hellooo! I would just like to say thank you for writing for manon, i really do agree to your statement that we need manon writings more than ever😭, I'm aware that your requests are closed, but I really do hope you keep writing for manon— especially at this time. And as a manon bias, I need it BAD.😞
thank yew girlie ill always write for manon but writers block is hitting fr
✎ genre: smut, manon bannerman x female reader, dom!manon, sub!reader stalker!manon, fashion designer!manon, model!reader, reader can be portrayed as fem or masc, praise, oral, humping, fingering, choking, dacryphilia, obsession, mirror sex, voyeurism, spit-play, squirting, very nasty (like fr), multiple sex scenes, too many kinks to add u get the point
✎ summary: You are her muse. (18.9k Words)
✎ author’s note: MANON COME BACK
men and minors DNI past this point
Manon knew something was wrong with her.
No, she didn’t “knew”, she knows.
She was aware that she was thinking about some things she shouldn't be. She knew how to read lies from people's expressions; how to see right through them. And she knew how to get them to say the truth, even if it was cruel.
She was strict, hard to the core. Manon liked to carry this elegance of hers without an ounce of effort. She knew how to demand attention without even trying, and she knew what weaknesses were worth hiding, not that anyone was smart enough to really figure her out.
There was something about her that not everyone could name. But in all honesty, she never perceived her as anyone special. All she carried was confidence–that’s what makes her flawless.
Though it was much deeper than that.
Confidence wasn’t the only thing that could explain why she knew about things before they even happened. Conversations quieted down wherever she walked. People adjusted themselves even without her instructions, like they knew what would happen if they didn’t listen. Confidence could command attention, yes. But this was different.
This was anticipation–because Manon didn’t just see people.
She studied them. Not in a way that it felt subtle, there was intention underneath it. With the slightest precision, like the kind that didn’t take much to figure a person out. She always took her time. It never took long. All she needed was a few seconds, in some cases, sometimes even less. That’s all she needed to understand the simple structure of one’s being.
People liked to believe they were layered, like there was something truly special behind themselves. Complicated, hard to unwrap. As if there were parts of them hidden deep enough never to be reached. But Manon had never found that to be true. She believed that everyone had something to reveal. Whether it was a lie or the truth, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure it out.
But not everyone deserved her attention. She picked carefully. Not at random, nor out of boredom. Someone worth the effort, someone worth picking parts out of. She didn’t want to point out someone’s flaws; that wasn’t the point. Or at least someone who wasn’t entirely obvious.
Being obvious was uninteresting. There’s no satisfaction when uncovering something that’s already halfway exposed. There’s no thrill in that. It almost feels less like discovery and more like confirmation. That’s being repetitive. Predictable.
Manon didn’t have any use for that. She didn’t need it.
But what she wanted wasn’t exactly perfection–far from that. Being perfect was only another form of being obvious, being polished so carefully that it’s more like transparency. What was worth her time wasn’t being flawless; it was tension. One that wouldn’t give itself away all at once.
A hesitation that wasn’t really all that careless, perhaps controlled, enough to really feel something. That was where things became interesting. Because control meant awareness. And that’s what she needed. The only problem was that most people didn’t have that.
People had reactions, yes. They revealed something that belonged to them without meaning to, but Manon noticed everything.
That’s why she chose this job.
Every little detail is paid with discreet attention.
It wasn’t just creation, it was art. An observation made visible to the eye. It’s a translation of what people try to hide into something they would willingly wear. Fabric draped over one shoulder, the structure of a seam, the weight of a hem–it all mattered, it all meant something. Even colors weren’t chosen at random; they were purposely put together to make a statement. Each sketch was perfected, the lines' intention to be made tangible. Something that felt real, too real to ignore.
But it’s the person who wears the piece that brings it to life.
Because the fabric isn’t just resting on the body, it bends with each movement, exposing energy–expressing it. The simple way of someone tilting their head, pausing, or even shifting their weight can turn the piece of clothing into something entirely different without the intention of doing so. And yet, every thread, each fold, the cast of every shadow across the fabric material forces a story without knowing it. They’re the reason it comes to life.
Not everyone sees its true beauty. People don’t realize how their own bodies can speak when no one else is looking.
Manon does.
She sees that when a person hesitates, like just the sense of the lack of control of one's movement, it can allow the tension to be seen, even when they try to hide it. The slightest shift can betray more than words ever could.
She doesn’t need someone to perform for her or even notice her presence. Because the real art has contradictions. Parts of someone’s act can resist being controlled. And she likes a challenge. Not exactly playing a game, but something slightly difficult to put pieces into. That’s what gets her attention.
The only problem was–she’s still looking for that missing piece. Someone to challenge her, someone unforgettable. Not someone loud, not someone obvious. Someone she wants, who she needs.
She believes today wouldn’t be any different than the rest.
The same models moving studio after studio, searching for a job that would give them something–recognition, validation, purpose–anything that made the repetition feel worth it. But she saw right through them. None of them carried the one thing she sought. None of them felt natural. It was as if they were all taught to do the same things, fixing their posture, practicing their expressions, becoming too aware of their own selves without realizing the real meaning behind the art.
They controlled themselves, but even then, none were convincing. No piece of fabric could mask what truly hides beneath the clothes. Models weren’t statues, they moved. No matter how hard they tried to perfect themselves, there's always something that can never be fully concealed.
But what Manon needed wasn’t perfection nor the flaws, it was what held in between.
Balance.
Being balanced meant being aware without having to perform. A walk that moved naturally, having both control and the ability to have instinct, existing all at once. Having those traits meant it couldn’t be taught again or replicated. Someone who already had it all. She wasn’t going to waste her time teaching someone who didn’t already understand what this form of art meant. She needed someone who loved this as much as she did.
It needed to exist before her. The ability to move without anyone's expectations, before the jobs, before the clothing that had been sewn in together, before the stage itself, it was something innate. It cannot be mimicked, no matter how many hours of dedicated practice or critiques. It must live in the way they breathed and carried themself without judgement. Yes, hard work meant something, but it could never create what was already there. Because the moment it was taught, it lost what made it real.
And Manon only worked with what was real.
So when she pulled up to the studio, the line outside was already terribly long. Evidence to indicate that it was just another evening of wasting her time to have to sit through rehearsed steps, smiles that began to ache, and the same agonizing act of those who pretend they think they’re the one, an attempt to pretend to have charisma she had seen too many times before.
Even in small, subtle ways. The way they fidgeted with their hands, looking at their faces through the glass, straightening their posture, everything about it felt calculated. She didn’t need to step out of the car to see the anticipation and the nervousness masked with confidence on their faces. She didn’t have to guess the adrenaline they must have been feeling. It was all so obvious that she had already found it quite tiring to even think about.
She didn’t bother hurrying, as if there was nothing urgent to reveal. She already knew none of these people had what she needed. For a few minutes after she parked her car, she sat there, glancing through her rear mirror, watching silently as the hope on all their faces either began to grow or fade within seconds of waiting.
So she waited. Watching more people stepping in line after another began to feel gruesome, and she hadn’t even walked inside the building. Everything about this felt restless, almost frustrating. Because she doesn’t need the crowd to impress her, she needed one person.
It was a few short minutes after that she received a call from her phone, the ringing bleeding through her ears. She glanced at the name of the caller, cursing softly under her breath as one of the managers of the casting appeared on the screen.
She finally walks out of the car, feeling calm, per usual. Bored even, moving with grace that somehow made the line of people grow even more restless from her appearance. Even with sunglasses that covered her eyes, hiding the bored expression upon her face, it was enough for heads to turn.
Nobody spoke, no one had tried to catch her attention as if it would do anything, even if they did. They all pretended to be unaffected, as if they weren’t frantically preparing themselves just a few minutes prior. And that’s just one out of many things that she hated about what people did, pretending. Performative.
Manon didn’t glance at them, didn’t give a single acknowledgment to the attention she had drawn. Unbothered. People moved aside as she went towards the front door, letting the doors push inwards as she stepped inside, only to be faced with another huge crowd, filling the studio.
She’d think she should be getting used to it by now. But the sight of the studio packed with models still carried a weight of frustration. She moved through them without another look, going towards the casting room.
The noise closes behind her as the door did, shutting it with a soft thud as the rest of the casting directors caught their attention on her. It felt immediate, like she felt recognition settle in between their facial expressions, as if they knew her presence could not be ignored.
Manon didn’t acknowledge them. She walked past them just as she did with the models. She settled in between them, taking the empty seat right in the middle. Taking the seat felt less like joining them and more like completing something that’s already meant to be there.
People began to settle in as she did. Some were fixing papers, pens tapping against the table, postures straightening even before the casting had begun. Everyone in the room understood.
She placed her sunglasses in the corner, eyes steadied, and hands clasped together like nothing in the room could unsettle her–as if she had already seen everything there was to see before a single model had even stepped forward.
Conversations started to quiet down once the first model was called in.
There was expectation on the faces beside her, hoping for someone to bring in what they needed. But as soon as the model took a step forward, moving too precisely, the walk too rehearsed, it faded just as quickly.
It was flawless, indeed, but it felt empty enough that it clouded everything else that was meant to feel real. Every step felt weightless, every turn executed with practiced ease. There was no hesitation, nothing to catch on, nothing to fix, nothing to question. This was the problem.
Manon’s face stays motionless.
She doesn’t ask for her name, she doesn’t glance at the profile that was handed to her. She just stares. For a fraction of a second, her eyes squinted, but just enough that but just enough that it almost suggested something. Almost.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The slightest shift of her hand was enough, a quiet signal passed without looking away. The model frowns, leaving a room without the slightest recognition, meaning that nothing she had practiced or perfected was enough to please not just Manon, but the eyes of anyone in that room. The one thing a model could fear.
Next.
Another model walks through the door, posture already fixed before they had reached the mark.
She already knew this would be the same. The same controlled breath–the same understanding of how they should look rather than how they exist. This cycle repeats so often that it’s almost hard to forget what really seemed real.
She watches, and nothing changes. The model begins to walk, but Manon’s face hasn’t changed even after the second one leaves the room.
Another one walks in, and then another.
Nothing changes.
Each one felt like a robot coming in and out. This casting might as well have been a rehearsal for statues, their steps moved without purpose, faces incredibly beautiful–yes–but none had the lasting impression that she sought out for. Nothing to remember by, nothing to hold onto once they had left the room.
Manon leaned back against the chair, whispering a few words to her right. The other casting director stared at the current model, waving a hand away. The model left with a frown, a scene that replayed itself over and over as the evening dragged on.
She sighed, tapping her pen with impatience before scribbling yet another model off the list. Another face, but another disappointment.
The line of models was still long. They came and went, everything that they had practiced, control, movement, none paid the efforts of what should be real and what had pretended to be. Manon’s eyes followed every step, every move, but nobody there had caught her eye.
Minutes stretched into hours. The room grew more silent as time passed. Creative directors and managers tried to persuade her to choose some of the models who had shown potential and whom they thought were the right fit. But Manon disagreed.
