Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
S tuart
It didn’t surprise me that Mandy’s disrespect became the flashpoint for Melissa’s inner struggle. My secretary’s perpetual laziness, her always walking just this side of insubordination in order to get her own need for discipline met, was bound to trigger my new junior exec’s intriguing mix of submissive and dominant arousal triggers.
What I didn’t expect was how Melissa’s independent work on New Modesty Blue would set everything off. So when Mandy complained about Melissa one morning two weeks after Melissa’s arrival, I didn’t think much about it at first.
“That new girl,” Mandy told me at our morning meeting as she went over my calendar for the day, “is getting too big for her britches, way too soon. I don’t want to tell you your job or anything, sir, but I do want to warn you.”
I frowned at her across the coffee table.
“Of course you don’t want to tell me my job,” I said, injecting a slightly stern note to make certain Mandy understood that from time to time she definitely did do that. Since her last paddling, Mandy’s performance had improved, but I could see that the effects had begun to wear off.
“Of course,” she repeated, smiling in a catty way that tried to enlist me—her boss—in her little conspiracy. “I know you like to know what’s going on with your team, though, sir.”
Mandy’s laziness, alas, stemmed from her sizable intellect. She could have risen to the ranks of the junior executives, at the very least, had she had the ambition. She had grown content, though, with her subservient job—not only because of her submissive sexuality, a requirement for the position at Selecta, but also because it didn’t take nearly as much effort, for someone of her abilities, to turn in the same level of work as the other secretaries.
When properly motivated, I had always found Mandy’s work outstanding. Truth to tell, I had never minded motivating her, either. Heather had administered Mandy’s last punishment with the official paddle, but the time before that, when Mandy had needed a reminder, I had spanked the girl over my knee—a measure I currently wondered whether I should repeat, given her attempt to deliver this ‘warning’ about Melissa Mitropoulos.
“So?” I asked, knowing that I needed to get to the bottom of it—in one way or another. “What are you warning me about?”
“Well,” Mandy said, knitting her brows as if she really just wanted to think it through with me, “she’s working on something with the assessment team’s audience demographics database. She’s not really learning the business, the way I know you tell your new execs to do.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“You know, sir. Going around… talking to people and asking them what they do. Not just sitting at her computer typing goodness knows what.”
I could tell that underneath Mandy’s apparent mistrust of independent work there lay some other complaint—probably Melissa had asked for Mandy’s help with various things well within the secretary’s duties, but which Mandy found beneath her, or too time-consuming. Given that Mandy seemed to find it too time-consuming to answer the phone, I tended toward Melissa’s side of the argument even without hearing it.
On the other hand, though I wouldn’t fault a member of my team for working on something on their own, I did try to get my team to function as a unit. I hadn’t heard anything about what Melissa might be working on, and I spent a moment wondering whether I should inquire—before Mandy went on to the next agenda item and took my attention in a new direction.
The thought came back later that day, though, when I saw Melissa walk by the windows of my office, with apparent purpose. I wondered if even through the glass I could notice a bit of a blush in her cheeks. I hadn’t had time to think much about her, but the sight of her lovely, leggy body in a knee-length skirt suit—and the idle thought that I’d very much like to see what lingerie she had chosen that morning—brought back Mandy’s ‘warning.’
I had the impulse to ask Mandy to schedule some time with Melissa, so I could ascertain whether whatever she was working on represented a productive use of her time. A broad smile crept onto my face as I thought about it, and how of course, part of that meeting would have to be an inspection to ensure my requests had been followed, with regard to the girl’s deportment under her skirt.
Surely, though, Melissa would have told her colleagues in the bullpen, if not me, if she thought her project merited attention at this stage. Part of my philosophy as a manager lay in letting my reports find their own way. I would let Melissa come to me—if the situation with Mandy didn’t develop into something I had to deal with from a different angle.
I put a reminder in my calendar for a week in the future.
F/u w/Melissa re ‘secret project.’
Melissa
Your Secret Garden .
Something about the phrase felt right—it captured both the hidden nature of the desires I was trying to tap into, and the sense of nurturing and growth I hoped the project could foster. Of course, I told myself firmly, I was thinking only of Selecta’s growth and profits. Not of… anything else.
Day after day, I pored over the data, refining my ideas and fleshing out the marketing strategy. I barely noticed the hours slipping by, often working late into the evening. My colleagues in the bullpen gave me curious looks, clearly wondering what had me so absorbed, but I deflected their questions with vague comments about a special project.
The more I delved into the numbers, the more convinced I became that I was onto something big. The potential market looked enormous—millions of women who might be curious about submission, but too afraid or ashamed to explore it openly. If we could reach even a fraction of them…
I found myself getting excited not just about the business potential, but about the content itself. I caught myself daydreaming about new storylines and scenarios that might appeal specifically to female viewers. Romantic encounters that slowly built to dominance and submission. Tender aftercare following intense scenes. Even… yes, even things like what I’d seen with Georgette and the diaper punishment.
My cheeks burned as I remembered that video, and my shameful reaction to it. But I couldn’t deny that it had sparked something in me—not just arousal, but a kind of fascination. A desire to understand why someone would submit to such a thing, and why they might find it exciting.
I told myself I was just being thorough, really immersing myself in the product to better market it. But late at night, alone in my apartment, I found myself imagining what it would be like to be one of those women on NMB. To have a strong, dominant partner who would take me in hand, punish me when I was naughty, make me feel safe and cherished and thoroughly owned…
No . I shook my head violently, trying to banish the thoughts, focus myself on changing the system. I threw myself back into the work with renewed vigor, determined to concentrate only on the business aspects.
