His to Correct (Corporate Correction)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M elissa

I arrived at the orientation for Selecta’s Rising Executives program precisely on time. The gleaming glass and steel tower of Selecta Headquarters loomed before me, its imposing facade an almost frighteningly literal symbol of the megacorp’s dominance over our brave new world. I smoothed down my crisp white blouse and navy pencil skirt, the required attire for female recruits, as I strode through the revolving doors into the vast marble lobby.

My heels sounded loud against the polished floor, echoing in the cavernous space as I made my way to the bank of elevators. A sea of suits and skirts flowed around me, all moving with purposeful efficiency. The air seemed to hum with an undercurrent of tension and ambition.

I stepped into the elevator amid a press of purposeful-looking people, my stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I had a fairly good idea of what awaited me on the forty-second floor—the notorious Orientation Conference Room, occasionally dubbed the ‘Induction Chamber’ by those in the know. I knew I would see Selecta’s patriarchal culture on full display, as they began their attempt to mold us into obedient corporate drones.

I had other plans.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. A long corridor of gleaming white stretched in front of me. At its end stood an imposing set of double doors guarded by two stern-faced men in dark suits. As I approached, I could feel their eyes raking over me, assessing my potential threat level. I lifted my chin and met their gaze unflinchingly.

“Name?” the taller of the two asked, his eyes telling me he didn’t think it could possibly be on his list.

“Melissa Mitropoulos,” I replied coolly. “Here for the Rising Executives orientation.”

He checked his tablet, then nodded curtly. “You may enter.”

The doors swung open, revealing a room equal parts opulent and austere. Deep-piled red carpet contrasted with stark white walls adorned only with the bold red Selecta logo. Rows of chairs faced a raised dais at the front of the room, where a podium stood flanked by two large screens.

As I took my seat, I couldn’t help but notice the gender disparity in the room. Out of the thirty or so recruits, only a handful were women. The men sat with easy confidence, while most of the women seemed to shrink into themselves, as if trying to take up less space.

Not me. I did my best to sit tall, my spine straight as a rod, my gaze steady as I surveyed the room. I knew what they would think of me, of course—a naive idealist, even a troublemaker in the making. But they didn’t know the fire that burned within me, the determination that had brought me here.

Yes, society was in decline. Yes, the Corporate Laws had given entities like Selecta unprecedented power. But where others saw hopelessness, I saw opportunity. In times of chaos and change, new ideas could take root and flourish. And I intended to be one of the people who planted those seeds.

The room fell silent as a distinguished older man in an impeccably tailored suit strode to the podium. His silver hair and commanding presence marked him clearly as one of Selecta’s top executives.

“Welcome, rising stars of Selecta,” he began, his voice deep and resonant. “I’m Executive Vice President Charles Blackwell. You represent the cream of the crop, handpicked to lead our corporation into a bold new future.”

He went on to extol Selecta’s virtues and the opportunities that awaited us, but I found my attention wandering. I let the corporate platitudes wash over me. I had heard empty words like these a thousand times before. I had come here for something more.

As Blackwell concluded his speech, a statuesque woman with sleek dark hair and piercing eyes took the stage. Sharon Fagan, I realized with a start. The infamous head of HR, known for her unwavering commitment to Selecta’s unique corporate culture.

“Good morning,” Sharon said, her voice crisp and authoritative. “Before we begin your formal orientation, there’s something you need to understand about the division you’ve joined.”

The screens behind her flickered to life, displaying the letters ‘NMB’ in elegant script.

“New Modesty Blue,” Sharon explained, her tone matter-of-fact. “Our exclusive streaming service, catering to the most discerning clientele. What you’re about to see may shock some of you, but it’s essential you grasp the full scope of our operations.”