Their voices vanished into the background, empty compared to her own judgment. Their suggestions and beliefs carried no weight because none of them knew what she was truly looking for. After all, it was her word that mattered. It was her show, her clothes that were going to be put on this one model.
When things began to feel hopeless, she was ready to pack her purse, already preparing to leave yet another casting call.
But then the door opened again.
You.
Manon’s hand froze over the pen.
You walked in with false confidence. Underneath, you were nervous–but real. And she saw right through you.
You didn’t have that same practiced posture that everyone else had, not the way you tensed your jaw too hard that it was nearly unnoticeable, or the way your step almost faltered before correcting yourself.
It’s not perfect.
That’s exactly why she didn’t look away.
Your throat pulses the second your steps end. A brief pause. It lingers enough to be noticed, not by anyone, but only to her. You try to will yourself back into control, but you’ve been caught. Your eyes flick onto hers, just enough to catch something in them without knowing what they truly hold.
You swallow again. And she notices.
Her grip on the pen tightens. She’s no longer writing, not moving either. As if she can’t focus on anything else but the figure standing centered, right in front of you.
The manager on her right whispers something, but you heard it all too clearly. “She’s not the one.” Some of the staff agreed, some stayed silent.
A stylist chimes in, glancing at her clipboard, “Her shoulders are tense. You can see it in the neck. She’s going to freeze under the lights.”
A creative director nods with a frown, shaking their head. “She looks too unsure. She won’t carry the confidence we really need.”
Humiliation rises in your chest, you don’t speak up, you can’t. Preserving your pride was instinct, a shield against the judgments that didn’t understand what they hadn’t seen. This wasn’t fair. You knew that.
They didn’t even give you the chance to walk or speak before their opinions flew out like spilled ink. Your anger began to cloud the embarrassment rising inside you. Every whispered comment, every judgment passed without knowing, pressed against your ribs, demanding to be acknowledged.
But even then, Manon doesn’t move. Her eyes can’t seem to look away from you. Doesn’t acknowledge their insults over you. Doesn’t falter–doesn’t soften. It was as if she knew there was something about you that the rest of them didn’t care enough to find more of.
But she did. She wants to find out more about you, the way your inhale and exhale feel less like breathing and more like a rhythm trying to steady itself, or the heavy rise in your chest betraying the tension it coils you attempt to hide.
Every little detail, every fraction becomes too consuming at just the sight of you standing so incredibly still. The unconvincing act of masquerading as the mortification slowly engulfs you. The way you tried to hide the trembling of your hand over the other. The calculation you try to uphold, slowly fading from the cruelty of their words.
No, it wasn’t just that.
There was something genuine in your act that no amount of practice could copy.
Others lacked the authenticity you held. She could see it in your eyes that you didn’t need this job, you didn’t need to prove something like everyone else did.
You were doing it for you.
Just as their voices began to mix, Manon's hand raised.
Silence overcame the room.
“I want to see you walk.”
The words felt like they were bouncing off the walls, the floors sinking beneath you, and you stood in the middle of it all. This wasn’t a challenge, nor was it a demand. An invitation, a promise you can’t really wrap your head around. Her eyes were screaming through you, as if she was daring you to continue further.
The director leans forward, mouth barely open to prepare for an excuse. “Manon, we can’t–” She stops him, pressing her palm flat against the table, a loud sound breaking through the walls. The act was enough to shut him up.
It feels like the first time all over again. Standing in a room full of directors and designers, their eyes judging you all over. The fear, the excitement rushes in. Even after hundreds of casting events you attended, this was different. You knew that.
And so did she.
Because she wasn’t judging you.
She’s seeing you.
“Show me yourself. Not what you think I want to see.” She says lowly, her breath faltering for a second when she catches the surprise in your eyes.
Your hands clench at your sides, heart beating hard against your ribs. It’s no longer an embarrassment that you feel. Not entirely. Not quite sure.
Your throat closes again. All eyes are on you, and for the first time in a while, you truly feel seen.
“Okay.” You nod quietly, releasing the clench of your jaw as you speak. our feet shift almost imperceptibly, testing the floor beneath you. Their eyes are digging into you, but none of them matter. All that matters is her.
The first step felt careful, nearly hesitant. There was an immediate notice in between your moves.
She settles in her chair, one leg crossing over the other. Not even the faintest of reactions washes over her face as her gaze pierces through you. Not even when your steps become more confident, something unspoken passes in between.
After a moment, your steps quicken a bit, enough that it seemed natural. At least the semblance of it did.
Manon rests her chin over the palm of her hand, leaning forward on the table. Your feet stutter just for a fraction when her tongue pokes out to wet the bottom of her lip, as if watching the way your body hesitates in all the right places does something to her.
Her thighs press tighter together.
You can feel her focus on you alone, like a silent current that tugs at the space between every step you take. There’s this quiet intensity, it’s sort of strange, not quite unsettling, but it’s just something hidden beneath her eyes you can’t fully name. Only the darker shade of the color of her eyes and the way they narrow just as she observes you all around has your voice shoved deep within your throat, unable to come out.
When your legs reach right where they started in the middle of your floor, your body carries a slight tremble that matches the rhythm of your heart hammering in your chest.
Nobody dared to say a word.
The atmosphere’s no longer bothersome. It’s the kind filled with stillness.
The creative director next to her nods, as if he were finally acknowledging you. He turns to Manon, glancing at the portfolio of your face in his hands, dropping it loosely on the table. He leans forward to glance at one of the managers sitting against the wall, then looks back at you. You don’t even break eye contact with Manon because you knew whatever he was going to say next, you wouldn’t really be able to comprehend. Not with the way her stare felt like it was the only thing you knew how to feel.
He sighs, “We already have enough models for the show.” He tells her, but Manon isn’t listening. She can’t.
How could she?
Her gaze is anchored to you, tethered by some hidden desire that you aren’t really sure if that was it or if she was just good at paying attention. Nevertheless, it was insistent, as if it refused to loosen its hold no matter whose voice was trying to tear her away from you. It could be perceived as illogical, but that didn’t matter either.
What mattered was how she just couldn’t look away, no matter how hard she wanted to. Her eyes caressed your body, the sole image of you with a silhouette attached from behind. It burns, just looking at you. It nearly hurts. Her eyes captured every curve you own, every shape, every hesitant breath you released from your lips, fuck, you were so close, but so far away.
Just imagining being closer to you was something she refused to let herself want, like it was a crime, as if she shouldn’t even be thinking about it. Manon’s restraint slowly becomes difficult to control, closing her eyes as if it would help. But it doesn’t, because knowing your presence standing still so close, is already stained–pressed up against her eyelids as if reality itself feels overwritten.
“We can make space.”
The words hang in the air, unspoken, released. Her voice almost seemed detached, but she knows exactly what she’s saying. To her left, the manager stiffens, “Manon, you know we can’t just–”
She doesn’t care.
“We will make space.”
Not once did her eyes dare to look away from your own.
Your breath gets caught up in your throat again, and you realize your pulse has been visible the whole time—every beat, every quiet breath–she’s been silently cataloging. Her head turns to the right, just slightly, never breaking eye contact with you. Her voice is still low as she whispers, “I want her.”
And then her head turns right back to you. Simple and forward. Jaw straightened, eyes calculating your features as if she had just found the piece she’s been searching for all this time. When she speaks again, it’s much louder, enough for you to hear her, to feel it.
“I want you.”
Her eyes don’t waver, never flinch–they put you in place, but it’s not with anger or demand. It’s recognition. Ownership, almost, but not yet.
You now realize how fully she’s seen you, even without a single touch or a step closer. Every breath you take, every twitch of your hand, she’s already memorized.
Goosebumps form along the line of your arms, and suddenly, it feels like your feet are glued to the floor because you can’t seem to move, or even breathe steadily.
Manon’s lips almost curve upwards, just almost. In that moment, you felt recognized, free even. You were excited, happy, of course, and yet this was only the beginning of something entirely new. If only you knew what she really meant when she said she wanted you.
And in that silence, you realize you’ve already been claimed, even before you take another step.
1:00 PM.
That’s the time you’ve arrived.
The building is entirely packed. It stands tall, too many floors to count, so that even just looking straight up at it could hurt your neck. Cars are pulling in and out–someone rushes out the front door for a quick call. Different designers, managers, and even the models all carried the rush of the same mindset, time. It was as if it was urging them forward.
Voices overlapped one another, heels clicked against the floor in uneven rhythm, racks of clothing glided past through doors, brushing against elbows and hips without apology. It was the kind of energy that seemed uneasy for others, but to you? It was everything you were already used to.
The door opens as you step inside, and the chaos that follows soon swallows you whole.
“Careful!’ Someone yells as they pass by you, hands full of neatly stacked fabric, barely sparing you a glance. Someone else calls out for measurements at the other side of the room. A corset is being tugged too tightly. A zipper nearly breaks. Somewhere further away–laughter breaks through the noise, but it leaves just as quickly as it came.
Everything moves–everything except you.
There were too many things happening all at once. Your eyes continued to follow every motion with quiet precision. You know the feeling of urgency, the time limit, the way people lose themselves within the pace. This type of scene never really overwhelmed you, and at times, you kind of liked the feeling.
Yet, still, something about today felt off.
Your fingers flex tightly by your sides, as if grounding yourself could mask the noise surrounding you. Everywhere you look, some faces are unfamiliar, voices that blend, movements that were too fast to follow. You stood there awkwardly, almost like a mannequin.
By the corner of your eye, someone notices you and hurriedly rushes over to you. There’s a clipboard in her hands and glasses that are barely hanging over her nose bridge.
“Name?” She speaks over the noise, voice expectant.
You answer, your voice steady despite how your blood rushes over you, the feeling can’t quite stay still.
There’s a pause as she scans the list. Before you knew it, the creative director–the same one from the casting last week hurries over, already remembering your face. He stands over her shoulder, also scanning for your name before looking back at you.
“You’re late.” He says flatly. The woman checks your name off. “You should’ve been here an hour ago.”
That alerts you. Your mouth opens, but there is no excuse formed on the tip of your tongue. Because you weren’t late. You know you weren’t.
Then something weird happens. Both the woman and the director go quiet, their eyes flicking toward you, voices trailing off mid-sentence. Their tension isn’t that noticeable, but you feel it when their eyes are back on you. You blink, confused. You hadn’t said or done anything. Why were they staring at you like that?
He clears his throat, eyeing the message printed underneath your name. “Oh.” He mutters. Oh? What kind of reaction is that? There were so many questions swarming through your mind that you could barely manage to think.
“You’re with Manon.”
You freeze. Nobody ever personally works with the head director all alone. Not in a hurried setting like this. Your head glances left and right, but she’s nowhere to be seen. A tight knot begins to form in the middle of your stomach, just in time before your pulse spikes.
You’re nervous, obviously. Anticipated almost. You wanted to speak, to ask why with the sudden change of plans. The director notices your confusion but doesn’t explain.
