Read the previous chapter of ‘Moth’
Everything was dreamlike, then; I was far away from reality— feeling very warm, trembling from an overload of mixed emotions as she fastened the collar around my neck, in heaven as she kissed me— just a press of her lips on mine, but slow and soft and warm, such a small reward in return for my gift to her of my whole existence. At the time, though, it seemed the other way around— as if she was giving me something hugely desirable, precious beyond compare.
And I suppose that, in terms of scarcity value, that was correct. From Ms. F.’s direct experience, the world was full of pretty, weak young cunt like me, so foolish and vulnerable that we could be easily captured, then teased and tortured for her entertainment, while from my point of view, she was unique, and her time was limited; only a very few girls could hope to have her attention for more than a few moments.
She had her ‘phone out, then, had me smile for a picture, on my knees, thighs spread, hands at the small of my back, looking at the camera with my lips parted, tongue tip visible; I was blushing like crazy, but fizzing inside.
Then she fussed with it a little, before showing me the screen;
“This is your contract with me, as a full-service assistant. The pay isn’t much, but you won’t have many expenses, either, since I’ll control what you wear, where you stay, what you eat, what you do— along with who gets to fuck and abuse that lovely body, of course. You’ll sign it now— just put your finger on the fingerprint thing until it gives you a check.”
“No, no, silly! You don’t get to read it! Sex toys don’t read legal documents, they just smile stupidly and do as they are told, however vulnerable it makes them feel. When you feel like that; frightened and weak, you’re to giggle, to show that you know you’re being taken advantage of, that you’re frightened, that you know bad things are going to be done to you, that you know you are powerless to do anything about it, and that you’re fine with that, that you’re grateful to me for taking advantage of you.”
“Go on then, giggle for me…”
And I did, of course, really trying with it, too, no matter how stupid it made me feel. Making Ms. F. pleased with me— showing her that I was really hers to command— that was far, far more important.
“Good girl. You’re mine now, body and soul; tits, cunt, ass, mouth, and all the rest, too, for as long as I want to keep you. Of course, the contract is fully transferrable, so I can sell you on to someone else if I want to.”
“Oh, my! Such an entertaining expression! Yes, you hadn’t thought of being sold, had you? You’ll just have to work to keep me happy, then, won’t you, pretty? But then I told you that when I beat you and raped you; there’s never been any future but this for you; you’re made for it. Believe me; this is just making something that is already obvious fully official. I don’t need a contract to control you utterly; mostly it’s about the way it will mess with your head.”
Even this harsh speech didn’t break the mood— it was somehow all of a piece; of course, if I had given myself to her, she could do what she wanted with me; of course, I would have to dedicate my existence to pleasing her. It was all just as it should be. It was incredible, amazing, delightful that she had prepared a contract for me, that she had planned to have me like this all along; I was overflowing with trembly, fluttery gratitude, and I kept thanking her, until she reminded me, laughing at me, that I was not to speak unless it was required of me, and that another word from me would earn me a thrashing.
This, too, I heard with pleasure; it was real; she was going to keep me, control me.
My pulse thumped in my ears, my knees wobbled and my throat was dry as I obeyed, feeling both appalled and excited.
“Now, pretty, there’s something else in the box— that white cotton bag. The fat part goes in your pussy, the wiggly bit sticks out of you.”
It was like a big misshapen egg with a short stubby aerial at one end; all one piece, in pink rubber, surprisingly heavy, big enough to stretch me a little on the way in— I was unhesitating in my obedience.
“Now then, feel this.”
I let out a shriek, instantly suppressed for fear of attracting unwanted attention— I had hardly noticed, but she’d flicked her wrist— the hand she was holding her ‘phone with— and the thing inside me had given me a jolt— which I realised must be an electrical shock— right inside my pussy!
My eyes flew wide open; and I looked her full in the face for the first time in a while, appalled, but helpless.
She grinned at me, enjoying herself:
“Just so, girly. It’s a remote control device. It has a few options, and you’re to learn them, now. That shock is one— it means you are to activate yourself. If you’re kneeling, then you stand; if you’re standing, then you’ll walk— do you see? Let’s give it a try, shall we?”
