Ms F— Fiammina Incantata, to give her her full name— appears in other stories, too. We already heard a part of this story, told from a different angle, in Moth, Part 1, Ch5.
I liked working in the Hotel Grand – and I was good at it. We had a rich clientele, as you might expect from a long-established five star hotel, and they were very demanding.
Picture: Candace at work
Somehow, though, unlike many of my colleagues, I enjoyed serving them – no matter how unreasonable they were. There was a satisfaction in remaining calm and deferential, soaking up harsh comments and blushing under patronising compliments, in serving efficiently and calmly. I liked the clothing allowance, too – I was at a grade where I didn’t wear a uniform, but I shopped in a few approved stores and had to get approval from the senior customer service team executive, Ms. K, for outfits after I had bought them. It was demeaning, I suppose, but you could play it like a game, and although Ms. K. was a little frightening, her smile, when it came, made you feel a warm glow of satisfaction – well it did for me anyway.
She liked us to be respectable, but definitely on the sexy side – carefully chosen blouses with a slightly gauzy quality, pencil skirts tight over the buttocks, with sexy kick pleats, always high heels, jackets tailored to subtly emphasise the bust – all in demure black, white, charcoal. I didn’t mind that – quite liked it, to be honest – I would never have been brave enough to choose such things for myself, but, looking in the mirror, I was amazed at how I looked – quite at odds with my self image as a rather plain, unattractive girl.
Picture: Candace, daring to think herself pretty
And if some of the gentleman guests (and even, on occasion, some of the ladies) made it clear by word – or sometimes by action – that they found me sexually interesting … well, one tried to manage it with the least stress possible – certainly not encouraging, but equally making sure that no unnecessary fuss was made – even if it sometimes meant a little more intimacy than was strictly acceptable. Afterwards, however flustered I might be, however unattractive the guest, I found it hard not to feel a little flattered, a little grateful, a little proud. Not infrequently, I was often, disturbingly, a little aroused, sexually by these incidents. It made me feel very strange, indeed, but I have to admit that I liked the feeling.
Picture: Candace, flustered
At some point I realised that Ms. K. was deliberately assigning me to the clients who were known to be a little over-sexual in their dealings – so that I grew used to certain gentlemen feeling free to caress my bottom, or give me a playful tap on the buttock as they passed me. One even felt it was acceptable for him to approach me from behind and cup my breasts while pushing his groin into me – he would hold just for a a second, then release me with an indulgent laugh and an arch comment— naughty girl! — as if it was me teasing him, not the other way around. I would blush, flustered, but I wouldn’t flinch, just move smoothly and smile as if it had been funny, pass over it. I used to hide in the loo as soon as possible after – often cry a little tear, feeling humiliated and confused, and turned-on, too – but I never complained, either to him or to my bosses.
Picture: Candace, confused
In spite of this, I was foolishly pleased by Ms. K. having chosen me in particular – not because I wanted the sexual attention, but because it showed that I had pleased her, and pleased them, and that I was noticed and in some way valued. Indeed, she gave me an increased clothing allowance for no obvious reason. It made me feel weird, but after all, nothing really happened – just a little wandering hand trouble, a few risqué comments. A few tears in private, a knowledge of my own weakness.
Work was where my life was simple. I served people, used my intelligence and deferential qualities to keep people happy. I wasn’t exactly satisfied, or happy, had no idea where I was going (I knew that I was never going to be promoted – that I didn’t have it in me to manage others in my situation) but at least I knew what was expected of me.
Home was more complicated. Since long before we had come over from US as students, my boyfriend and I had been an item, but he had never really treated me as if he loved me – just took me for granted. Brad was a blustering, domineering jock, who had been a minor sports star at college, but had run a little to seed since – in all departments; having started with a good opportunity at a banking job, he had failed to work hard, failed to care, and now worked in a lacklustre way as a commercial estate agent. He was demanding, bossy and lazy at home, leaving everything to me – including paying most of the bills, now that his earnings were commission dependent and he made so little.
