Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 58185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“Sir,” I sobbed, “please… please…”
The submissive words seemed to send me over the precipice of my release. With a helpless scream, I started to come, sure that my neighbors could hear me through the thin walls and to my dismay feeling my desire only grow at the thought.
The room spun for the briefest of moments as I got up, suddenly desperate to leave behind the shame I had perpetrated in my bed. I felt like I had left a world of shameful pleasure and returned to the even more humiliating consequences I would find in reality, when I went back to the Selecta building.
If I go back to the Selecta building.
The cool air of the apartment against my skin seemed to scold me for the heat my imagination of Joseph’s imagined touch had stoked to life. I shook my head violently, trying to pretend my face hadn’t just gone hot once again, and the other heat hadn’t somehow, treasonously, reawakened below my tummy.
My feet carried me on autopilot, padding across the floor toward the closet. With practiced motions, I reached for the carefully chosen attire, the second of my two workplace outfits—the office clothes that had always seemed a symbol of the admin assistant persona I had felt so proud of having developed.
I dressed, hardly thinking of anything at all but coffee and blueberry yogurt, and grateful somewhere in my mind for the respite from thoughts of Selecta.
My reflection in the mirror struck me as a strange study in contrasts—outward poise and inner turmoil, a woman who desperately wanted to seem like she’d been carved from ice, but, after yesterday, hiding a core molten with longing. My creased brow and my blue eyes betrayed me, I saw with a little twist of my pursed lips to the side, the trouble there seeming to warn me that I hadn’t gotten rid of the memories, or what they meant—I’d only repressed them.
With a final glance at the reflection that held all my secrets, I turned away. I closed the bedroom door behind me with a click of finality, sealing away the shameful place of my helpless, submissive desires.
I sipped my coffee and ate my yogurt, doing my best to keep my attention on my phone, trying to absorb at least a little of the news instead of thinking about Selecta. I put my breakfast things in the sink. I brushed my teeth. I moved toward the door.
As I reached for the doorknob, an electric jolt of awareness sizzled through me, along with the degrading memory of Joseph’s words, again as if he stood right there, right behind me, smiling at my helpless blushes.
No panties until I say you can wear them again.
Joseph’s decree. An assertion of his control, in my mind, that clung closer than any fabric.
A little whimper rose in my throat. I stood in front of the door, my hand still reaching for the knob. I wondered how I had managed to put my panties on without remembering my new boss’ command, and then I almost wished I’d managed to get out the door and onto the subway without having remembered.
I bit my lip, thinking of what would happen. Thinking of the horrid wooden paddle, above all.
My face burning, I dropped my purse and went back to the bedroom. I tried not to think about it as all the conflicted feelings I had managed to push down and away a few minutes before came rushing back into my head, my chest, and worst of all my private parts.
I hiked my pencil skirt up to mid thigh and drew the sensible gray cotton bikini panties down, glad that at least in the warmth of summer I didn’t have to worry about stockings.
Until he tells you to wear them. And the garter belt. And tiny panties over the suspenders when he allows it.
I tossed the tangle of fabric aside onto the bed, willing myself to return to that automatic state in which I’d almost made it out the door. It didn’t help. As I checked my reflection one final time, I saw Mr. Joseph Alden’s secretary and I couldn’t push down the sob as I remembered too well that at Selecta secretary also meant fuck toy.
Walking from my building to the subway, I felt as if I had traveled to some other, darker, plane of reality. The warm morning and the city’s noises enveloped me just as they had every morning I’d left home for my ordinary admin assistant jobs.
Beneath the crisp lines of my office clothes, though, I felt raw and terribly vulnerable. My lack of underwear brought a shamefully new sensation to which the soreness in my backside and between my legs only called more of my attention. Every step seemed like an insane, impossible bit of progress toward a place my rational mind told me I shouldn’t return to, while my body refused to pay my brain any heed.