He keeps the moment short, “I’ll lead you to her.” He turns to the woman, nodding before she turns to leave. When he faces back towards you, his lips form a thin line. “She’s been waiting.”
Now you’re feeling suffocated because you’re following him two steps behind, squeezing through the crowd of models and employees, past the rack of clothes, the voices, the noise. He leads you to the elevator. As soon as you stepped in, you watched him carefully, eyeing his hand when he pressed the one with the number ten on it. The highest floor in the building. It doesn’t soothe your nerves whatsoever.
The walls feel too close. The air feels too thick. You swallow, dry, and your hands flex at your sides, gripping something invisible to steady yourself. You try to tell yourself to breathe, but the tightness in your chest refuses to ease.
But then the elevator dings, and you're suddenly being welcomed to a world you’d never forget.
The entire top floor is unusually quiet, the opposite of the one you were just in. One step, and the room manages the sound loud enough to echo. Huge, modern paintings decorated the walls. There were fabrics and outfits displayed on mannequins in a neatly matter. One wall was entirely covered in mirrors. The room felt so loud, yet there was no noise other than the lack of rhythm in between your breaths.
Your eyes soon follow the invisible trail of line towards the middle of the floor. There she stands, waiting, not moving, not speaking, eyes already watching you.
Manon.
You hear the elevator close behind you, realizing that it’s now just you and her. Every instinct in your body screams at you that this isn’t normal, or maybe it was your paranoia. There was just an unclear line between the two ideas.
Your heart beats quicker than any thought that could be formed in your mind. It’s only then that you realize that maybe the room you stood in doesn’t exist around you, only her does. Only the way her eyes never leave you, the way she’s already memorized you before a word is ever spoken.
Finally, she tilts her head. Her face doesn’t change when she sees you. But you knew you had her attention entirely. Something about it made your head dizzy.
“You’re late.”
You swallowed. You’ve been told that already, and yet? It feels much sharper when it’s coming from her voice, forming the words from her lips. There’s no anger in between the syllables, but it wasn’t soft either.
“I’m not–” You manage, voice catching inside your throat, weak against the intensity of her gaze.
“You should know better than that.” Manon adds.
There’s silence after that, sitting in the tension that lies in the space between you and her.
She turns away, sitting on the couch behind her. You can’t help but eye her outfit. Black slacks and her white blouse, the tops nearly unbuttoned. Your head turns away before she could catch you staring at a place where you shouldn’t, but by the look in her eye, it seems that it was too late for that. She pats the empty spot on the couch next to her. Your feet follow without registering any of this.
You leave space in between as you sit down. Manon closes that said space before a word could leave your mouth.
She places a hand on your knee, the warmth radiating off your jeans. It’s gentle, soft even, but not heavy enough to keep you in place. Just there, settling her hold over you.
Your eyes meet her own. It’s the first time you’ve seen her up this close. Her hair’s neatly straightened, makeup polished but not bold, yet somehow it feels like she’s also studying you as carefully as you’re studying her. As if she were two steps closer.
“You need to understand,” Manon starts, her voice enough for the warmth to deepen within your skin. “This isn’t just a job.”
She continues, the grip on your knee growing tighter. “It’s not about the show, the clothes, or the cameras. It’s about you–how you move, how you breathe, how you exist when nobody’s telling you what to be.”
“When you walked for me,” Manon inhales softly, as if the memory itself has already gotten her far too deep. “You weren’t perfect, but you weren’t careless either. That’s what I need.”
Her hand leaves your knee, and it was only then that you finally released the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
She leans forward, handing you a few papers of different designs and sketches. You analyze them carefully one by one, each one had their own characteristics, its own voice. They were all drawn beautifully, every line critiqued into one place, every sketch had its own purpose.
She observes you, taking note of the slightest gasp you took once the designs were handed to you, the way your eyes seemed to light up from the drawings. She tries not to let it affect her too easily.
You're watching the designs, she’s watching you.
Her eyes can’t erase the way your features fall into place so flawlessly. You move without care. You feel free without needing someone else’s approval. She leans back slightly, still close.
A corner of her lip lifts upwards, “These,” she glances at the collection, “Aren’t just my designs. They’re instructions for the way everyone else perceives you. Guidelines for how I want the world to see you. Not the other models, not the camera, not anyone else–”
“Just you.”
Manon exhales shakily, “And maybe just for me.”
You’re momentarily caught off guard by the sudden way her words feel intimate, too intimate. Your jacket feels too hot, the designs in your hand tremble beneath your fingers, and suddenly the space between you seems too close–or too far.
She’s still fixated on you. Analyzing every small detail in the way you move. You aren’t sure if it’s from curiosity or calculation, but the attention on you feels much more personal now that you’re here.
“Do you understand?” Her breath is hot near your skin, her lips nearly twitching. Almost a smile, but her eyes still share the same intense look within them.
You nod.
She seemed satisfied with your answer, despite the lack of words. She gives you a light smile. “Then it’s settled.” Manon walks up from the couch, taking the sketches from your hands.
“There are 5 months before the show starts,” She says as she hangs the sketches on the bulletin board near the couches. “We’ll need to work on your walk–your timing, your control.”
“Until then, you’ll be spending your time on this floor.” She pauses to turn her head slightly, looking to you over her shoulder, “With me.”
This makes you look up.
Questions began to swarm in your head. You don’t quite understand. Shouldn’t you be with the other models just a few floors down? Why was she personally working with you out of the hundred models, casted the same way you were? There were so many questions clouding your mind, you didn’t register her presence growing closer to yours as she walked over to you.
Her gaze grazes every inch of you. The furrowed brows forming in your expression, the slight hitch of your breath, the way she could see every question forming through your thoughts without having to say them out loud. She traces every little detail about you without you even knowing.
“I don’t work with people I’m unsure about.”
Your throat becomes dry.
“And I’m not unsure about you.”
“The question is,” Manon stands over you, your view covered from her waist. “Are you?”
The question hits harder than it intended to.
You swallow, knowing the answer before your mouth could form the sentence. Your heart already knows that you were made for this. You weren’t ready for this opportunity to get taken away from you. Especially if this was with her.
“I’m not.” You say, loud and clear.
Manon’s eyes squint, nodding her head. She isn’t surprised, not exactly impressed either. She was satisfied with your confirmation, though. And for a while, she studies the way your movements catch between confidence and desperation, balanced between a fine line. Her hand reaches out, and before you know it, she’s pulling you up from the couch, matching her height.
“Good.”
And then she smiles, not with warmth, not with temptation either. Just a small smile, enough to send shivers down your spine.
“We’ll start now.”
You’re standing in front of one of the mirrored walls, the reflection of your own posture suddenly more noticeable than before. Behind you, you hear a soft glide of one of the racks being pulled closer to you, the metal hangers of different fabrics and designs brushing together.
“I’ll be taking your measurements now.” Manon’s voice comes from behind, calm, unlike you.
She’s taking one of the pieces off the hanger, carefully taking a deeper look between the designs before she notices what you’re wearing through the mirror. Your leather jacket hugs you tightly around your figure, and your jeans fit quite the opposite.
She turns around, dropping the shirt on a nearby table. “Lose the jacket.” She says simply.
It was a simple order, nothing out of the ordinary. You were used to this anyway. This was your job. Simple as that. It didn’t take away the way your blood began to rush in your body, the heat radiating off so quickly that you think she may have felt it too. You release a trembling sigh, deliberately taking the jacket off, revealing your white shirt underneath.
Manon takes a measuring tape, walking towards you. Then, through the mirror–her jaw tenses. Head cocked to the side as if she still wasn’t pleased enough.
The measuring tape hangs loose by her side as she steps behind you. Another step and her chest would be pressed against your back, but even now, without even touching you, it already feels too much. The awareness, the temptation that slowly begins to withhold its control.
“Are you wearing anything tighter underneath this?” She eyes your face, then the clothes you’re currently wearing. She’s right, they’re too loose, not good when she’s trying to measure your angles and figures for the pieces she’s trying to perfect on you. A frown is apparent with the way she’s staring at you, and for some reason, you care a little too much about the way she’s looking at you, as if disappointing her really meant a lot to you.
You shift awkwardly, still watching her through the mirror. Your voice is low when you answer her, “Just my bra.” You swallow, “And my underwear.”
Silence follows.
Her breath soon grazes your skin by your neck, and an evident shiver follows through your body.
“You don’t mind taking these off then?” Manon glances at your shirt and jeans, “Do you?”
You inhale sharply.
Again, you were supposed to be used to this. You do this for a living.
But why does the room feel like it’s closing you in from the inside?
She waits for your response. Her authority speaks louder than her words. Her presence, her being as a whole, you’re all too aware of it. Her head tilts to the side, either silently questioning your silence, or that maybe–she enjoys watching you squirm.
You don’t answer her.
Instead, your fingers trail to the zipper of your jeans. The metallic cool of the material nearly burns your touch as you drag it lower, before your hands find the waistband of the denim. Your fingers can’t stop shaking from the nerves crawling up your skin, but you drag the fabric down anyway. Slowly.
Soon, your jeans pool around your feet.
The air around your legs becomes cold. Too cold, chills form along your thighs. There's a physical pull underneath your skin, and it’s not from the air itself.
You hear an evident inhale from Manon.
It’s barely there, but with the silence surrounding you, it was the loudest noise. You let her sculpt your legs with her eyes, imprinting the sole image of you into her mind. The slightest shiver you see within her shoulders and her breath hitting your skin has your head turning away, looking anywhere but her.
And even now, not once, will she look away from you.
Your fingers held the ends of your shirt, gripping the fabric so hard that your nails dig into the cloth. Nearly piercing through. Your hands begin lifting it, your torso, over your head, revealing your skin.
The shirt lies next to the jeans.
You stood still. Bare air hitting your skin. You feel exposed, you are. Yet, the only eyes on you were your reflections and hers.
Manon doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t acknowledge the tension in the space sitting underneath you both. But even then, you see the faintest tremor over her bottom lip, and another shaky exhale escapes her lips.
You’re naked, not really, but with her eyes on you? It already feels like you are.
Manon’s jaw clenches tight, the muscle tightening along the line. Her eyes fixated on every curve you owned. The swell curve from behind all the way towards the ones that curve underneath your breast. You hold in your breath once your eyes catch the way her throat bobbles slightly, as if she were swallowing something that wasn’t meant to be tasted.
Your eyes trail lower, her hand nearly twitching against her sides. You don’t know what any of this means. Maybe this was just an act to her, maybe this was all in your head. But the way she’s staring at you feels far more real than anything you’ve ever felt before.
Her eyes catch your own through the reflection.
You look away again.
She takes a step back. You weren’t sure if you felt relieved or disappointed.
“Alright.” She breathes, grabbing the measuring tape. “Stand straight.”
You adjust instantly, shoulders pulling back, chin lifting just slightly. You watch yourself–or her, through the mirror. You look more intentional and professional as you are.
She leans forward near your ear, “Not stiff.” Her voice is firm.