She immediately shocked me again— it wasn’t that sore, really, but it was impossible to ignore— a sensation like nothing else; deeply, disturbingly intimate as it hurt me. I had no wish at all to have it repeated, and so made haste to get to my feet, only for her wrist to do a double shimmy, triggering a much bigger shock, that really did hurt, and nearly made me fall over; not screaming out loud cost me a great deal and once again I let her see just how horrified I was, only for her to laugh at me;
“Oh yes, pretty, it can punish, too— that’s the warning shock. You stood up as if you were a teenage layabout; that simply won’t do. Pretty elegance and sexual attractiveness is required of you at all times.”
“Now, this is the ‘deactivate’ signal — if you’re walking, stop, if you’re standing, go down— to kneel usually— judgement may occasionally be needed, of course.”
I had braced myself, but the sideways flick of her wrist did not transmit a shock this time, but rather a movement; it was as if the thing had scrunched itself up inside me, then let go again; a deeply sensual move, which had me emit a helpless little moan; it wasn’t hard to go down, because it made my knees feel weak, but it was followed by another warning shock that had me double over.
“Pretty elegance, little whore. Remember!”
Her voice was not in the slightest cross, though; in fact, it was very clear that she was enjoying herself, and that made everything easier; This was fun for her, and if she was having fun with me, then I was happy. When the small ‘activate’ shock came, I did everything I could to make rising from my knees a sexy, graceful move, entirely for her benefit; not because I was frightened of the warning shock— though of course I was eager to avoid it— but because I knew I had a chance to please her, and I was grateful for it.
“Well, at least that was better pretty— but you will be practicing for me, all the time, when you’re not needed, won’t you?”
And of course I found myself bobbing an assenting little half curtsy, like a nervous little girl, accompanied by a high pitched giggling sound; I felt as wretched as I was eager, as humiliated as I was grateful, feeling my cheeks hot, my heart pattering, an undertow of self disgust in my brain, horrified at how willingly I was going along with what was very clearly abuse.
There were several other signals, for activate/deactivate, left, right, faster, slower— the thing could buzz, and jerk, and twist in a couple of different ways, and she taught me them, walking me up and back from her table, turning, stopping, starting, even kneeling down in the middle of the room. The sensation of being so easily, so completely, so humiliatingly controlled was eating into me, even as I exerted myself continuously to please her, to have her find me entertaining.
It seemed impossible that I could sustain such levels of intensity of emotion, such wrenchingly shameful feelings, so continuously, but with Ms. F., there was never any let-up; never any relaxation of standards, either, so that there was nothing for it but to give myself to her, heart and soul, even for such ridiculous pantomimes as this.
Something about it— being controlled by an invader lodged in my wet pussy, the threat of horrible, intimate pain if I failed to please, the ease with which she could manage me; just lazy little movements of her wrist enough to have me turn, stop, speed up, kneel, stand again, continually alert lest I miss or misinterpret a signal and displease her (and receive a shock, too)— I could feel how deeply this degrading experience was affecting me, feel it further undermining any remaining belief in myself as worthy of even the slightest respect— I was being turned into a trick pony, and I was working to help her do it to me.
Fear of pain wasn’t all of it, but that was real, too; she had told me that there was an intensity beyond the warning shock that I should strive never to deserve although of course you’ll get it sometimes, anyway— just for fun, you understand; someday I’ll drive you to complete, screaming hysteria, that way, in front of strangers, and you’ll let me; you’ll be desperate to pull the evil little thing out of you, to avoid the pain you know is coming, but you won’t do it, you’ll take it for me, even though you know I’m merciless. I want you to think about that when you’re alone, in the middle of the night, pretty; how that will be; what it will say about you that you’ll let me do that to you, simply to amuse my friends.
I was close to tears with humiliation and yes, quivering with sexual tension, by the time she had me kneel for her again, overwhelmed by emotions, in awe of her effortless domination, dismayed and delirious, too, at how easy I was making it for her, at how welcome her dominion over me was, how it fit, so perfectly, into the sick flaw in my character which she had so ruthlessly revealed, so skilfully manipulated.
“Right, now! Let’s go and visit someone.”