On top of that, Brad wasn’t shy of hitting me when he was angry. He didn’t simply lash out, but if I ever dared argue with him seriously, he was likely to decide it was time for him to put me over his knee, lift my skirt (in common with Ms. K, he hated me wearing trousers) and spank me, until I agreed to give in – after which he would usually have an enormous hard on and simply segue into fucking me. Since that was practically the only time we had sex any more, I had ended up having an odd relationship to these spankings – quite a perverse one, in that I had begun to associate them with sex. It wasn’t great sex, but it was vigorous and sustained, and I’ve always responded well to that sort of treatment.
So although I was beginning to be heartily sick of Brad, and considered breaking up with him regularly, it wasn’t really on the basis of the spankings. He (and I too, whenever I asked myself why I didn’t resent them more) justified them on the basis that my dad had told him before we left (in my shamed and blushing presence), that if I gave him any nonsense, he should continue the family tradition and ‘put her over your knee to knock a little sense into her pretty little tush’.
All in all, reading back over this, I don’t imagine you will be surprised to hear that I was in many ways a confused, dissatisfied and vulnerable young woman (barely more than a girl, really) on the morning I met Ms F.
I had been assigned by Ms. K. to meet a visitor for a guest; a guest whom Ms. K. had given me to understand I was to pay special attention to. And when I had introduced myself to her earlier that morning, it had been obvious that Ms F was someone used to receiving special attention— and equally clearly, deserved it; she was magnificent and intimidating both, with a way of looking at you that made you feel transparent— all your shameful little secrets and weaknesses obvious to her, so that it was in her gift to be tolerant about those, or to exploit them. The little smiles she gave that suggested tolerance were something you very much wanted, I soon discovered.
The visitor she was expecting arrived abut 20 minutes later and, from the way she was dressed, I assumed her to be a tart of some kind, or at least a tarty PA – not the sort we generally had much respect for in the Hotel Grand, although we saw our fair share. She confirmed her name, and I gave her a little smile that certainly also carried a hint of a sneer, and simply walked off, leaving her to follow. Ms F was at the table I had found for her, in a relatively secluded little alcove, looking devastatingly cool and suave, even by the standards of the Hotel Grand, and I found myself more than usually determined to please. As the tart shuffled and looked at her shoes, I asked Ms F if she had everything she needed.
“Yes, yes, thank you— “
She looked straight at me then, really looked at me, and I was captured; her gaze was so direct, so clear, so resolute, but at the same time so full of understanding, so clearly attentive to whatever she chose to look at, that it was hard not to be be interested— I know, now, that she has this effect on many people, not just me. But for me, that morning, it was more than interest— I was fascinated— mesmerised.
And she, she saw something in me that interested her, too. I do wonder, where I might be, now, had I been uninteresting to her that morning. Strange— so strange to contemplate…
“Stay put, will you? I have some questions for you.”
And that’s it— she turns away, beckons the girl, who really is very pretty, tells her where to sit, points out that she’s a minute late, that she has a smudge on her shoes, tells her that she is to be silent, and to sit prettily. Actually, the girl is almost 5 minutes early, and her shoes are immaculate. She doesn’t protest, though, but instead blushes a little and rubs urgently at her shoe. Ms F looks at her for a while, watching. As she leans forward, I see that the girl’s breasts are not confined by a brassiere, and that her blouse is unbuttoned so far down that they almost sway free. I also realise just how short her skirt is, as her stocking tops are exposed, too.
“Pretty, isn’t she?”
I am surprised— I’d been caught staring at the girl, and now it was my turn to blush as Ms F smiles a little smile at me, arch;
“And very, very obedient, too…”
She is looking at me with that full attention, again, and my brain has stopped working, so that I really don’t understand what she is meaning for the longest time, as she smiles at me, more broadly now, enjoying my obvious confusion, not helping me out at all— just watching, entertained.
Picture: Candace, puzzled
Because that’s what her girls are, for her, really— entertainment. She was wondering whether I might be entertaining— and just how entertaining I might be…
I realised at last, what she might be alluding to with the ‘very, very obedient’ phrasing, and my blush came back. Clearly, I couldn’t let a client of the Hotel see that I had made any such interpretation, and so kept my face bland. But I couldn’t prevent the blush.
Her smile faded, but the light of her attention still shone one me, and I was happy to be caught in it.
“You’re pretty, too, you know. I can see you don’t think so— but believe me, I could show you just how pretty you might be – you have the sweetest face and those breasts of yours are, I’m sure, utterly delicious. I want to thank you for bringing Paige to me— the girl could get lost in a cul-de-sac! Tell me, what is your name?”