Before you can correct yourself, her hands are on you, light but precise. One settles against your shoulder, pressing it down just enough, while the other adjusts the angle of your arm. You shudder without intending to. She feels it.
“Relax,” Manon whispers.
She corrects your posture, her palm lying flat against your back. The warmth of her hand almost burns through your skin.
“Don’t control your body. That’s how you hold tension in places you don’t need.” She advises, her chin grazing your shoulder as she straightens your shoulder a little more.
You try to focus–you really do, but you keep holding your breath, and every ounce of your muscle suddenly becomes weak when she’s this close.
You’re still not quite there yet, but she still picks up the tape. The material brushes against your skin as she works, efficient, adjusting, writing numbers you don’t even hear. You flinch when the material feels a bit cold on your skin.
She glances up at you.
“Breath normally.” She reminds, stern, serious.
You’re trying.
The tape slides around your waist, then higher, then lower again–each movement controlled, intentional. Then she reaches down, jotting something on a nearby clipboard before your body turns slightly to watch her with your own eyes–not through the reflection.
That was your first mistake.
Manon catches you. Hands immediately holding your arms tight, setting you in place as you once were before.
Her breasts pressed against your back before you could utter a word.
“Stand still.”
Your chest tightens almost immediately, the air feeling too small in the space between your ribs. You can’t move even if you wanted to. Her hold on you doesn’t give you a chance. She adjusts you again, firm but careful, her hands tracing along your sides to reset your posture.
“I know you’re not new to any of this,” Manon whispers, her lips nearly grazing you, “So I’m not sure why you’re not understanding anything that I’m saying.”
Shame falls upon your features.
You look at the floor, “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need apologies,” Her voice grows firmer, her patience running out. “I need you to listen.”
Your pulse quickens, but you obey, letting her hands guide you. The touch stings. You can’t feel anything but her. And somehow, in that tension, you feel exposed, yes–but also seen in a way no one else has ever looked at you.
She continues after lifting your arms, wrapping the measuring tape around one.
Manon maps you out with careful precision. Every detail mattered. One incorrect mistake and the entire piece could be ruined, that’s how much this project meant.
Your fingers curl slightly at your sides, trying not to fidget, but the heat crawling up your neck refuses to leave. Her eyes on you, scanning, noticing every subtle shift in your posture, every tiny twitch you didn’t mean to make–you just can’t get over it.
Her hands linger a moment too long, adjusting your elbow again, and you flinch. Not loudly, barely perceptibly, but it’s enough. You feel her sigh behind you, your heart quickening at the reaction.
And then it happens.
The second mistake.
The tape slips just slightly at the wrong angle, and your arm tilts toward yourself without meaning to.
You feel her sigh, her breath hitting your shoulders.
“This isn’t your first time.” She reminds you, dropping the measuring tape loosely on the floor. You watch from the mirrors, eyes looking anywhere but her.
You nod, trying to form an excuse. “I know, but–”
“If you know, then why can’t you do it right?”
Your stomach twists.
Manon turns around. Disappointment is visible through her features. That alone affects you more than it should have. She pushes the rack of clothes somewhere near the couch, before she suddenly pauses–turning back towards you.
Her eyes land on you hard. Maybe she’s reconsidering something she had already decided.
Something shifts within her expression. It was never soft, but it wasn’t with annoyance either. Something more hidden underneath.
Her heels echoed against the floor with each step she took closer to you, closing the space between your back with her front.
Your breath hitches when you feel her breasts fully pressed up against the skin of your back.
“You’re thinking too much,” Manon says, eyes growing dark.
You glance up–quickly, only to find that she was already staring into your eyes before you could process anything that’s happening. Your body tenses, and she feels it. She notices. Of course she does.
“Do you know what your problem is?” She asks quietly, a hand reaches towards yours from behind. The touch almost burns.
You don’t answer. You’re not sure if you can.
Her thumb rubs slightly, just enough to keep your focus locked on her. But you’re anything but focused.
“You’re trying to be what you think I want,” She says. “Instead of just being what I already chose.”
Her hand squeezes yours. The pressure of her hand isn’t painful, but it’s enough to bring you back from the swirling thoughts going in circles around your head. Your thoughts freeze, caught somewhere between what she’s saying and what you’re feeling.
Manon notices the lack of eye contact you’re giving her. She doesn’t like that. She wants your eyes on her. She needed your eyes on her.
When she tests further, leaning her chin down, your pulse on your heart almost breaks the space in between your ribs.
A soft kiss presses against your shoulder.
You both shudder at the contact.
Your eyes close at the touch. The soft warmth of her lips, the faint smell of her lip gloss, her hand over yours. You can’t breathe, not even for a moment. But you’re afraid of breaking whatever it is that she’s trying to do. You knew this was wrong, you knew you only had one job to do–but you just can’t find the will to stop whatever she’s doing.
You feel her lips curve upwards, a faint smile falling on her features.
“Oh?” Manon laughs quietly, the vibration sending shivers down your skin.
The touch lingers, piercing something through your mind and whatever words you were trying to say because none seemed to be coming out. When your gaze finally cuts back to her, there’s something faint within her eyes. The sight almost drowns out everything else.
“I chose you because you didn’t force yourself to control.” She murmurs, pressing another torturing kiss to somewhere higher up your neck. Her hand leaves your own for a second, grabbing a handful of your hair–pulling it to the back.
“Or maybe that’s what you need.” A kiss behind your ear that makes your thighs squeeze together. “Learn to control yourself.”
Manon hands release your hair, trailing her palms to the small space behind your back, before moving to your waist. Her hands settle at your hips, fingers digging in deep, you almost think it’ll leave an imprint.
She’s taking her oh so sweet time with you. Judging the reactions you’d make for her or the way you can’t seem to think properly when she’s touching you just like this. You’re still breathless, still sensitive, and maybe that’s what she loves. Loves seeing you squirm beneath her touch.
She tilts her head, nose pressed deep into the side of your neck. You let out a quiet exhale, her hands trailing towards your stomach, getting used to the feeling of your skin against hers. Her eyes scan your thighs, all the way to the spot on your throat through the mirror.
Her eyes linger a little too long on your neck. A sudden idea forms in her mind. One hand stays firm by your waist. The other? Slowly trailing upwards. You’re letting these soft, quick breaths to steady the rhythm of your breathing, but nothing really works.
You feel every graze of her nail on your skin, the coolness of her ring against your warmth, the way her fingers wrap around your throat like it’s meant to be there.
Your thighs press harder together. You’re soaked, so wet. You knew that.
And she did too.
“Manon.” You gasp, hearing her name out of your mouth only makes the grip on your neck tighter.
“Is this okay?” She asks, pressing small kisses down your neck, to your shoulders.
You nod, almost immediately.
The confirmation relaxes her. Her hand trailing higher, you feel her fingers steady your chin, tilting your face toward hers. For a moment, you don’t register anything else. Not when her lips press hard against yours.
It’s not soft, but it’s slow, like she’s taking her time trying to understand what you like, who you truly are.
You gasp against her lips, she swallows the sound down, her throat bobbing. She pulls your chin lower, your mouth opens enough just for her tongue to slip inside your mouth. You both moan at the contact, her tongue flicking hard around yours.
She’s so close that it’s breaking through every little thought you had of her. All your senses were suddenly invaded by her. Her touch, her scent, the way she feels in your mouth. You can’t even tell where your thoughts begin and where she lies.
You can taste the lip gloss she wore. The feeling hits hard, pooling somewhere in your stomach. You're trembling in her hold. Her nails digging into your chin doesn’t help the nerves screaming inside of you. You have lost every ability to think about anything else but her.
Your kiss grows sloppier, her taste dripping into your mouth. With this angle and her hold on you, you can’t do anything but stand and take whatever she wants from you. The way you shake underneath her touch, the way you breathe into her mouth, the way she expects you to do anything you say just to please her.
The kiss breaks apart, and suddenly, you’re already craving for more.
Manon doesn’t let you think. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. She moves your chin towards the mirror. You can’t help but take in how you really look right now. Her hands on your body, her front still pressed against you, both of your lips were swollen and wet. But in her eyes, you were already beyond perfection.
“You need to learn how to control yourself when you’re told.” She whispers, her chin leaning against your shoulder once more. “Learning how your body works, the way you move, is better than perfection itself.”
Her warmth leaves your body, and you’re already missing the feeling of her body pressed against your own. She walks around you, however, circling you like she’s thinking hard on what to do with you.
She stops in front of you.
“When I tell you something,” Manon leans forward, enough for her breath to fan over your lips, “I expect you to listen.”
You shudder.
“You’re told to do something, you’ll do it.” She leans towards your ear. Her hands move past your waist, her fingers lingering higher towards your back.
You feel her unclip the bra strap.
She removes the piece of fabric altogether, letting it drop to the floor. When she pulls back, you hear her exhale shakily. Your breasts come into view, your nipples hardening from the air alone.
“Pretty.” She tells you that the praise makes your pussy drench your panties. The wet patch was visible to her view.
“It’s okay when I kiss you, right?” Manon asks, pressing a light kiss to your lips. “And when I kiss you here?” Her lips trail lower to a spot on your neck, underneath your jaw. Your cunt already pulsing from her kisses alone. “Or here?” A kiss above one of your breasts, that one makes you release a small whimper. Just enough for only her to hear.
Her smile widens, not soft, not gentle either. The type of smile that makes your thighs squeeze together.
Manon presses another kiss on your other breast, her kisses growing lower and lower. One in between the space of your tits, one on your stomach, and one just above the waistband of your panties.
She’s so close to your cunt. Her breath fanned over the flimsy fabric. Your folds imprinted on the cloth, just begging to be freed. She’s already on her knees once you see her take off your panties.
God, you’re wet. So soaked already. Your clit peeks through in between your glistening folds between your thighs, already slick and swollen. So pink, so puffy, just begging to be licked. Your hands are already on her shoulders to ground yourself. You’re too breathless, too turned on to be thinking of anything else but her mouth on you.
“Let’s see if you can stand still while I taste you.”
The first lick makes you whimper.
Manon doesn’t like moving too fast. She takes her time with you. Tasting everything that pools into her mouth. You’re sweet, but too wet. She loses friction.
She swirls her tongue on your clit, painfully slow, drawing out small patterns that have your body hunching forward. Your jaw grows slack until you feel her nails dig into the space behind your thigh, reminding you of your only instruction.
Stand still.
“Oh fuck–” Your eyes roll back behind your head, your hands digging into the fabric of her shirt.
A slap hits hard at the side of one of your thighs, earning a soft gasp from you.
“Did I say you could talk?”
Tears swell up in your eyes, blurring the line between you and her. You can’t really form a sentence, not when her mouth’s all over you.
“Answer me,” She murmurs, sucking your clit into her mouth particularly hard.
You shake your head, “N-No.”
“You like to misbehave.” Manon spreads your legs wider, shoving her mouth deeper into your cunt. “Even when I let you use my mouth.”