Her mastery over me was demonstrated as she, walking well behind me— we were far enough apart that you might not have guessed we had anything to do with each other— she controlled me, walking me across the lobby to the desk, where I waited, mute, unable to answer the receptionist’s sprightly enquiry, feeling unutterably stupid as I waited for Ms. F. to arrive.
“Ms. Killick is expecting me. I know my way.”
The girl gave a smiling simper, clearly pleased to be talking to Ms. F. (how did she do it?);
“Of course, Madam, I’ll have Geoffrey take you down in the lift.”
Geoffrey— a spotty youth, tall and gangly in an ill-fitting uniform, at least two sizes too small for his spindly frame, with one of those stupid little pill box hats held onto his head by an elastic strap— was obviously also in thrall to Ms. F., who, as the lift took us down a level to the staff area, teased him in a jokey way about his furtive glances at me, to his mixed delight and confusion, and to my awful embarrassment Good enough to eat, isn’t she, Geoffrey? Perhaps I’ll let you eat her, one day, hm? Or would you prefer I had her eat you, perhaps?.
Once again, I was made to precede her, controlled by the device in my pussy, as we navigated a maze of corridors, eventually arriving at the executive area— and a corner office with actual windows, a surprise after the bland artificial lighting of the corridors.
Ms Killick was no Incantata Fiammina, but she was nevertheless quite formidable— about ten years older that Ms. F., severely dressed, with a bony face and a taut figure. Her face, though, wore a welcoming expression as she greeted Ms. F— they obviously knew each other well, had spoken recently; there was a minimum of pleasantries before they started talking about real things. About me, to be precise, and about Candace.
She appraised me, as I stood, blushing, head up, but eyes down, trembling, knowing that this must be another like Ms Gardner from the salon— another abuser of weak young women. Weak and stupid young women like me.
“My, my Incantata, you’ve been busy this morning! I had poor Candace in here a while ago— quite a state she’s in, to be sure; highly entertaining— you must tell me all about it (Candace’ story is here). And now this lovely… Do you mind if I…”
A part of me knew what to expect, when Ms. F. laughed at her By all means… when the woman talked to her PA via the intercom, saying she must not be disturbed for fifteen minutes, but it was still astonishing to have a perfect stranger walk over to me and casually slide her hand up my inner thigh while the other took possession of one of my breasts; still more incredible to find myself knowing I must adjust my stance to make it easier for her to do what she was obviously going to do— investigate my pussy, and find the thing inside me, and, worst of all, discover just how sticky and hot I was down there.
I wanted to die, and I wanted to make Ms. F. proud of me, both, and the latter won, hands down, as, at the merest touch on my shoulder, I bent my body forwards so that her other hand could come at me from the rear;
“That’s right, bend right over, dear, head back, eyes down, hands crossed behind your back. Spread your legs a little for me, would you, and tilt your hips— push those perky buttocks up for me, will you? Since you’re so hot and wet, you slutty little thing, I think I’ll make you have a painful come-off; I’m going to put my fist into your bumhole, now, and you Incanta, you can help her to come for me, can’t you, with your clever little toy? You’ve had her emptied, I assume?”
Ms. F. laughed again; it was a pleasure and a revelation to hear her so relaxed, so light, as she readily assented to both questions, no consideration paid to me or my feelings about the idea at all, my consent taken for granted, I realised, since my acceptance of her terms just half an hour before.
I felt sick, tearful, desperate, but I didn’t have it in me to do anything but hold my position as Ms. F. set the awful thing in my pussy going on a routine of its different modes, and put her hard, lacquered nails to my clitoris, alternately teasing and threatening horrible pain, so that by the time Ms. K. was back (she had announced she had some lube, a small mercy), I was already helplessly moaning, already consumed by terrible shame, my hips bucking and rolling with the need that was building in me.
Ms. F. squatted down in front of me, lithe as a cat, and lifted my head with a hand in my hair, hurting me deliberately, twisting her hand, pulling my head back and forwards a few times, just to demonstrate that she could, that I would let her, that I was defeated; and then she spoke;
“Eyes up, pretty, look at me; good. Now, kiss me; ever so ever so soft and open, show me love, pretty, show me worship.”