– and she held out a £50 note.
I was completely taken aback by every part of this little speech, and was in danger of losing my calm and cool demeanour. I was used to being spoken to in patronising ways, but never so directly. And so confidently – in her face was not the faintest hint of concern that her little speech might cause upset or outrage, just serene expectation of a docile answer. The offer of such a large amount of money, too— so out-of-proportion with the situation— it must mean something; imply some arrangement— but what?
Tips were of course normal in hotels, but it was strictly forbidden to accept them. Small sums would be ignored, if discreetly handled— usually inside the guest’s room— but this amount— in the lobby!
My eyes widened, and I felt colour came to my cheeks. I looked around me, quickly, weakly, then back at Ms F, made as if to shake my head, but stopped, caught by Ms F’s supercilious, coolly smiling gaze. My God – she was magnificent, and I was trapped like a deer in headlights.
Picture: Candace, like a deer in headlights
I blushed a little more, smiled weakly, and, not knowing what else to do, terrified that the longer she dangled the money, the more likely it was to be noticed by another member of staff, and so, in desperation, I nervously took the note.
But now, of course, I had to answer her question. My voice appeared to have stopped working. I was acutely conscious of the tarty girl, sitting just the other side of the low table, that she must be aware of all this (for all that her gaze was demurely lowered), and I had to clear my throat several times before I spoke, my voice sounding unusually soft and girlish;
“It … it’s Candace, Madam”
“Lovely— and appropriate, too; a pretty little name, for a pretty little thing. Well I have a question for you, Candace. Have you ever been spanked?”
I gasped, a little – she was so bold! And with the tart listening! And yet she looked no different than she might if she had asked whether the Hotel might have some writing paper she could use.
I froze – but there was … something – I don’t know what to call it – something that held me, still, despite this outrageous question— made it impossible to do what of course, I ought to have done – nod, smile sweetly and walk away, as I had done on many other occasions when no polite answer could be managed.
Then, incredibly, after a long, tense silence (tense for me anyway – F was smiling, amused, not seeming to care what I did in response to that uncomfortable question), incredibly – I heard myself answer— and truthfully, letting her hear my most shameful secret, just because she— a total stranger— had asked;
“Um … … Yes” I was going pink now, feeling prickly and hot, fidgeting a little. But I was riveted to the spot, caught in some field that Ms F projected.
“Good! I can always tell. And pray, who is it that has spanked your pert little bottom, pretty?”
More! She can’t! She … she just can’t!
… and yet, of course— she just has— and is waiting for an answer— calm, but equally expectant. Her confidence in my obedience is obvious, and somehow, impossible to resist;
“M … my f-father … used to. And … and now my … my boyfriend does, … sometimes”
“He does, does he? Your boyfriend? Do tell, is that a sex thing, or a punishment for naughtiness?”
I was bright pink now, but had no ability to free myself from Ms F’s spell. It took me a long time to answer, though. It is impossible to lie to her— impossible even to tell her a partial truth— it’s as if I want her to know every humiliating, intimate detail— as if I’m flattered to be asked— even though the answering is so, so shaming;
“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 … um … make out.”
“Do you indeed! What a naughty girl you are, Candace! And what’s this mealy-mouthed make out ? Say what you mean, girl — that he fucks you. Fucks you hard, I’d hope. Still, I knew it. You will tell me, please, do you think your boyfriend would mind if I were there, watching you getting spanked? Watching you getting spanked and then watching you getting fucked?”
My eyes widened in shock at this astonishing question, but at the same time, it had sort of hypnotised me, this relentless pushing. I knew I should turn and walk off now, After all, there was little that she could do if I did.
But I stayed. I wanted to stay— wanted her to know. I did. And I answered, my voice small, weak and breathy – and painfully honest;
“I … I guess he … he would like that.”
Looking at her, I knew he would be happy to have such a woman in our flat for any reason at all.
“You ‘guess’? …”
“No … that is … yes. Yes, he … he would like that.” she had me completely in her control, now— lost.
“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.”
My knees were quivering, my throat was dry – how could she be saying this? How could I be responding, taking it – and in front of the little hussy? But there seemed no strength in me to resist her, just a warm, tingly weakness.