You shake your head, but there is no use in denying it. Your legs began to tremble over her, using her arms to hold you steady. You gasp when you feel her spit right on your clit, before swirling the small nub over her tongue.
“Such a messy pussy.” She sighs, using her thumbs to pull your folds apart, revealing more of your swollen clit and your tight cunt to her. You can’t stop staring at her. The way you drench her mouth, the way she wants more of you.
“Don’t look at me,” She tells you, fluttering her eyelashes at you. You try to respond this time, you really do. But you still can’t, not when you feel her tongue shoved inside your cunt, repeating the action, flexing her tongue against your walls in criminally slow pumps. Her moan vibrates through you, your pussy clenching over the muscle.
She takes one of your hands, placing it on her head. “Look at the mirror.”
And you do.
Fuck, it’s better this way. Just watching her through the reflection, watching you? The sight alone is almost enough for you to cum quickly.
Manon’s kneeling between your thighs. Her ass sticking out just to move closer to you. Her hands won’t leave your thighs, loving the way her nails dig into the soft flesh. She’s still fully clothed, and yet, just watching her like this has your thighs trembling over her mouth.
Her tongue pumps in and out of you, a gush of wetness pooling on her tongue. Everything you give her, she swallows happily. Just making a complete mess over her mouth.
“That’s it,” She mumbles through your folds, moving back up to pay attention to your clit, hollowing her cheeks as she sucks hard on your clit, “You like watching yourself through the mirror, don’t you?”
“Please.” You sob. Your body feels warm, sweaty, and in between your thighs–you’re making a complete mess.
“Please?” She questions, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.” Her voice vibrates, wrapping her lips around you. You’re getting closer, you can feel it.
You cry harder, hot tears falling down your cheeks. It seems she likes this particular look on your face, the way you cry just because of the way she makes you feel. You can see it in the way her eyes dilate, the way her tongue moves faster on you.
Suddenly, she lifts one of your legs over her shoulder. She adjusts herself underneath you until only her head is visible between your thighs. The sight makes you whimper.
“Go on,” She urges you, pressing her tongue flat on your folds, “Fuck my face.”
You swallow. You’re too dizzy, and your vision is blurry from the tears. “W-What?”
“I’m asking you to use my mouth. I’m telling you to use me.” Manon sighs, her tongue lazily drawing circles around your nub as she waits. Her patience is growing low.
You shudder slightly, “I can’t–”
Her hand lands hard on the side of your thigh, earning another whimper from you above.
“You said you’d listen.” She says, moving her head back. You groan at the sight of her drenched mouth. “So do it.”
Your throat grows dry, but you follow anyway.
Manon moans when your hands grab a handful of her hair, your nails digging into her scalp. The pain doesn’t bother her. It only makes her drench her own panties, trapped underneath her pants. When you finally force yourself into her mouth, you both whimper at the contact.
“Fuck.” You grind into her mouth slowly. Adjusting yourself to the way her tongue feels around you. Your clit peeks through, rubbing yourself on the muscle of her tongue. She urges you to move faster.
Your hips begin to move sloppily. You feel yourself getting closer with this angle. You feel her tongue shoved inside your cunt, moving more as your slickness combines with her saliva.
“I’m going to cum.” You cry, trying to stand still as much as you can.
You feel her moan through your folds, drawing gentle patterns all over your little nub, trying to reach you to your orgasm.
“Go ahead,” You shudder when her fingers dig harder into you, “In my mouth. I want it in my mouth.”
It doesn’t take long before you can no longer stay still. Your hands dig into her hair as a gush of wetness drenches her tongue, your orgasm following through. You feel Manon moan at the taste, slurping hazardously as she sucks it out of your tight hole.
You can barely catch your breath.
Her lips don’t leave your pussy, drawing out your orgasm slowly. When you feel it becoming too much for you to handle, you gently shove her face away. Her arms caught you before you could fall.
Manon pulls you into her chest, her arms holding your body gently. She kisses the top of your head, smoothing some of the strands that stick out of your hair. Your body feels unsteady, like everything that just happened–everything she pulled out of you, hasn’t really settled back into place yet. Your legs don’t quite cooperate, your breathing is still uneven, and your thoughts are slow to catch up.
Her grip adjusts slightly, keeping you upright when your weight leans into her more than you intended. She doesn’t let you pull away, even if you try.
“The bathroom’s on your left,” She whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of your cheek. “Go get yourself cleaned up for me, okay?”
You don’t respond, but she feels you nod into her shoulder.
“Breathe,” Manon says quietly. “We’re just getting started.”
Even as she tells you to go, she hasn’t released you from her arms yet. She doesn’t want to, not when you’re this close to her, not that whatever just happened–didn’t feel like a mistake than it should have.
Her hand slides down to your arm, steadying you as she finally allows a bit of space to form between you. Only enough for you to move.
You take a step back, legs still unsteady, your body not fully your own yet. For a second, you think she’ll stop you, to pull you back, correct something, say something else.
She doesn’t.
Your body’s already turning towards the bathroom, not before you hear her whisper something not too far from you. Your breathing halts once more.
“Maybe now you’ll understand how to control yourself.”
The words settle differently this time. Not like an order.
Like permission.
“Did you get the fabrics that I ordered?” Manon asked over the phone.
There’s a pause. A faint voice filters through the–too muffled for you to make out, just a blur of explanation. The person continues to ramble through the speaker, but you can’t really tell what they’re saying.
She leans back into the swiveled chair, sighing when the voice on the other end stumbles over itself, a nervous jumble of apologies and half-formed sentences. Her patience is growing low when the continuous explanations don’t end there. Suddenly, she lets out a small, quiet gasp, hoping the person on the other end missed it.
She places the phone on the desk, next to the pile of papers. She presses the speaker button on the screen, and the voice on the other end becomes louder, more urgent, but still entangled in words. It’s almost incoherent now, a rush of sentences that don’t quite connect. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Every word feels doesn’t even make sense. But that’s the least on her mind right now.
“Wait–slow down,” Manon says, but she isn’t talking to the person on the phone.
She lifts her skirt, revealing your face between her thighs.
You’ve been there for a while now. Today, you were supposed to practice different styles of walks for the show. She even prepared new designs to show you. One thing led to another–you’re currently on your knees, under her desk, tongue licking through her folds.
It’s been like this ever since the first day. You’re already a month into this, and everything about your life seems to have changed. You tried to actually do your job, perfecting your walk, her taking your measurements, sometimes adding input for new designs. But every single time, your mouth always ends up between her thighs, or her fingers inside of you.
Even outside of her office, you’re with her, either walking down quiet streets late at night or sitting across from her at dinner while the city shines around you. Sometimes, more than some, you’d end up in her bed in her penthouse, her back pressed against your front–her warmth combining with your own.
Sometimes, you think she’s beginning to find out more things about you when you don’t even notice.
At first, it feels like a coincidence. She’s supposed to be observant–good at reading people, good at her job. That’s just who she is, you kept thinking.
But then it happens again.
And again.
Not once have you questioned this dynamic. You weren’t prepared for this. You’d never expect this kind of attention from her. You still don’t know what she really sees in you, despite having hundreds of models during the casting.
You thought maybe she had taken a liking to you. But deep down, you’re unsure if it’s just that–or something way deeper hidden somewhere underneath her gaze and discreet touches.
Every time you’re in the same room as her, her eyes are always on you. No matter what you were doing or where you were, she’s always there, always watching.
And it’s not just noticing. You can feel it in the way her glance lingers, in the way she tilts her head ever so slightly when you move, like she’s drawing you out without anyone else noticing. Without you noticing. And even til’ now, you’re always wrapped around her finger.
Because you could never say no to her.
She’s been soaked the minute you arrived.
Come coated your tongue almost immediately. Your lips wrapped around the small nub, sucking hard on the flesh. You kept your strokes torturously slow, intending to drag out her teasing as much as you could, but it seemed Manon didn’t mind.
Manon lets out a breathy laugh, soothing your hair with your face in between her thighs. The sound sends signals all the way between your own legs. She was extra careful with you, caressing your head and fixing your hair; it’s the least you can do when you’re eating her out so nicely.
With each pass, you paused to swirl her tongue in small circles around her clit, and it had her moaning quietly–hoping the person on the phone won’t hear–pushing her hips against your face each time.
The man continues to complain about something else, but Manon wasn’t having it. She pressed the red button on the screen, ending the call as soon as your tongue circled her entrance, teasing the tight hole.
You can’t help but stare up at her. She’s sweating, her hair isn’t as neat as it was this morning, and her lips are almost as swollen as yours from the kissing you had earlier. She was stunning, there was no doubt about it.
Manon tugs on your hair, earning a low whine that causes her thighs to shake around you.
“You learn well.” She praised, you whimper through her folds, shoving your tongue inside of her. “That’s what I love about you.” Manon sinks into the chair further, hitching up her pencil skirt to settle around her waist. You used this opportunity to spread her legs more.
She grabs a handful of your hair before pushing your face even more into her. “Gonna make me cum in that pretty little mouth of yours?” She asks, breathless.
You don’t respond, you can’t. Literally.
Come began sliding down past your chin. She’s drenching your mouth so much that it's getting hard to keep up. She held your face for a moment before using her hips to grind into your mouth.
“God,” She whimpers, her nails digging into your scalp, “You’re going to make me cum.”
You flicked your tongue repeatedly against her clit, the nub becoming more swollen and sensitive. Manon tries to fix herself on top of the chair, but your mouth latched onto her was difficult to adjust.
“Right there, fuck.” She mumbles, licking her lips. Just watching you like this, using your mouth to get off, she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. “I’ve been teaching you well, haven’t I?”
You whine.
“You know how to use that mouth when you’re told.” A faint smile appears, her painted nails digging harder through your hair.
You thrusted your tongue back and forth, curling it now and then. “Yes–” She gasps, “Use your tongue right there, baby.”
The pet name has your own thighs squeezing together. You tried to reach up, wanting to see more of her skin, but she doesn’t let you–slapping your hand away. This earned another whine from you. She’s still wearing her shirt, and you wanted it off. Completely.
“Be good.” She reminds you, “Fuck, I’m getting close.”
Manon's grinds began to grow more sloppy, using your face to her liking–not even caring if you could even breathe or not. The chair began to squeak against the floor, but that wasn’t stopping her from her orgasm.
Just before her thighs began to tremble around your face, you heard the elevator ding.
Your heart drops.
She looks down at you, scrambling to fix her skirt while pushing you further underneath her desk. You follow through, your heart hammering inside your chest.
You don’t know what would happen if someone were to see you like this. Getting caught in such a position? Even though you knew Manon owned the whole thing, your reputation was the only thing that she could not help with.
“Stay quiet.” She whispers, shoving your shoulders back. “I mean it.”
You obey, sliding further, the wood of the desk pressing against your back. Her skirt finally falls into place, and she exhales sharply, straightening in her chair. Her eyes meet yours for just a second–a warning, a look you know all too well. The kind you don’t question. The kind you don’t want to know more of.