The screens shifted to show a tidy but unremarkable bedroom. A print on the wall that showed a picturesque farmhouse made me think immediately that the room must itself be located in such a midwestern home. A young woman with honey-blonde hair and wide blue eyes stood nervously before a stern-looking man in his thirties. The decor of the room—the twin bed with the blue quilt on it, the vase on the nightstand—made me think the room must belong to her. She had on a little white nightgown that made her look so vulnerable and innocent that I felt my cheeks go hot. The man had on a work shirt and jeans.

“This is Grace,” Sharon narrated. “One of our New Modesty brides-in-training. And that’s Jacob, her accepted suitor.”

I felt my cheeks flush as I realized what I was watching. This was beyond anything I’d imagined, even in my worst fears about Selecta’s culture.

On screen, Jacob’s voice rang out clearly. “You’ve been very disrespectful today, Grace. What happens to naughty girls who talk back?”

Grace’s voice trembled as she replied, “They… they get spanked, sir.”

Without warning, Jacob sat down on the bed and pulled Grace over his knee. He pulled her nightgown up, and I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping as her pale little backside came into view. His hand came down hard on her upturned bottom, eliciting a yelp of pain and surprise.

I glanced around the room, shocked to see most of my fellow recruits watching with rapt attention. Only a few seemed as disturbed as I felt.

The spanking continued, Grace’s cries growing more frantic with each smack. Just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, Jacob stopped.

“Stand up,” he ordered. Grace obeyed, her face tearstained and flushed with humiliation.

Jacob’s next words sent a chill down my spine. “Now, bend over the bed. On your elbows. You’re going to learn your lesson thoroughly today.”

I watched in horror as Jacob produced a bottle of lubricant from Grace’s night table drawer. This couldn’t be happening. Not there in Grace’s room… not here in the orientation conference room… not then, or now, or ever.

Not here and not now , my brain tried to persuade me. This is a video clip. Maybe… maybe it’s not real.

But what I saw went beyond any acting, or imaginable fakery. At Jacob’s next command, Grace had to reach back and spread her pink bottom cheeks while her suitor prepared her anus.

As Jacob’s fingers probed Grace’s most private opening, I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me. Yet beneath it, to my horror, I felt a flicker of something else—a traitorous heat low in my belly. I crossed my legs tightly, disgusted with myself.

“You’ll notice,” Sharon’s cool voice cut through the room, “that NMB provides an unparalleled level of authenticity, because of course it comes from real New Modesty households. Our clients demand nothing less.”

On screen, Grace whimpered as Jacob positioned himself behind her. The camera zoomed in, leaving nothing to the imagination as he slowly, inexorably penetrated her bottom. Grace’s face contorted in a mix of pain and unwilling pleasure.

“Remember this lesson,” Jacob growled, his hips beginning to move. “This is what happens when you talk back.”

I tore my gaze away, only to find Sharon’s flinty eyes fixed on me. A faint smirk played at the corners of her mouth, as if she could see right through me, could sense the conflict raging within my body.

“NMB and its related properties,” Sharon continued, her voice laden with satisfaction, “account for a full fifty percent of Selecta Entertainment’s revenue. The appetite for this content among our best-heeled customer base is… insatiable.”

My eyes widened in shock. Half their revenue? From this? I looked around the room, expecting to see outrage, disgust, anything—but my fellow recruits seemed enthralled. Some of the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while a few of the women looked flushed and breathless.

Sharon’s next words sent ice through my veins. “Moreover, our highly lucrative sister organization, the Institute, which provides high-end concubines to discerning billionaires, relies heavily on NMB for marketing. The NMB streams serve as both advertisement and training tools.”

On screen, Jacob’s thrusts grew more forceful. Grace’s cries of pain had transformed into moans of reluctant ecstasy. I felt my own breath coming faster, my skin flushed and tingling. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

“You’re learning, aren’t you?” Jacob panted. “You’re learning to be a good girl for me.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Grace gasped. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

I squirmed in my seat, increasingly horrified at my body’s response. This was wrong, so wrong—and yet I could feel wetness gathering between my thighs, my nipples hardening beneath my blouse. I bit my lip hard, trying to use the pain to center myself.