“Yes I … I do.”
I couldn’t believe that my voice had just said that. but clearly, it had, for she carried on, smoothly, as if she had just negotiated the order of a pot of tea.
“Good girl! You do know that he will be angry if you disobey me, don’t you? And that I’ll be angry too.”
“Uh … yes …”
“And you don’t want that do you? Because it will end up with more spanking, harsher spanking.”
“So, now you understand, don’t you, pretty, that I have trapped you? That you have no choice but to do as I wish?”
And, blushing hotly, I found myself nodding and saying;
“Yes, Madam, th…thank you Madam”
Picture: Candace, trapped
She held out another £50, which I took, more out of embarrassment than wanting it.
“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— I know that you’ll hard to please me.”
And then she simply turned her attention away from me, and to the little tart, who, honestly, looked just as much ‘rabbit in the headlights’ with this woman as I felt.
It was clear that I had been dismissed— that that was it— she’d finished with me. Part of me was desperate to escape, wanted to scurry as fast as I could, but still more powerful was the need to have her retain her impression of me as ‘pretty’, so I walked as carefully as I ever have, feet on a narrow track, letting my hips sway, heart thumping, cheeks burning, eyes prickly with tears, until at last I was around a corner and could scamper for the toilets.
Once locked into a stall I had to collapse – hysterical giggles overcame me – not happy giggles, but shocked, appalled ones, full of fear. Keeping them from getting loud gave me awful hiccups, and it was about half an hour before I felt able to present myself again, by which time Ms. K. had been asking for me, and was obviously not pleased that I had been away from my post when I finally presented myself in her office on the first floor, flustered and unsettled still.
“Candace! So kind of you to find the time to appear! It is what you’re paid for, isn’t it? To be available to do your duty?”
She was vicious in this mood, I knew. She had had me in tears before, and this morning I had no reserves, after my earlier experience with Ms F. I could feel my lips trembling already.
“Yes, Yes, Madam. Of course Madam.” She liked to be called Madam, I had discovered – even though the other managers were happy to be called by their first names. This was definitely a time to humour her.
Picture: Candace, reprimanded
“I’ve had a complaint about you.”
She left it at that, leaning back, watching me, face expressionless. I had to bite my lip to silence a pointless noise of despair. Complaint? But I hadn’t had any problems – had I?
Really, I couldn’t think of anything… Not recent, at least— unless— unless that woman— had that been a trick? I was suddenly very afraid, very unsure of anything except that I was far from solid ground— that normality had abandoned me, somehow.
I know that it was a bad idea to be obviously weak and vulnerable in front of K, but this was impossible to control— I’m sure I flushed, looked frightened, and thus not at all the picture of calm innocence that I would have wished to present. But I was lost.
Taking hold of myself as best I could, I said;
“About … about me, Madam?” My voice sounded weak and flustered – not at all confident, or even trustworthy. My heart was thudding, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot, blushing. Tears were crowding the corners of my eyes.
“Yes, my dear, about you – unsurprisingly. That’s why you’re here, and not anyone else. You were seen taking gratuities – twice. Large notes.”
For a moment I thought I would faint. Even though a blind eye was mostly turned, if you were caught, and if the manager wanted to be mean, you could be fired— on the spot. But I couldn’t afford be fired – I just couldn’t! With my boyfriend not earning properly, the flat so expensive, and my visa dependent on me having a job, it was simply not possible for me to get fired. The thought of going back home, a failure, tail between my legs— of living again with my awful father…
But what could I say? I daren’t argue with her – it was true, and someone must have seen me. Some managers would accept a generous share of the tip, if it was a large one, but I had never heard of K doing this. And in any case, I discovered that my throat was not going to permit me to speak. Biting my lip again, I stood mute, but now the tears began a slow leakage from my eyes.
“I’ll take your pathetic silence as guilt, then.”
And still I couldn’t speak, only quiver and try not to disgrace myself by collapsing into a blubbering heap.
A long silence. My brain was mush— the events of the last hour had turned my world upside-down— I couldn’t make any sense of anything, couldn’t think— could only hope to hang on, to survive until I could get someplace quiet, safe from interruptions.