You stay frozen, caught between the adrenaline of the near-exposure and the shame that sinks below in your stomach. You know better than to make a sound. You know better than to expose either you or her like this.
Right as you duck your head underneath the desk, you hear footsteps growing closer.
The door bursts open, and the manager storms in, papers clutched in one hand, a clipboard in the other. His face is flushed, his eyes wide, and his skin sweating, like he’s caught in the middle of a panic attack.
“Manon, I’m sorry to storm in like this, but one of the designs is completely off–did anyone even check this before sending it to production?” His voice trembles, breathless from rushing over to this office. He barely registered your crouched form under the desk. Your hidden, that’s what’s important to you right now.
Manon’s annoyance is through the roof. Her jaw is tight, hands are gripping the edge of the desk. Her patience is gone. “You think you can just come in here without further notice?” She says lowly.
The manager freezes for half a second, glancing at her like she’s being unreasonable. “I know, and I’m sorry, but the designers don’t know what to do. And production is already happening!”
She’s stressed and definitely pissed. You don’t like seeing her like this, knowing her, you wouldn’t want to be that man right now.
Your hand reaches out, holding her calf underneath the table. Manon sends a piercing look at you, her leg tenses under your touch. She shoots you another look, her eyes narrowing in warning. Stop.
You don’t.
Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against her ankle, slow, distracting.
Above you, her composure cracks–just barely. She inhales sharply, shoulders stiffening, and for a split second, her focus slips from the manager entirely. The manager doesn’t seem to notice the difference in her appearance.
“We can’t just ignore this.” The manager complains, waving the papers in her face. “If this goes out, people are going to–”
“I know,” Manon says. Her voice isn’t as steady as before. “I heard you.” She shifts in her seat, trying to regain control, trying to ignore you.
You press a kiss to her knee.
Her breath hitches, and it’s noticeable this time.
The manager gives her an odd look. “Manon?” She swallows, trying to shove you away. But it’s not working.
Your kisses trail higher. Your lips are still wet, drenched from earlier, pressed onto her skin. You lead your kisses on her thighs, then in between.
Her hands grip the desk harder.
You're testing her patience. You knew that, but the thrill in you was too damn alluring not to ignore. Your hands find the bottom of her skirt, hitching it back up as it once was. Manon doesn’t stop you this time, she can’t. Not when the manager was right there, watching her every move.
“Look, okay–” Her voice freezes once your tongue glides along the slit of her folds.
She coughs, sweat soaking through her shirt. “If the alignment’s off, then it’s not a full redesign–” Your lips latch around her clit, sucking hazardously. “–W-We can fix that,” She stutters.
Her hands dig into your hair, much harsher this time. It only makes you suck hard on her pussy.
She swallows, throat bobbing nervously. She’s still pissed–only not that the anger is directed towards you. The thought has your tongue drawing small circles around the nub. You feel her soaking your mouth, your chin, even the chair–as if she was getting excited at the thought of getting caught, even when she’s this pissed off.
“Manon, I’m telling you, they already tried opening the original file.” The manager says quickly, words spilling out. He paces once, then stops, running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t even notice the slightest tremble on her body.
Your tongue is back inside of her, curling the muscle. Manon jolts at this, before biting down her lip, laughing it off. He doesn’t question the odd behavior, too busy worrying about the designs.
“Something’s not matching up–it looks fine on the screen, but when it prints, it’s slightly off–like it’s stretching or something.” He sighs, walking back and forth in front of the desk.
You hear him walking closer to the desk, and you freeze. You’re trying your best to be quiet, especially when he’s this close. But not even that could stop you.
Her climax was still super close, and only growing closer with each pass of your tongue over her clit. She continued to grow increasingly wet, suppressing a moan when she felt you thrusting your tongue deeper to lap the fluid up eagerly.
Another deep probe of your tongue made her hips stutter sharply. Manon can barely contain stillment of her body. It was hard, especially when she’s this close to coming.
“C-Can we do this later–” Your tongue draws faster, your nails digging into her thighs. She tasted even better with the fear of getting caught in the back of your mind. “I’m in the middle of s-something–” She swallows a moan, clamping her thighs between your head.
He glances at her, frustration mixing with nerves. “We can’t wait this out! The production team is asking for this now. I just need to know if we are shutting it down or not–”
“I said–” Manon closes her eyes, growing increasingly wet while you lapped up through her folds.
A shaky exhale escapes from her lips. It’s hard to form a sentence when you’re so good with your mouth, drawing small–torturous patterns in between her folds. She releases another sigh, her fingers straining to grip the arms of the chair.
“We’ll do this later.” She adds, her voice firm. “Now get out.”
He exhales sharply, still frustrated, holding the clipboard against his hip. “I can’t just walk back in there without an answer,” he pushes. “They’re expecting–”
“Then give them one,” She cuts in, finally looking up at him. “Pause the line–that’s your a-answer.”
“L-Leave.” She stumbled over her words, a gush of wetness leaking out of her cunt, onto your mouth.
The manager huffs. Unsure what else to say. He chooses not to. With a resigned nod, he gathers the papers and the clipboard, his movements quick but tense, and walks toward the elevator.
The soft click of the elevator doors closing echoes through the office. It’s only when Manon pulls you away by the hair, your mouth detaching from her cunt.
A small groan leaves your lips. It’s swollen and wet from her slick. Your eyes feel heavy, but you can’t feel anything else but the taste on your tongue. You try to lean forward, but she doesn’t let you.
She pulls you by the shirt, dragging you out under the table before pushing you back onto your knees.
“You think this is funny?” Letting go of your shirt. Your hands let go of her legs, falling back onto your lap. You shook your head. Nothing about this was funny, but you just couldn’t help it.
“No–” You look down at her feet, staring at her black heels. “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Then why did you do it?” She leans lower, grabbing your jaw. You feel her nails piercing into the skin, it makes your own fingers dig into your pants.
You try to steady your breathing, but it isn’t working. “I just wanted to make you feel good–”
“Doesn’t mean you should do it when there are other people in front of me.” She brings your chin up, her gaze hard, stern. It makes your stomach twist in a way that it shouldn’t. “You promised to listen.”
“I know, and I’m sorry–” She let go of your jaw, much harsher. Shame falls upon your face.
“You’re sorry? For what? Trying to humiliate me?” Her voice grows louder, unwavering, holding you in place with nothing but a look. She leans back against the chair, arms crossed over her chest.
The weight of her words hits hard around you. Every word was a reminder that you overstepped–that you disobeyed. Her breathing rises and falls, barely containing the anger rising inside of her.
You’re about to form another excuse, but the words don’t come out.
Manon presses the back of her heel to your chest.
Your breath hitches.
The hard curve of her shoe digs just enough to remind you of her control. The pressure is there, the kind of pain that makes your body tense and your mind race with every single thought you had of her. It hurts–but in a way that makes it impossible to look away, impossible to forget, impossible not to feel entirely under her control. The control you lacked.
Every inhale becomes shallow. The pain is enough to affect your breathing. She presses harder, noticing the effect she has on you. Tilting her head, she measures your behavior, the way you act when you know you’ve done something bad.
Another apology forms in your mouth, but you can’t speak. The truth is, you’re frozen not just because of her authority, but because part of you wants to be under it, wants to feel the pressure, the control, everything she owned of you.
Manon laughs, the sound making your heart twist. “Does it hurt when I put pressure here?” She presses the heel harder against the fabric of your shirt. Even through the cloth, it hurts. It hurts in a way that you like.
Your eyes shut, palms sweating above your pants, “Or does it feel good?”
Her questions make your thighs squeeze together. When your silence continues, the heel digs deeper into your chest. You can’t move. You weren’t allowed to. So you settled, staying still just as she likes.
You nod, humiliation swarming in your stomach. “Yes.”
A brow raises. She wasn’t expecting that answer from you.
Suddenly, she drags her heel lower, past your breasts, your stomach, in between your legs.
The tip of her heel grazes the spot between your thighs, pressing hard over your cunt.
The touch makes you jolt, earning another hard press against you. Your body shudders, warming up from the combination of embarrassment and pure want. You try to hold yourself still, but it’s getting harder to manage when she’s torturing you like this.
Your pussy soaks through your panties. You can feel yourself drenching the fabric the more she pushes. You can’t even look her in the eye.
“Do you like it when I press my heel here?” She asks, holding her foot still.
Your answer is immediate.
“Yes.” You gasp.
Manon smiles.
“Okay,” Her heel pauses right against your clit, your folds sticking to your panties. “Then show me.”
Your throat closes. Her voice was enough to look back up at her. You see the way she’s observing you, quiet, intense. Not like before, it’s more alerting. As if she were daring you to go any further.
“You want me to…?” You question, your voice barely above a whisper.
There was something in the way that she looked at you that you couldn’t seem to unfold. It’s not quite with admiration, nor was it like before when she first met you. It’s almost as if she saw everything right through you. The way you act, the way you obey so easily for her–knowing that you would never have the strength to deny her.
She knows it.
Her smile widens, “Grind on my leg.” She says as if it were the simplest thing, “And maybe then I’ll decide if you’re forgiven.”
You freeze.
The demand has blood rushing up into your face.
But you know better than to refuse.
You positioned yourself, each leg on either side of one of her own. You fixed her leg in between your thighs, placing her heel underneath your pussy as you begin to hump her leg.
“Good girl.” She praises, caressing your hair as you pressed a small kiss to her knee, before resting your cheek on it as you moved beneath her.
You feel yourself soaking your panties. Though with the pants you're wearing, it’s hard to move. But just seeing her watching you being so pathetic, it doesn’t even matter.
Your clit pulses hard, each grind pressing right against the small nub. Your grinds begin to feel more sloppy, desperate, humping against her leg like a dog. Her hand rubs your head gently, urging you to go faster.
There’s something intimate about the way her leg is trapped between your own. You feel your walls clench around nothing every time the top of her heel centers on your little nub, enough for you to hump against it.
Your hips move in small patterns, holding her leg in between you to feel her closer. It’s clear that you’ve never done anything this humiliating before. The pathetic expression on your face grows more filthy. Your mouth’s open, drool spilling out at the corner of your lips, dripping onto her skin. But she didn’t mind, not when you looked so good, so filthy–all just for her.
“All mine to ruin.” Manon sighs.
Your thighs clamp harder around her. Your orgasm getting closer.
The tip of her heel presses hard, right at the center where your clit pulses. A loud whine releases from your mouth when she begins moving her shoe against you.
“Manon–” You cry. You can’t help but press your face harder onto her thigh, letting her hand comfort you.
“I know.” She whispers, “You can do it. Cum on my leg.”
Your fingers dig harder into her skin. “I’m gonna–” Your body begins to shudder, hips bucking, thighs clamped so hard around her. Your cum leaks out of your entrance as you finally cum against her. Another thrust of your hips and you’re collapsing against her, body trembling as you feel yourself soaking your underwear, some leaking through your pants.