But as the days went by, I found it harder and harder to maintain that separation. The line between market research and personal curiosity began to blur. I started watching more NMB content, telling myself it was necessary to understand the product. I found myself lingering over certain scenes, rewatching them multiple times to analyze their appeal.
As I neared completion of the proposal, I realized I needed a concrete, recent example to really drive home the potential. Something that showcased NMB’s broad appeal and ability to captivate diverse audiences. I decided to dive into the audience response data, searching for an episode that had resonated across all demographics.
After sifting through countless reports, I found it—a recent installment of Georgette and Michael’s storyline that had garnered unprecedented engagement metrics. The episode description made my cheeks flush:
Michael punishes Georgette for carelessness in the kitchen by giving her a thorough whipping, followed by taking her anal virginity.
My mouth suddenly went dry. This was exactly the kind of content I’d been avoiding, telling myself I was only interested in the business side of things. I knew I needed to watch it, though. As the highest-rated recent episode, it would complete my proposal perfectly, if I could show how my ideas dovetailed with audience response trends.
More than that, I told myself, I needed to prove to myself that I could watch a popular NMB episode objectively. That I could analyze it clinically without… without having the kind of reaction I’d had to previous NMB content. I needed to show myself I was in control.
With slightly shaking fingers, I sent the episode to one of the private viewing rooms. My heart raced as I stood, smoothing my skirt and taking a deep breath. I could do this. It was just research. Nothing more.
I made my way to the viewing room, trying to time my walk down the hallway so no one would notice where I went. I reached for the door handle, forcing myself not to hesitate despite the appearance of one of my colleagues at the other end of the corridor, and stepped inside.
I settled into the almost distressingly comfortable chair, my heart pounding as the screen flickered to life. The episode opened with Georgette in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. Her blonde hair was tied back in a neat bun, and she wore a modest floral dress that accentuated her curves.
Michael entered, his face darkening as he sniffed the air. “Georgette,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Did you leave a burner on again?”
Georgette’s eyes widened in alarm. She whirled around, gasping as she saw the forgotten pan smoking on the stove. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, Michael. I got distracted and?—”
“Enough,” Michael cut her off as he turned off the burner himself and put the pan in the sink. He turned back to Georgette. “This is the third time this month. You know how dangerous that is. I’m afraid you’ve earned yourself a serious punishment.”
I watched, transfixed, as Michael led Georgette to the living room. He sat on the couch and pulled her across his lap. With practiced ease, he flipped up her skirt and lowered her white cotton panties.
This is just research , I told myself firmly. I’m watching this objectively. Clinically.
But as Michael’s hand came down hard on Georgette’s bare bottom, I couldn’t help but flinch. The sharp crack seemed to echo in the small viewing room. Georgette yelped, her legs kicking slightly.
“Count them,” Michael ordered. “And thank me for each one.”
“One!” Georgette gasped. “Thank you, sir!”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, all too aware of the heat building between my thighs. This is normal, I insisted to myself. It’s just a physiological response to witnessing an intimate act. It doesn’t mean anything.
The spanking continued, Georgette’s bottom turning from pink to red under Michael’s firm hand. Her cries grew more desperate, but she dutifully counted each swat and thanked him.
When he finally stopped, Georgette lay limp across his lap, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. Michael rubbed her reddened flesh gently. “You took that well,” he murmured. “But we’re not done yet.”
He stood, guiding Georgette to bend over the arm of the couch. From a nearby cabinet, he retrieved a wicked-looking strap.
My eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t going to… But even as I thought it, Michael brought the strap down across Georgette’s already punished bottom.
Georgette screamed, her back arching. “Please, Michael!” she sobbed. “I’m sorry! I’ll be more careful, I promise!”
“I know you will,” Michael said, his voice stern but not cruel. “This is to make sure you remember.”
The whip fell again and again. I watched, mesmerized, as angry red welts rose on Georgette’s skin. My hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly, my nails digging into the upholstery. I told myself I was appalled by the brutality of it, but I couldn’t deny the ache between my legs, the way my nipples had hardened against the lace of my bra.
When Michael finally set the whip aside, Georgette was a sobbing mess. He helped her to her feet, holding her gently as she cried into his chest. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s almost over. Just one more part to your lesson. I need to make sure you remember.”
Michael began to caress Georgette tenderly. His hands roamed over her body, and soon her sobs turned to soft moans of pleasure.
“You were a terribly naughty girl,” Michael murmured. “You need a special kind of discipline.”
He bent Georgette over the couch again, this time spreading her legs wide. I watched, my breath catching, as he produced a small bottle of lubricant.
“Michael? Sir?” Georgette asked, her voice trembling. “What are you doing?”
“Shh,” he said again. “You earned this. I’m going to fuck your bottom.”
I knew I should look away. This was far beyond what I needed for my proposal. But I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen as Michael gently worked first one finger, then two, into Georgette’s thoroughly whipped bottom.
Georgette whimpered, but didn’t protest. As Michael’s fingers moved in and out, her whimpers turned to moans.
“That’s it,” Michael ordered. “Relax for me. Let me in.”
I squirmed in my seat, acutely aware of how wet I had become. When Michael positioned himself behind Georgette, slowly pushing his hard length into her tight rear entrance, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like. The burn, the stretch, the exquisite fullness…
I stopped the video. The screen showed a frozen close-up of Georgette’s blushing face, eyes closed and lower lip between her teeth.
I don’t want to be her! I shouted at myself.
My heart flipped as my thoughts slid in an even less welcome direction, and suddenly I became the one holding the whip, the one making Georgette cry out in her penitence. The one…
I shook my head and turned off the screen.