Ten seconds later, I was in helpless soft tears at the terrible glory of kissing her in such circumstances, of giving myself to her so wholeheartedly, even as she had scissored my poor clitoris between her long nails, while my other tormentor had pushed three fingers directly into my poor little rear hole, an indescribably unsettling experience.
Ms F pulled back from the kiss, smiling at me as if we were jolly friends, having a playful, fun game;
“Now, pretty, I want you to ask Ms Killick, here, ever so nicely, to be mean to you, to hurt you and shame you, tell her you’re happy to be made to suffer for her enjoyment. Ask her to rape you, will you? Will you do that for me, darling?”
And, quite simply, there was nothing else in my world, but to comply.
My voice was so weak, and pathetic, though, that I almost didn’t recognise myself, as I first assured my owner that I would do just as she desired of me, then, in a slightly stronger, though still tear-stained voice, asked Ms. Killick to be made to suffer for her entertainment, to be shamed, assured her that I was grateful to be permitted to suffer for her pleasure, asked her to rape me, hardly believing this could be possible.
Ms. F. gagged me then with some scrunched up office paper, stuffing sheet after sheet into my mouth, dry, sharp cornered, as Ms. K made me scream, uselessly, forcing first four, then all five fingers into me, then pushing, pushing, relentless, until, tiring of gradualism, she suddenly punched her whole hand into me, at which I would have fallen, felled by agony, had not Ms. F. been holding me, telling me what a good girl I was, telling me I was getting more beautiful by the second as I suffered, ramping up the motions of the horridly clever thing in my pussy, reminding me that the rape would continue until I came for them, working at my clitoris, kissing my tears away, so that, when, at last, Ms. K. had formed her fist inside me— the feeling strange and disturbing beyond imagining, and the pain had receded a little, I looked for and found that dark part of me which was breathless with sexual tension, bouncing backwards and forwards betweeen the feeling of the thing in my pussy, the clever and cruel ministrations at my clit, Ms. Killick’s free hand mauling my breast, Ms. F.,’s sultry, manipulative kisses, until I found a way in to giving myself over to raw sensation, and saw that it could be possible for me to arrive at a climax.
Knowing, deep inside me, that to do this would be yet another new low, from which I would not recover, I did it anyway, and made myself go there, to the dirty, perverse, sick part of me that wanted more, and let myself go, let myself jerk and thrust, flex and grind, whine and beg through the gag, meeting the movement of the stranger with her fist in my backside, giving her my orgasm, letting it take my body, shivering and quivering and sweating, losing myself completely in the destruction of it all. It wasn’t pleasure, it was simply drowning in sensation, and I didn’t know who or where I was for some while, then.
When I did recall myself, I instantly recoiled, horrified. I could not bear the knowledge that I was that slut, that whore, that pathetic, lost creature the two of them were talking about in such crude, mechanical terms, as if I wasn’t even there; tears coursed down my cheeks, I was already in a ball on the floor, or I would have collapsed. Bitter bile rose in my throat at the knowledge that I would have to live with myself, the girl who had fallen so far, so fast; who had allowed herself to be so degraded. Who was going to be treated like that for ever, now, who was going to find it impossible to resist, ever again, knowing herself to be so low, so dirty, so debauched. It felt like dying.
Only, as I have learned, one can die that sort of death many times, each as bleak and self-destructive as the first, and still find oneself living.
And the seal on the deal was Ms. F. almost gently pulling me up into a sitting position, talking softly into my ear as she pulled the soggy mass of paper from my slack mouth, wiping away the ruined mascara with my own drool, telling me I was going to be such fun, that I should have seen myself coming, that it was a revelation, that I was made to be her whore, that she was going to see to it that I became truly remarkable, the perfect slave slut, that I was going to be fucked by so many important people, that I was going to burn brightly, that I was going to be burned up by it.
And god help me, I turned my head so that she could kiss me, and kissed her back, and thanked her from the depths of my shame and despair, abject, possessed, giggling stupidly as she told me she wanted to really hurt my clitoris, that I should bend my legs tight, open wide, and beg her to do it, compliant again, sobbing and laughing through the pain, drunk with the debauchery of it, shell-shocked at my losses, glorying in my defeats.
It was all so fast, so brutal, so overwhelming. I had never stood a chance. I was truly lost then, with no possible way back.
