Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
M elissa
I woke the next morning feeling groggy and disoriented. For a blissful moment, I forgot where I was and what had happened the day before. Then reality came crashing back as I shifted in bed and felt the lingering soreness in my bottom and the absence of my panties.
I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. How was I supposed to face another day at Selecta after everything that had transpired? The humiliation of my public punishment, the confusing arousal I’d experienced… the way I’d masturbated not once but twice. I tried to feel my usual defiant pride in self-pleasure, but I failed utterly: I felt ashamed of myself instead.
With what I thought of as my usual casual wanking sessions, I decided when I would touch myself. I decided on the scenes that would play out in my mind as I stroked my private lips, rubbed my clit, put a finger inside my warm, wet sheath. I chose the time, and I chose the fantasy. Yesterday, though… I had felt compelled. I had needed to play with my pussy. Worse, the fantasies that had popped into my mind had done so completely unbidden—and they had aroused me more than any fantasies I had ever had before.
But I had made a decision last night. I would not give up. I would change things from the inside. With that thought bolstering my resolve, I forced myself out of bed and into the shower.
As the hot water cascaded over me, I had to keep pushing away the memories of yesterday and force myself to focus on the day ahead. I had no idea what to expect, though—would there be more orientation sessions? Would I be starting actual work? The uncertainty made my stomach churn with anxiety.
I dried off and stood in front of my closet, pondering what to wear. Part of me wanted to pick something conservative and unremarkable, to avoid drawing any more attention to myself. But another part rebelled at the idea of letting Selecta dictate my choices in any way.
In the end, I opted for a conservative suit, one of the three I had bought with Selecta’s eye-popping signing bonus. Conservative in cut, but the boldest of the three in color: red. Professional, but with a hint of defiance in the color. As I zipped up the skirt, wincing slightly at the pressure on my tender flesh, I examined myself in the mirror. I saw determination in my face, despite lingering shadows under my eyes. Good. I needed every ounce of that determination to face whatever Selecta had in store for me today.
I arrived at the towering building with ten minutes to spare before my nine a.m. start time, thanks to the comfortable shuttle provided by Selecta. As I walked through the lobby, I couldn’t help but notice how different it felt from yesterday. The same sleek marble and glass surrounded me, but now it seemed brutal rather than impressive. Just as I reached the security desk I got an alert on my handheld.
Good morning, Melissa. Please report to Heather, the office manager of NMB Strategic, on 52.
I swallowed hard at the innocent-seeming abbreviation. NMB . New Modesty Blue. My cheeks got warm as I wondered whether they had put me there not in spite of but because of my outburst yesterday, and its horrid consequences.
I joined a group of other employees waiting for the elevator, trying to ignore the sidelong glances some of them were giving me. Did they know, somehow, what had happened yesterday? Had word spread about the troublemaker who had gotten paddled on her first day?
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the bustling fifty-second floor. I stepped out, my heart pounding in my chest. The space before me buzzed with activity—a sea of desks and cubicles stretching as far as I could see, populated by sharply dressed men and women moving with purpose.
A tall, blonde woman in her late thirties approached me, her crisp pantsuit and no-nonsense demeanor marking her as someone of authority. “Melissa Mitropoulos?” she asked, extending her hand. “I’m Heather Schein, office manager for NMB Strategic. Welcome to the team.”
I shook her hand, grateful for her professional manner. “Thank you, Ms. Schein. I’m glad to be here.”
Heather’s lips quirked in a small smile. “Please, call me Heather. Now, let me show you around.”
She led me through the maze of desks, pointing out different departments and key personnel. I tried to absorb it all, but my mind kept drifting back to yesterday’s events. The paddling. The humiliation. The unwelcome arousal down below my belly that threatened to break out yet again just at the memory of it all.
“And this,” Heather said, snapping me back to the present, “is where you’ll be working.”
We had reached a cluster of six desks arranged in a rough circle. Five of them were occupied by men, all of whom looked up at our approach. I felt a flutter of anxiety in my stomach as I realized I would be the only woman in this immediate group.
“Gentlemen,” Heather addressed them, “this is Melissa Mitropoulos, your new team member. Melissa, meet Alex, Connor, Ethan, Joe, and Tyler.”
The men nodded and murmured greetings. Their expressions ranged from polite interest to barely concealed skepticism. I forced a smile, determined not to let their scrutiny unnerve me.
“Your desk is right here,” Heather continued, gesturing to the empty workstation. “You’ll find all the necessary equipment and access codes in your welcome packet.”
I nodded, setting my bag down on the desk. The surface was immaculate, the computer sleek and new. Despite my reservations about Selecta, I couldn’t help but feel a small thrill at the thought of diving into my work.
“Now,” Heather said, checking her watch, “Mr. Harrington would like to meet with you in his office. If you’ll follow me?”