She walked round behind me. I was quivering, and jerked in shock when her voice sounded, quiet but almost as if it was inside my head;
“You are walking on thin ice, my dear. I have received two complaints about you in the last few weeks alone. and now this. What am I to think?”
More silence— now she’s facing me again;
“Well?”
I struggle to think of anything to say that might be safe. I fail;
“What … What complaints?”
She raises her eyebrows, her mouth sets;
“Are you questioning what I tell you?”
My knees are literally banging into each other— knocking— as my legs tremble, now. I know she must be able to see how terrified I am. It’s awful to be so weak in front of her, but I have no other choice, and no option but to try to dig myself out of the hole I have made for myself;
“No1 No, of … of course not … Madam.”
“Only … Only … if … if I knew how I had … had failed to give satisfaction I might … might be able to improve.”
She smiles now, thin lipped, sneering almost— clearly enjoying herself at my expense, entertained by my abject gabbling;
“Very well. Of course, if we go this way than I will expect, of course, that you will improve— and in the specific areas that gave rise to these complaints. Do you understand?”
I don’t think that I do, really. It smells like a trap, of course— but again I have no option.
“Yes. yes of course … Madam.” How I hated myself for calling her Madam.
“Well one complaint was from a Russian guest who asked for help tying his shoelaces as he had a bad back— which you refused him, apparently— and in a manner he found cheeky.”
Of course, I knew at once what this was; the old sod— a regular guest— had been trying it on with me for weeks, and he thought he’d found a way to get me on my knees in front of him. We hotel girls know all about this— makes it oh-so easy to ‘stumble’ forwards and push your groin into her face. I had indeed tried to make a joke of my refusal— but obviously this backfired badly. And now I was being made to accept this as a criticism of me!
Picture: Candace, propositioned
I made myself make a concerned expression, covering up my reaction at the unfairness of it all.
“And another complaint was from a lady who had requested a masseuse— she said you were actually rude to her!”
I recognised this incident too— and again the injustice of it was galling. The guest in question, a Nigerian woman; a regular, very rich, so the rumour went— and certainly she was in one of the more expensive suites— had asked me to help unzip her dress; she had arrived late, alone. I had helped her without demur, despite having alarm bells going off in my head— it was late, we were alone— company policy was clear that we should avoid anything that could be considered intimate in such circumstances. But as I’ve said, I get sent to the difficult ones because K knows I am accommodating.
As I helped loosen the neckline of the stiff and tight fabric, though, she had wriggled back against me, grabbed my right hand and pulled it forwards, to cover her breast; she wore no brassiere.
Massage me, she said.
I had jerked back, shocked, but hoped I had made a good recovery when I managed to say something about being able to call a massage service for her if she would let me use the room ‘phone. I knew at the time that she was angry— just hoped that she would feel better in the morning as I tried my best to smooth things over— but the bitch had complained!
And now, now I had to apologise. Actually, I knew, I had to grovel— K was in a dangerous mood, and the money provided her a clear case for instant dismissal. I was powerless. I took a deep breath. Then another. This was so hard! I blinked back tears— knew she could see this, saw the gleam in her eye, trembling visibly, I did my best;
“I … I remember … those … those incidents. I … ah … the … those guests had … had been … they … they were a … a little inappropriate.”
I had made a mistake, I could see. Even this level of self-defense was not going to be acceptable. I could see her winding up to attack me— to remind me that our guests were never wrong, that it was my job to manage any ‘awkward moments’ without causing problems— that this was supposed to be my core skill— I had heard it before, and I hurried to continue, my voice betraying how close I was to a sob;
” … But … but I … I see my mistakes, I promise. I’m sorry. I know— I know I should have handled it better, Madam, I do! And … And I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again.”
She stares at me, face hard, for a long moment, not letting me see whether this was sufficiently grovelling. I was blinking to keep the tears back, cringing inside, hating this feeling.
And then at last she smiled. A cruel smile, to be sure, but a smile nevertheless;
“So, Can I trust you, then? That I can tell these guests there will be no repeat of your rudeness in future?”
Oh, the bitch. If she did actually do this, it was as good as an invitation to them to take further liberties; and for me, with this business of the money hanging over me, there would be no choice but to comply.
Here’s a link to a whole folder of Candace AI images. She’s a beauty.