Sharon’s voice droned on, outlining profit margins and market projections. But all I could focus on was the obscene tableau before me, the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, Grace’s breathy moans, Jacob’s grunts of effort.

As Jacob neared his climax, I felt my own arousal spiraling out of control. My hands clenched the arms of my chair, knuckles white with the effort.

I couldn’t take it anymore. The sensations coursing through my body felt like a betrayal of everything I stood for. My cheeks burned with mortification and anger as I fought desperately against my body’s betrayal. How dare they do this? How dare they reduce human beings to objects of twisted entertainment?

With a herculean effort, I wrenched my focus away from the screens and onto Sharon’s smug face. Her cool composure only fueled the fire of my outrage. I could feel my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I struggled to contain the fury building inside me.

“This is an outrage!” I shouted, leaping to my feet. My voice echoed in the suddenly silent room. “How can you possibly justify this… this exploitation?”

Sharon’s eyebrows rose slightly, the only indication of surprise on her otherwise impassive face. “Miss Mitropoulos, I believe? Please, sit down. We can discuss your concerns after the presentation.”

But I had gone beyond reason now. The dam had broken, and all my pent-up anger and disgust came flooding out. “No! I will not sit down and watch this travesty continue. This is nothing short of sexual slavery, dressed up in corporate doublespeak!”

I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me, a mix of shock, disapproval, and—from a few—a glimmer of apprehension. But I didn’t care. I had started to tremble, my fists clenched at my sides as I glared defiantly at Sharon.

“You can’t possibly think this is acceptable,” I continued, my voice rising. “We’re supposed to be leaders, not… not pimps and pornographers!”

Sharon’s eyes hardened, her lips thinning into a severe line. “Miss Mitropoulos, this is your final warning. Sit down, or face the consequences.”

“Consequences?” I laughed bitterly. “What are you going to do, spank me like one of your New Modesty girls?”

A hush fell over the room. I could see the shock on the faces of my fellow recruits, some averting their eyes, others watching with morbid fascination. Sharon’s expression, however, remained unnervingly calm.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, her voice silky smooth, “that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” She turned to address two young men in the front row. “Mr. Johnson, Mr. Ramirez, please escort Miss Mitropoulos to the front of the room.”

For a moment, I stood frozen in disbelief. They couldn’t be serious. But as the two men rose from their seats and approached me, the reality of the situation hit me like a bucket of ice water. This was really happening.

I tried to back away, but found myself hemmed in by the chairs behind me. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I hissed, but my voice lacked conviction. The fight had started to drain out of me.

Johnson and Ramirez approached me cautiously, their faces a mixture of reluctance and determination. I could see the conflict in their eyes—they didn’t want to manhandle a woman, but they also didn’t want to disobey a direct order from Sharon.

“Please, Miss Mitropoulos,” Johnson said softly, reaching out a hand. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

I jerked away from his touch, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. “Don’t you see how wrong this is?” I pleaded, looking from one to the other. “You can’t just go along with this!”

Ramirez sighed, his dark eyes filled with something that might have been pity. “We don’t have a choice. Neither do you.”

They moved in tandem, each grasping one of my arms. Their grips were firm but not painful, clearly trying to be as gentle as possible under the circumstances. I struggled against them, twisting and pulling, but their combined strength was too much for me.

“Let me go!” I demanded, my voice rising in pitch as panic began to set in. The room seemed to spin around me as they half-led, half-carried me toward the front. I could feel the eyes of every other recruit boring into me, a mixture of fascination and horror on their faces.

As we neared the dais, Sharon’s imposing figure loomed before me. She stood with her arms crossed, a slight smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. “Over the back of that chair, if you please, gentlemen,” she instructed, gesturing to one of the front-row seats, which she had pulled forward.

Johnson and Ramirez hesitated for just a moment before guiding me forward. I planted my feet, trying to resist, but they easily overpowered me. After a final, desperate struggle, I found myself bent over the back of the chair, my bottom raised, high and vulnerable.