshly; she was, very obviously, a slut; a whore, used to thinking of her sex parts as available, on offer. There was no way to reconcile such a judgement with my other feelings about her— that she was sweet, and kind, and caring— or, indeed, my certain knowledge that she had enjoyed hurting me, talking with her owner about how I could be humiliated and used.
It was all too complicated.
A pause— neither of us could speak, the air thick with shared emotion, both of us caught by dangerous paradoxes, sharing the knowledge that we were both offering ourselves up for abuse to people who wanted to degrade us. There were no manageable words for that; after a long, awkward silence, she worked on my face a little more, before, in an even softer voice, very low, husky; ashamed but also passionate, 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, even though I hate it, and it makes me feel like dying, 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 think … that … that she’ll ever stop. And … and I don’t … I don’t want her to stop.”
Again her voice was trembling, fear in it, yes, but also a defiant insistence that she had the right, was completely determined, indeed, to stick to her choice, even with the clear understanding that it must lead to her being continually abused, shamed and degraded.
Once again, we were both silenced by the enormity of Marjie’s admission, of her situation. 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 it made inescapably obvious that she was a wanton, hopeless slut. My heart thumped.
After a little while she shook herself, smiled a lovely but weak— so very, very weak— 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 Ms. Fiammina. 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 smiled that same smile back at her— as sweet as I could make it, though I felt so weak, so quivery, but at the same time, 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 (of course, I have learned, now, that I may not seek to hide how it is with me from strangers— that I must instead discreetly make it obvious that I am a degraded sex toy— carefully encourage them to imagine using me; indeed, to make it clear to them, should they make even the smallest move, that they have every right to use me, in any way they might choose).
The Hotel Grand 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 Ms. Fiammina, 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 Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms. Fiammina. She made as if to shake her head, but stopped, seemingly caught by Ms Franca’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— Ms. Fiammina 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 Ms. Fiammina projected.
“And who has spanked you, pretty?”
I was blushing too— Ms. Fiammina 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 Marjie was so scared that her Madame would drop her for a new girl, and felt it myself, then, deeply, like an actual pain in my chest. I must, must not fail to please her, whatever that took; I simply could not bear to lose her attention again — the days since she had used me, the days of not even being ignored, but simply forgotten, had been awful; to be replaced, now, would be agony beyond bearing.
“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 Ms Franca’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.”
”‘Make out’ indeed! Say what you mean, girl — that he fucks you. Fucks you hard, I’d hope. Tell me, do you think your boyfriend would mind if I were there, watching you getting spanked, as he fucks you?”
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 Ms. Fiammina could do if she did.
Amazingly, she stayed, and she answered, too, though her voice was small and breathy;
“I … I guess he … he would like that. Yes. He … would like that a lot.”
“He would? Of course he would, little ninny! Write down his name and number here; don’t dither!”
“Thank you, very good; Brad. Hmm.”
“Well pretty, I have a message which you must give to your Brad; 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 you 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 from now on that he should only fuck you immediately after a spanking, and that he should fuck you very selfishly, too— without the slightest regard for your experience.”
“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.”
Ms. Fiammina held out another 50 note.
“Very well. It has been lovely talking to you Candace; I am looking forward to seeing you naked, seeing how you take a harsh spanking, to hearing your pleas for mercy, seeing you broken and tear-stained, seeing you rough-fucked. 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— work hard to please me?”
The poor girl, flushed pink, jittery as anything, mumbled something affirmative sounding and, released by the simple fact of Ms. Fiammina clearly losing all interest in her, she scurried off, no doubt to have a very confused internal dialogue for the rest of her work-day, and probably a lively evening too…
You can read more about Candace’ troubling morning in Candace, Anexed
As for me, I had become quite worked up by this display of power and sexual dominance from Ms. Fiammina. 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, at last smiling a little at me, clearly enjoying herself. There was nothing for me in that smile at all.
“And you, pretty little Paige— I gather that you’ve been spanked this morning— rather soundly, indeed. 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 Marjie 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 branded on my skin— 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. Make sure to pull your hem up, girl— I don’t want you to crease that skirt.”
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— it was clear that she was listening, paying attention, 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. That I would be desperately grateful to be hers in that way, if that was all I could have.
She smiled at me, infinitely understanding, infinitely patronising, so that I felt as if she understood me better than I ever would myself. And seeing that that was so, I suddenly saw, who better to rule me than her?
She spoke then in a more serious, but still friendly tone, not patronising now, not at all; professional, almost as if she were back in her ‘mentor’ role;
“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 a damningly dismissive 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 before they can fire you— I’ll write you a decent reference; you can go on 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, an adventure, perhaps.”
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 around your neck; 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 upmarket 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!”
That was said in an almost conspiratorial tone, as if we were schoolgirls planning some mischief together.
Her face and her voice changed, though, hardened, cooled, became more challenging, as she said the next thing;
“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 was simple? I should have taken the money. and left, while I had the chance to save myself. 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 Ms. Fiammina wanted, and life would be simple.
In the box were a collar, two rather heavy bangles, an ankle chain and what I guessed might be a belly chain. Obviously hand-crafted, 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. A story which will have consumed little Paige whole. Eaten her alive. Transformed her into something else.”
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.
And so I did, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, 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 Ms. Fiammina 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, transform me. And fuck me, and whip me, and have me branded, and chained, and used by others, and …
… and that was going to incredible, and wonderful, and terrifying, and glorious, and I wanted it and feared it and worshipped her for making me do it …
… and nothing would be my responsibility any more …
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.
Picture: Paige, collared