My stomach clenched at the mention of Stuart Harrington. I had read about him, of course, as I had readied myself for my new job—the enigmatic overseer of Selecta’s controversial entertainment division. The man, I knew after yesterday, had to be ultimately responsible for New Modesty Blue.
Heather led me down a long corridor, past rows of glass-walled conference rooms and executive offices. At the end of the hall stood an imposing set of double doors. She knocked twice, then opened one door and ushered me inside.
My breath hitched a little as I took in the impressive space—the proverbial corner office, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city skyline. Sleek modern furniture in muted grays and blues complemented the polished wood floors. Abstract art adorned the walls, as if to say that the office’s occupant had the leisure time to develop his tastes—and to spend accordingly.
But it was the man behind the imposing mahogany desk who truly commanded my attention. Stuart Harrington rose as we entered, his tall, athletic frame unfolding with easy grace. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. His dark hair was neatly styled, a touch of distinguished silver at the temples. His eyes, though—they captivated me. Or maybe they captured me. Deep ocean blue, focused, seeming to look right through my skin into my mind.
“Stuart,” Heather said, “this is Melissa Mitropoulos, our new junior executive.”
Stuart stepped around his desk, extending his hand with a warm smile. “Miss Mitropoulos, welcome. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
As I shook his hand, I felt a jolt of electricity at his touch. His firm, confident grip lingered just a moment longer than strictly necessary. I found myself having to remind my lungs to function properly.
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Harrington,” I managed to say, proud that my voice remained steady despite the sudden flutter in my stomach.
“Please, call me Stuart,” he said, his voice a rich baritone.
Heather cleared her throat softly. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Melissa, I’ll be at my desk if you need anything later.”
As the door closed behind Heather, I suddenly felt very aware of being alone with Stuart. He gestured to a pair of leather armchairs near the window. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you some coffee?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, sinking into one of the chairs. I watched as Stuart moved to a sleek espresso machine in the corner, his movements fluid and purposeful.
“I have to say,” Stuart began as he prepared our drinks, “I was quite impressed by your application. Especially your writing sample on the potential for Selecta’s social media portfolio.”
I blinked in surprise. “You read that yourself?”
Stuart chuckled, a warm, rich sound that made my cheeks flush. “Of course. I like to be hands-on with my team, especially when it comes to new talent.” He returned with two steaming cups, handing one to me before taking the seat opposite. “Your ideas about leveraging micro-influencers to subtly shift societal norms—very innovative. I’d be interested in hearing more about how you’d apply that strategy to some of our more… sensitive properties.”
I took a sip of coffee to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. The rich, complex flavor bloomed on my tongue. As I lowered the cup, I caught Stuart studying me intently, his blue eyes slightly narrowed, as if assessing me.
“I also noticed in your application,” Stuart said, his voice casual but his gaze still penetrating, “that you’re quite the fan of Edward Gibbon. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire , if I’m not mistaken?”
I felt a flush of pleasure at his recognition of this detail. “Yes, that’s right,” I replied, unable to keep a note of enthusiasm from my voice. “I know it’s old-fashioned and outdated from a historiographical point of view…”
My cheeks flared into heat as I heard myself, but I could see in Stuart’s eyes that he appreciated my passion. That only made my embarrassment grow, but I kept going if only to cover my confusion.
“But… you know. The way his reasoning works… the basic analysis of how societal structures evolve and collapse. Just the, you know, majesty of his prose.”
Stuart leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Indeed. I wonder what Gibbon would make of Selecta, don’t you? How might he view our role in shaping modern society?”
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to respond, but found myself hesitating. My mind raced, trying to reconcile Gibbon’s historical analysis with the reality of Selecta’s practices that I had witnessed just yesterday.
“I… I’m not entirely sure,” I began, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “To be honest, I only learned yesterday that New Modesty Blue is the most important property in Selecta’s entertainment portfolio. I’m still processing that information and… well, I’m not quite sure how to feel about it, whether from Gibbon’s perspective or my own.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. Stuart’s expression hardened, his eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.
“Miss Mitropoulos,” he said, his voice sharp and cold, “let me give you some advice that will serve you well here at Selecta. Whether you’re sure how to feel about New Modesty Blue or not, I suggest you pretend that you feel just fine about it. In fact, I insist upon it. Is that clear?”
The sudden shift in his demeanor sent a shiver down my spine. Gone was the warm, engaging executive. In his place sat a man who radiated authority and expected absolute compliance. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the excellent coffee.
“Yes, Stuart,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I understand.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, as if gauging the sincerity of my response. I couldn’t help it: I squirmed in my seat, and the movement brought a flare of pain from one of the bruises Sharon had left with the paddle. I winced.
“That particular difficulty,” Stuart said, obviously noticing my discomfort, “became the cause of some unpleasantness for you yesterday, didn’t it?”