Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
M elissa
That night, in my new Selecta-subsidized apartment, I lay on my belly in bed trying to figure out what to do. I had tried to distract myself with nice Italian takeout, but it had just reminded me of how if I quit my new, high-paying, terribly disturbing job, I wouldn’t be able to afford nice Italian takeout anymore. Nor would I have this very well-furnished and astonishingly well-located—if small—apartment.
Square one. That was where I’d return if I quit and served out the thirty days as per my contract, doing everything in my power not to attract attention. Maybe they wouldn’t make me keep coming into the office, but that seemed like a faint consolation. Square one, with all my dreams of a brilliant, iconoclastic career shattered.
I shifted restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position. My mind raced, replaying the day’s events in an endless loop of humiliation and confusion. When I tried to think about my cute new kitchen, gleaming with high-end appliances I had only dreamed of owning, I saw Sharon’s stern face. I had taken a long, long shower under the amazing rainfall showerhead and padded across the bathroom’s heated floors, but it hadn’t dispelled the memory of the stark white plastic blade of the paddle, with the red SELECTA emblazoned on it.
The hours ticked by, marked by the soft blue glow of the digital clock on my nightstand. I cycled through a range of emotions. Anger at the injustice of it all. Fear of what might lie ahead if I stayed. Shame at how my body had betrayed me. And underneath it all, the gnawing uncertainty about what I should do next.
I must have dozed off at some point, because I woke with a start a few hours later, my bladder urgently demanding attention. Groggily, I pushed myself up from the bed, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating from my backside. The paddle had left its mark, both physically and mentally.
Trying to take the smallest possible steps, I made my way to the bathroom, each stab of pain a reminder of my humiliation. The tile floor felt soothing against my bare feet as I flicked on the light, momentarily blinded by its harsh glare.
As I relieved myself, I couldn’t help but remember what I had done in the bathroom stall, at work. The memory sent a thrill of shame through me. I tried to push it away. I had started to realize the danger that emotion posed—in this context, anyway. The feeling of sitting on the toilet seat, though… the way it brought back the soreness from the horrid paddle… I felt my brow furrow as I wiped between my legs and rose.
After I flushed the toilet, I stood before the large, well-lit mirror above the sink. My reflection stared back at me, eyes shadowed with fatigue, hair mussed from restless sleep. I looked defeated. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
That wasn’t me. I wasn’t someone who gave up, who let injustice stand unchallenged. I had come to Selecta with a purpose, hadn’t I? To change things from the inside?
As I gazed at my reflection, I felt a spark of my old determination reignite. Yes, I had been humiliated. Yes, I had been forced to confront uncomfortable truths about myself. But that didn’t mean I had to abandon my principles. I would keep fighting—and I wouldn’t give up this apartment—but, no, that wasn’t the point. The point was…
Anyway, I wasn’t going to quit. Decision made. Time to go back to bed.
Instead, though, I kept looking at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long time, struggling with my thoughts and feelings. The bright overhead light cast shadows across my face, accentuating the dark circles under my eyes and the worry lines etched across my forehead. I studied my reflection intently, searching for answers in the depths of my own gaze.
My long, dark hair fell in tangled waves around my shoulders, a complete contrast to the crisp, polished image I had presented at the start of the orientation just… what… twelve hours ago? Fourteen? I shook my head at the irrelevance of it, realizing somewhere in my mind that I was trying to avoid another idea or another memory. The oversized blue t-shirt I wore to sleep in hung loosely on my frame.
My eyes flickered downward, catching sight of my bare legs. With a hot blush I remembered how I hadn’t even been able to put on comfy cotton panties to sleep in, the way I always did. The thought sent a fresh wave of shame and anger coursing through me. Such a small thing, denied to me by the cruel paddle.
Finally, as if I were unable to resist any longer an impulse I hadn’t even admitted to having, I turned around and looked at my reflection over my shoulder. My left hand trembled a little as I grasped the hem of my t-shirt and slowly raised it, revealing the aftermath of my punishment. The sight that greeted me in the glass made my breath catch in my throat.
My once-smooth olive skin had become a canvas of angry red welts and deep purple bruises. The unmistakable marks left by the paddle crisscrossed my backside in a pattern that spoke of methodical, calculated punishment. I winced as I remembered the sharp crack of each stroke, the way the pain had built with every swat.
Not thinking about it, I traced the outline of a particularly vivid bruise with my fingertips, hissing softly at the tenderness I found there. The contrast between my unmarked skin and the abused flesh looked jarring, a physical representation of how quickly my world had changed.
My eyes watered at the pain as I continued to examine the damage, explore it with my touch. It hurt, but I couldn’t stop, as if I needed to find something, learn something. I bit my lip, and kept walking my fingertips over the welts.
Yes… no… yes…
Yes: even as I felt the sting of soreness and humiliation, try as I might, I couldn’t deny the spark of a very different kind of feeling.
I remembered, my cheeks heating at the unbidden mental image, the way my body had betrayed me during the punishment, the unwelcome heat that had gathered below my belly. Then, much worse, the memory of what I had done in the bathroom stall afterward flooded back. To my dismay, that recollection set off a larger problem: unable to stop myself, I squeezed my thighs together.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the conflicting emotions and sensations. I had just decided that I would change things, rather than succumbing to them. As I continued to gaze at my shamefully marked flesh, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had gotten in over my head. The bruises seemed to tell of a world I didn’t fully understand, one where business and pain—and business and pleasure—blurred in ways I had never imagined.
I turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of my punished flesh any longer. As I did, my eyes fell on the small tube of arnica cream sitting on the bathroom counter. I had bought it earlier that day, after the orientation, on the advice of Anne, a fellow recruit I’d met at lunch.
“Trust me,” Anne had said with a knowing look, “you’ll want to pick up some arnica at the pharmacy before you go home. It helps with the bruising and soreness.”
At the time, I had resented the other woman’s suggestion—I had taken it as an attempt to make herself feel superior. Which it might have been, of course, but that didn’t change what the stuff could do. Looking at the tube now, though, I remembered the expression in Anne’s eyes and reevaluated. Perhaps rather than arrogance, I had really seen in her face a mix of sympathy and resignation.
Staring at the unopened tube, I felt the inner conflict rise again. Using the cream felt like giving in, like accepting that this represented my new reality. I had refused to apply it earlier out of sheer stubbornness, not wanting to participate in Selecta’s culture even to that small degree.
But as I stood there, the throbbing pain in my backside a constant reminder of my humiliation, I couldn’t help but remember Anne’s words about her time at New Modesty college.
“The first few weeks were hell,” she had confided in a hushed tone. “I thought I’d never get used to it. But slowly, day by day, it became… normal. The discipline, the structure… it started to make a weird kind of sense.”
I had been enraged at the time, unable to imagine ever accepting such a system—barely able to keep chewing my sandwich, with the pain in my paddled ass and the humiliation of everyone in the room remembering what had befallen me over the chair. I reached for the tube with trembling fingers, wondering if despite my resolution to challenge the system I was taking the first step down that same path.
Trying not to think too deeply about what I was doing, I squeezed a dollop of the cool cream onto my fingertips. The medicinal scent filled my nostrils as I hesitated, my hand hovering just above my tender flesh.
Taking a deep breath, I began to apply the cream, wincing at the initial contact. As I gently massaged it into my bruised skin, I couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. The cooling sensation was immediate, soothing the angry welts left by the paddle.
My fingers moved in small circles, carefully covering every inch of my punished bottom. As I worked, I found myself remembering more of what Anne had told me about her experiences at New Modesty college.
“The first time I was paddled,” she had said, her eyes distant with the memory, “I thought I’d die from the shame of it. But by the third or fourth time… there was something almost cathartic about it. Like all the stress and pressure just melted away with each stroke.”
I shook my head, trying to dispel the memory. That wasn’t me. That was insane. I wasn’t going to find anything ‘cathartic’ about being beaten like a disobedient schoolgirl.
And yet… as my fingers continued their gentle ministrations, I felt the involuntary heat begin to build between my thighs. I tried to focus solely on the medical nature of what I was doing—just applying a soothing balm to injured flesh. But as my hands moved over the tender curves of my bottom, I couldn’t help but remember again the feeling of being bent over the chair, exposed and vulnerable. This time the memory sent a jolt of electricity straight to my pussy.
My breath caught in my throat as I felt myself growing slick with arousal. This was wrong. So wrong. I was supposed to be outraged, disgusted by what had happened to me. Instead, my traitorous body was yet again responding with unmistakable desire. I had told myself after giving in, in the bathroom at work, that it wouldn’t happen again. Not twelve hours later, here I was, needing more.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the ache between my legs. But closing my eyes only made it worse, allowing vivid images to dance across my mind’s eye—the stern set of Sharon’s mouth as she wielded the paddle, the feeling of cool air on my bared flesh, the excruciating anticipation before each stroke fell.
A soft whimper escaped my lips as I felt my inner muscles clench with desire. My fingers, still slick with arnica cream, drifted lower almost of their own accord. I jerked my hand away as if burned when I realized where it was headed.
No. This isn’t me . I don’t want… this .
Even as I forced my brain to articulate the words—to hang them like a billboard behind my eyelids—I knew they were a lie. My body screamed for release, every nerve ending alight with desperate arousal. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles turning white as I fought against the urge to touch my pussy.
It was no use. The combination of the lingering sting from the paddling, the soothing coolness of the cream, and the molten heat of my arousal proved too potent to resist. With a choked sob of mingled shame and lust, I gave in.
My right hand flew between my thighs, fingers finding my swollen clit with unerring accuracy. At the same time, my left hand returned to my tender bottom, gently kneading the bruised flesh. The double stimulation sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me.
I worked myself toward climax with frantic urgency, unbidden images flashing through my mind. This time it wasn’t Sharon wielding the paddle. Instead, I saw a faceless man, tall and powerfully built. In my fantasy, Sharon stood to the side, that horrid smirk on her face as she turned me over to this stranger for further ‘correction.’
“Please,” I heard myself beg in the fantasy, even as my fingers moved faster in reality. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
The imaginary man said nothing, simply raising the paddle high. I came hard, harder even than I had in the bathroom at work. I stood there, panting, eyes closed as if I could deny what had just happened. My thoughts began to clear.
So… I told myself. That’s out of my system. Good. Nothing a bit of a wank couldn’t fix. Two bits of wanking, anyway.
I turned off the bathroom light and padded the six or seven steps to the bed. Climbing into it, doing everything I could to think about the insanely high thread count of the Selecta-provided sheets rather than anything else that might cross my mind, I failed to suppress the ghost of a doubt. Did pleasuring myself, indulging my pussy’s wayward whims, really represent a solution?
Well , my last waking thought said, at least my embarrassment at those fantasies will make me want to get rid of the provocation, won’t it? I won’t be lining up for any more paddlings, will I?
Will I?