Manon removes her leg from you, and you’re already whimpering from the loss of contact.
Your body collapses on the ground, shaking tremendously. You can’t form a single coherent thought. All your thoughts were filled with her in an unhealthy way.
It takes you a minute to register her hand pulling you back onto your knees, holding your chin to meet your eyes.
She gives you a quick kiss on your lips, the touch nearly burning you.
“Wasn’t so hard to listen. Wasn’t it?”
You don’t even know anymore.
You never really questioned Manon’s behavior.
She was always touchy with you from the start. She always has this intense look in her eyes whenever she’s staring at you. You knew that.
You just didn’t realize how far it went.
At first, it was small things. Her touch lingered in spots that didn’t need to be detailed during fittings, her hands adjusting details that didn’t need fixing, her gaze following you even when there were dozens of other models in the room. You knew you had her attention. From the start, she was honest about that.
But then it became something else.
She always knew where you were.
Before you would even say a word, she’d already be there–waiting in the next room, standing just close enough to catch your attention, like she’d predicted your every move. If you were late, she would notice. If you left early, she’d notice that too. If you thought about talking to someone for a little too long, her eyes would find you across the room, intense and unblinking. Like she’s sending bullets through you and whoever you were talking to.
This isn’t wasn’t just about control anymore.
This began to feel something deeper. Something that’s been building quietly, patiently, long before you ever thought to question it.
And her gaze felt almost unsettling.
It never felt soft. It never hesitated. It follows. She follows. Her eyes track, settling on you, which feels almost possessive, like you’re something she’s already claimed without ever saying the words out loud.
You first realized it when she began offering to drive you home.
At first, it felt harmless. Thoughtful, even. When fitting sessions turn drags on, you always had the kind of exhaustion that made it easy to accept without thinking twice.
She would take longer routes, creating small conversations that felt very personal. Some were about your life, things you never talked about with anyone. But even then, late at night, you always somehow answer every question without a second thought.
But maybe you were just overthinking.
Still, you notice every time her car stays a little longer than she needed to when she would drop you off. Or how she started to refuse showing you her designs, as if maybe you had something to do with them. Or when every fitting session, you always end up breathless, her touch lingering all over your body.
You thought it was admiration.
If only you knew it was something else entirely.
Your thoughts soon vanish once you hear heels clicking on the floor from behind you. Your posture straightens, facing the mirror. It’s almost automatic now.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been showing up late.” Manon states, the elevator closing behind her as she walks towards you.
You swallow, “I had some issues with traffic earlier. It’s nothing–”
“Traffic?” She repeats, tilting her head slightly, like she’s already sensing a lie before it could leave your mouth.
She stops just in front of you.
“There was no traffic this morning,” She says calmly. “You left your place at 8:17. You should’ve been here by 8:30.”
Your breath catches.
She doesn’t blink.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. She hums, almost thoughtfully, like your silence is answer enough. “That’s what I thought.” She says, taking a step closer to you.
“You’re not late because of traffic,” Manon continues, her tone even. “You’re late because you think you can get away with it.”
You fall silent. You can’t find the words to respond. She stands in front of you, her hand underneath your chin, making you look up at her. You can’t see anything else but her, you can’t think of anyone but her.
“I don’t like it when you lie to me.” She tells you, the grip on your chin tightening. Your jaw clenches underneath her touch. You’re unsure what kind of game she’s really playing at. You aren’t sure how to feel about it either.
Her thumb caresses slightly, not letting you look away. “You should know that by now,” She murmurs, quieter, but somehow heavier.
“I’m sorry.” Is all you say, leaning into her touch. Even though you knew there was something off about this entire situation with her, you still didn’t want to disappoint her.
After all, she did mean a lot to you.
Manon sighs, trailing her palm higher towards your cheek, caressing the skin softly. She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your other cheek.
“Forget it.” Her lips form a thin line, before letting you go altogether. You stood there, dumbfounded–unsure what to do next.
“Let’s just start.” She says, voice hard against the surface–like none of it ever happened.. All you could do was nod. But even as you move to follow her lead, something lingers.
This is how she is.
She knows exactly when to push, when to pull back, when to blur the lines just enough to keep you off balance. It’s never accidental. Because she knows exactly what she’s doing. And not once have you ever complained.
But perhaps it was all in your imagination.
Maybe you were reading too much into it. Maybe the looks, the touches, the way she seemed to always be there, was just all in her head. Maybe it was just her nature, her intensity, her way of working. Her way of seeing you.
You try to convince yourself of it, over and over again.
Because even at the end of it, you would never want to hurt her.
It was the day of the show.
The energy backstage was chaotic around you, a mix of nerves, anticipation, and complete tension. Stylists moved with precision, assistants ran from one room to the next, and the faint smell of hairspray and fabric hung thick in the air.
You’ve spent months practicing your walk.
Every step, every turn, every subtle sway of your hips has been pressed into your memory until it feels almost automatic. You have spent hours in front of mirrors, in empty hallways, under harsh lighting, repeating until even your mistakes became predictable.
And every hour, every minute, you were spending every second with her.
Nobody knew what really happened when you were with Manon, but everyone could just tell that something was going on between you two. The tension lingered, and every stare was pressed a little longer than it should’ve been.
It wasn’t just a professional connection anymore. It never was that. There was something more underneath the touches and even the kisses. You’ve felt it.
You just weren’t sure if she felt the same.
It’s not like you were good at hiding it either. You’ve spent more time in her place than you did in yours. Paparazzi had photographed the two of you during many different outings. And it wasn’t like you were mingling with other models, doing the usual social outings, or even practicing your walks with them. It was like she kept you hidden from everyone else, as if she wanted you all to herself. It was undeniable that she favored you compared to any other model participating in the runway show.
It didn’t take much to guess what happens behind the curtains during fittings.
Just like where you are now.
Your makeup is already flawless, your outfit perfectly fitted, every detail meticulously in place. The lights backstage captured you perfectly. Every piece of fabric and linen was stitched with care.
Beyond the curtains, the crowd of guests is already gathering, murmurs and laughter crowding through the grand hall. Cameras flashed sporadically, reporters were jotting down notes, and special guests whispered to one another, eager to catch the first glimpse of the show. It was clear that you, Manon, and everyone else who were preparing for the show had put in every little ounce of effort for this.
But no one knew what was really happening backstage.
Once your outfit was on, Manon was already watching you from afar, even when she was supposed to pay attention to the other models who were still getting ready. But she had pulled you aside, her arm tugging you to one of the rooms far away from everyone else, where no one could disturb either of you.
She took you down the hall, where it was empty, her head looking back and forth just to make sure no one was looking at the two of you.
Before you knew it, your back was pushed against the wall, her mouth already all over you. You feel her nipping at your skin, not caring if it left a mark or not–even when you were minutes away from walking on the runway.
Adrenaline was flowing into your veins. The nerves from the show and the fear of getting caught in a position like this have your heart racing. You should be used to this. The way she always steals you away just to have you underneath her.
“Fuck, I’ve waited all day for this.” Manon sighs against your lips. A low groan fell out of your mouth. She presses her chest against yours, feeling that the layers of clothing are becoming too hot on your body.
“Were you thinking about me?” She suddenly asks, letting you watch the way she sticks her fingers into her mouth, coating them with her saliva. You let out a quiet whimper just by watching her.
She takes them out, trailing her hand past your chest, down your stomach, in between your thighs. You feel the wetness of her fingers through your pants, sliding them beneath your panties.
Both of you groan at how wet you are.
She began to stroke your slit slowly, gently spreading your labia to gather cum on her fingers. You couldn’t help but squirm against the wall every time she avoided touching your clit.
“I know you were,” She sighs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Always this wet for me.”
Manon leaned down to place her lips to your throat, sucking harshly at your skin.
“Manon–” You reminded her, you couldn’t risk getting a hickey on your neck, especially when people are beginning to notice what was going on between you two. “You can’t–”
“I know.” She tells you, finally slipping her fingers past your folds, rubbing small circles around your needy clit. “And I don’t care.”
You felt your cunt clenching around nothing from the honesty of her words. She toyed with the small nub, drawing different patterns on it while pressing her lips hard against any exposed skin.
Your body began to tense up once you heard voices behind the door, footsteps following along. But it seemed like Manon wasn’t planning to stop any time soon. “Thought about you the entire time, every time I sit down, I can still feel your mouth on me. The way you touched me as I taught you to.” She tells you, shamelessly, as if it were that simple.
Another whine leaves you. “Stay quiet.” She says. You can’t help but nod, biting your lip hard. You’ve been practicing how to stay quiet whenever she pulls something like this.
You begin to cry out when three fingers slip into you roughly and immediately start fucking you relentlessly. Already forgetting that you needed to be quiet.
She continued to pump into your cunt, scissoring her fingers and curling them against your walls. “Fuck, I can’t.” You sobbed, face pressed hard against her shoulder.
Manon curled in her fingers, testing your willpower. “Be quiet.” She whispers into your ear. Your nails dig into her blazer, scratching on the fabric. You’re already getting closer just from her fingers and her words alone.
Her thumb presses hard against your clit, drawing circles around the swollen nub while pumping her fingers in and out inside your cunt. Your pussy clenches hard every time you feel her lips suck the spot near your ear.
“Manon.” You whimper out her name, letting her know you were getting close.
Suddenly, her free hand reaches towards your neck, feeling the full press of her thumb right at the center of your throat. Your mouth hangs open, but no sound falls out when her entire hand squeezes your throat firmly.
Your pussy immediately clenches hard around her fingers, finding it difficult to move inside of you with your clothes still on.
Thought, she began scissoring her fingers inside of you, stretching you out even more. Your hips started to grind into her hand, desperately humping against her, your clit bumping hard against her thumb.
Before you could cum, she let you go, slipping her fingers out of you, releasing your throat from her hold. You could cry just by how she’s handling you. You needed a release, even if it meant embarrassing yourself this badly.
Your lips open to complain, but she doesn’t let you. She turns you around, your front pressing against the wall. You let out a small gasp, the sound choked up once you feel her hand sliding up your chest, her fingers wrapping around your throat as they once were.
She tightens her grip, the air in you slowly fading out. Her fingers slip back in, with much more ease this time, shoving her fingers inside you, toying with you just as much as she wanted. “Do you feel that?” She murmurs in your ear, her breasts pressed against your back.
Your hands fall flat on the wall. There was no other option for you but to take it. It feels better this way. The way she was choking you, the way her fingers split you open with ease.
You nod.
“That’s right,” Her fingers curl in again, “All you get to feel is nothing but me.”
A shallow moan falls right out of you, and your cunt clenches harder. You're close, you’re so far gone. “Please.”
“Go ahead,” Manon whispers, trailing her lips towards your own.
One final thrust, and you’re falling apart in her arms.
A gush of squirt soaks the palm of her hand and your panties. Your cum soaking through the fabric. She turns you back to face her. You bury your face into her shoulder, containing your moans, quietly sobbing against the cloth of her jacket. You feel her other hand letting go of your throat, soothing your head, slowing down her thrusts as she continues pumping you in, much more slowly.
“We’re not done.”
Your body shudders. You can’t help but look up from her shoulder, her eyes dilating from your reaction alone.
You nervously laughed, but Manon’s expression didn’t change.
She wasn’t joking.
“Manon,“ You say her name again, mind blanked momentarily, prompting her to elaborate. “I’m going on stage in 5 minutes–we can’t–”
She shakes her head. “Exactly.”
A brow raises. You aren’t exactly sure what she means by that. You just know you have less than ten minutes to step in line with the other models before anyone starts noticing that you and Manon were gone. And you needed to change, your cum messily stained on your panties isn’t what you need when you’re about to walk. The show is literally starting soon, and you couldn’t afford to be playing any of her mind games right now.
Before you could speak, she spat on her hand.
Your eyes watch her slowly, carefully. You feel your throat swelling hard, almost like it felt something is stuck in between. You lost your ability to breathe a long time ago, but now? Now it’s unbearable.
She lets you watch, seeing the sight of her spit in the middle of her palm–some sticking it to her bottom lip as she makes you stare at what she does next.
Your mind crumbles when she slips her fingers back into your panties, coating your pussy with her spit.
You take a sharp inhale, her spit mixing with your cum.
“You’ll walk the runway like this,” Manon whispers over your lips, a faint smile on her face.
A whimper leaves your breath.
It’s warm, combining with the mess you already had in your panties. You’re afraid that it’s going to sink into the other clothes you had on, and you’re scared of people seeing you like this. But it seemed that she didn’t care. Not when she presses a kiss to your lips, not when a small laugh leaves her mouth.
Manon leans towards your ear, “And every time you move, you’ll think of me.”
The show’s about to start.
You’re already in line with the other models. Some were in front of you, some were behind. You were stuck in the middle, ready for your call. One by one, each model takes a turn down the runway. Nobody talks, and the adrenaline is high.
Out in the audience, every guest sits perfectly still, eyes fixed on the stage. Cameras flash occasionally, but for the most part, the room is quiet, expectant, like the entire world has paused just for this moment.
After months of preparing for this moment, you feel ready. You’re nervous about your walk, how you look, and the way things will go.
But every small shift, every slight turn, you still feel her.
Your thighs are still soaked. Every time your leg lifts, you feel your cunt clenching from the mess she made you in between your legs. A reminder of what she did to you, a reminder of who you really belonged to.
Even the air itself almost feels unbearable, as if you had to move your hips carefully. But most importantly, you’re afraid of getting caught. Just one drip down your legs is enough for hundreds of photographs to be taken of.
Each exhale and inhale doesn’t match the same rhythm. Your heart pounds louder. Even with layers of clothing carefully placed on you, you feel exposed–too exposed that it almost feels uncomfortable.
Your back arches, straightening your posture, a soft gasp leaving your mouth when you feel a gush of wetness sinking into your panties. It’s still there, knowingly.
You couldn’t do anything about it. This is what she wants.
And all you have to do is listen. To follow instructions, to be good.
Before you know it, your cue is almost ready. The assistant next to you lifts an arm up, halting your movement. You pause, shoes planted, posture immaculate, feeling the tension twist in your stomach like a spring. Your heart races. It’s been like this from the start, and yet, every instinct whispers the same thing. To stay steady.
One of the other assistants fixes the fabric behind your back, and you momentarily shiver. Not because of her, but because you see her. You also help fix your outfit, gently pressing down onto the fabric, straightening everything that was placed aligned. Your fingers tremble unsteadily when their limp at your sides, and you know it’s not because of the show itself.
Because she’s out there in the audience, waiting for you. As if you were walking–just for her.
Your legs begin to tremble before you even begin to walk.
When the assistant whispers through her mic, you exhale, trying to relax your breathing, but it isn’t really working. Your chest feels tight, and your cunt clenches around nothing when a glimpse of her face comes into view. But it’s too late to go back now.
You take the first step.
The floor beneath your shoes is cool and smooth. Each step feels like it’s echoing louder than it should in the silenced tension of the room. The runway stretches before you, bright lights washing over every edge, every seam, every movement you’ve practiced a hundred times.
Your posture remains perfect, your chin low as you were taught, and still–each step felt heavier than it should be. Because beneath it all, the thrill is still there, the awareness, her.
Manon’s eyes are on you.
Tracing every curve, every step you take, every small release of your breath that you think nobody notices, but she did.
Always.
She already sees your surrender before you could even blink.
You can feel her even without turning, her gaze alone consuming you as a whole.
You’re supposed to be paying attention to yourself. To forget everyone and anyone in the crowd. That was what you were taught. But you just can’t.
Not when her gaze keeps lingering. Not when you can still feel her touch on every inch of your skin. Not when you can still feel her mouth in between your thighs, like she’s there with you on stage, the slick staining your skin–a reminder of everything she’s made you out of.
Manon sits in the front row. Her legs crossed over the other as they always did. Her posture–probably better than yours. Her hands are intertwined with each other, pretending to be as composed as you are right now.
You know she isn’t.
For the first time, she isn’t. Because the control she usually has is mixed by something stronger, something tighter in her chest. She’s leaning slightly forward in her seat, subtle but impossible to ignore, as if she’s seconds away from standing up and walking right onto the stage to claim you.
Everything feels almost overwhelming, as if it’s all coming down all at once. You just weren’t prepared for the moment that finally happens.
And even as you make your way back to where you first were on the runway. The applause doesn’t come, it wasn’t that kind of show anyway. Only small talks, only the expressions on everyone's faces were all you could see as you walked, hoping that none of them saw what was really happening to you.
You feel your pussy clench again, your clit pulsing just for something to stimulate it. And as you thankfully make it to the end, a drop of cum slowly sinks down one leg, and you’re already rushing to somewhere where nobody could find you.
Because every motion you make is a reminder of her awareness. You feel her everywhere. All of your senses are completely blinded by her. You feel nothing, but her.
The way it’s supposed to be.
The crowd sees a model.
You see her.
And you’re afraid that she'll be the only thing that matters.
You rush to a room–any empty room.
Everything that just happened on the runway feels like a blur. Your steps were intuitive, your body moving before your mind could even catch up to what you were doing, every flicker of the crowd and every flash of the cameras already fading into memory. Except her.
Her touch burned. Her scent is still on your clothing. Her voice claimed every thought you had in your mind. You thought you could make it all go away, but nothing seemed to be working.
You need air. Space. Anything to forget about tonight.
The door clicks shut behind you, the faint sound of the ongoing show still pounding through the walls. You lean over the desk placed in the room. You reach underneath your pants, frantically trying to wipe away every reminder of what had happened, a reminder of her. But nothing was working. It was all too much.
But then you hear the same rhythm of those heels.
Her.
Your chest tightens. You didn’t expect her here. You didn’t expect anyone. The show was still going. She shouldn’t be here with you.
The door opens slowly. Manon steps in.
She finds you immediately, breathing heavily over the table. The face you make is already filled with tension and something else hidden beneath it. A frown replaced on her face.
“Manon, you have to go.” You tell her firmly, your fists clenching hard together.
Her eyes trail downwards, watching your nails pierce your palm. Her face doesn’t change. In fact, it hardens.
“I’m not leaving.” She tells you. The words send shivers down your spine.
The words hit harder than you expect, sinking deep into your chest. You can’t help but take a step back. And she notices it, of course, she did. Because she takes one step forward, fixing the space in between you.
The room feels too small. It seems like the walls are closing in on you, and all you can see or even feel is her. Everything you do, she’s always lingering. Always filling up your senses with your own, and you don’t know how much you can handle because of it.
Your voice wavers, “You can’t stay here.”
“I can stay,” Manon whispers, voice low and intimate, “Because I should stay. You’re mine, even if you think you aren’t. Even if you fight it.”
Every inch of the space between you has changed, every shallow inhale tells you that she’s there, claiming it all. Like it’s meant to be. The way she perfected it.
“You’re not thinking straight,” She adds, a hand moves, slow, deliberate, caressing up to your jaw and tilting your head so your eyes meet hers. There’s no warmth here. It’s long gone now. No softness, no gentleness beneath her stare. Only control
Control that you never had.
“I’m not yours.” You try to say, but even the words in your mouth don’t make sense. Because even you knew that was a complete lie.
Her lips curled into the smallest, faint smile, but it wasn’t genuine. In fact, everything but her smile hardens further. And she leans in just enough that your breaths mix. “You already are,” She whispers over your mouth. “Even when you think you’re not. Even when you try to run.”
Her other hand trails down, cupping your cunt through your pants–through your underwear, and she already feels it.
The mess, her mess.
It’s all still there.
You shudder, already feeling the need to collapse in her arms when every other part of your mind tells you not to. That you shouldn’t. Your fists unclench slowly, shoulders tensing as your chest pounds. And her smile widens. Because she knows that you’re already far in too deep to go back to where you began.
Your arms try to push her away, to get as far from her as possible. But every time you do, her grip tightens, and soon her smile is wiped off her face completely. No matter how hard you try to escape, every part of your body says otherwise.
At first, she thought you were art, the embodiment of something to be studied, refined, perfected under her careful hands.
But somewhere along the way, that changed.
Art was something to be admired, to be appreciated by. But not you, not anymore.
Now? You were never meant to be seen by anyone else.
You stopped being a project. You became an obsession. Her obsession.
You were no longer something to present to the world, not something to be admired from afar–but something to keep. To hide you from everyone else. To only have you to herself. The way it’s meant to be.
And in that moment, you finally realized that this was her plan all along.
She never meant for you to become a model. She made you into something you weren’t before.
Hers.
Not who you were, not who you could be–just the version of yourself she could shape, control, and claim. With every little thought of yours, every step you took, every choice you thought you made on your own–had been under her long before you even noticed. Every late night, every whispered correction during fittings, every touch that seemed permanent, it wasn’t mentorship. It wasn’t admiration. It was possession.
Her eyes lock on yours one last time, dark and certain, and she whispers, almost like a promise.
“Because no matter what, you’ve always been mine.”
Knowing the situation right now, it sucks that I'm releasing this fic at such a bad time–but I feel like writing for Manon is exactly what we need right now. I've taken a lot of time to plan out this story of mine with every little detailed carefully aligned, so I think it would be a waste if I'd never release or prolong this story as much as I already have.
I hope that even if the timing isn’t perfect, you can all enjoy this story as much as I did writing it. It really is my best work, and by doing this, supporting Manon is all we can really do at a time like this.
That being said, I had a really hard time writing this one out, especially when I finally started writing it right after Manon's hiatus was announced. For the longest time, I had no motivation to write, but I really did not want to have any regrets if I had never ended up writing this fic for Manon. Combining both of my love for writing and Manon, this is my way of supporting her individually.
Even now, I hope it brings a little bit of that energy back to all of you, and that it reminds us why we fell in love with her world in the first place.
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
dededos
areudirty
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
kaledo-art