Chapter 2
Grace
“Don’t be silly, Grace,” Sharon said in a scornful tone, as she expertly pulled the garment down almost to my knees. “You of all people understand why naughty girls have their panties taken down.”
Without further warning, the first stroke of the paddle across my bare bottom sent fire through my entire body. I cried out, my back arching involuntarily.
“You have twelve swats, and you’ll count each one,” she instructed. “And you’ll thank me afterward.”
“One,” I gasped through my tears. I felt bizarrely, embarrassingly grateful that at least I knew how to accept an old-fashioned punishment. “Thank you, Ms. Fagan.”
“You know, Grace,” Sharon said conversationally as she delivered the second brutal swat, “judging from your NMB videos—which were some of our highest-rated streams, I should mention—most people would assume you enjoyed being punished.”
“Two,” I sobbed. “Thank you, Ms. Fagan.”
The paddle connected again with vicious precision, and I could feel my composure crumbling completely. The pain seemed so much sharper than anything Jacob had ever given me—businesslike and unforgiving rather than delivered out of anything like affection or even simple lust.
“Three. Thank you, Ms. Fagan.”
“But assessment knows better, doesn’t it?” Sharon continued, her voice maddeningly steady as she undoubtedly raised the paddle again, ready to continue my horrid lesson. “Assessment knows that you need punishment, but don’t like it one bit. There’s quite a difference.”
The fourth swat landed lower, catching the sensitive spot where my bottom met my thighs, and I nearly lost my grip on the desk edge.
“Four! Thank you, Ms. Fagan!”
How could she know that? How could she see through the facade that had fooled even Jacob?
I had spent years convincing myself and everyone else that I craved discipline, that submission came naturally to me.
But she was right—I needed it in some fundamental way I didn’t understand, even as every fiber of my being rebelled against it.
The remaining eight swats blurred together in a haze of fire and tears. By the time I choked out “Twelve, thank you, Ms. Fagan,” I was sobbing so hard I could barely speak.
“Stand up and take off your panties and bra,” Sharon commanded, returning the paddle to her drawer with businesslike efficiency and then sitting back down in her desk chair.
I straightened up, blinking at her through my tears.
Somehow it hadn’t fully occurred to me that to put on the pink lingerie she had presented to me, I would have to take off my own underwear completely.
My resistance had come just from the idea of having to wear the embarrassing new things—I hadn’t even thought of this stage, the nudity.
“That’s the other intriguing thing about you, isn’t it, Grace?” Sharon asked. “You were a porn star, really, but—”
“No!” I said. “I… no, I was…” I didn’t know what to say, except no.
I wasn’t a porn star at all. I… well, I had been featured on a streaming service, yes.
Getting spanked and fucked, yes. But… Jacob had done those things to me.
Even when he had made me kneel down and I had had to worship his rigid penis while the cameras watched, he had made me do that.
I was his wife, and I had to, or he would spank me harder, the way he should because he had the responsibility of disciplining me and keeping me in line.
“I was a… you know, a wife,” I whispered, my hands going in front of me to cover my pussy as I belatedly realized that my panties had remained around my knees.
“Yes, you were,” Sharon said, her voice taking on an almost clinical tone.
“And that’s exactly what assessment finds so fascinating about you, Grace.
Despite having appeared on NMB, despite being watched by thousands of subscribers while your husband disciplined and used you, you’re still genuinely modest and embarrassed about nudity. ”
I felt my face burn even hotter as she spoke so matter-of-factly about the strange but also strangely welcome course my life with Jacob had taken for two years. My hands remained pressed protectively over myself, and I could feel fresh tears threatening to spill over.
“You’ll probably never lose that modesty completely,” Sharon continued, and something in her tone suggested she found this satisfactory rather than problematic. “Which is actually a good thing. It makes you… authentic. Genuine in a way that’s quite valuable.”
She leaned back in her chair, studying me with those sharp eyes. “Nevertheless, now that you’re interviewing for the Selecta Business University program, you’ll have to learn a different kind of obedience. Hands at your sides, Grace.”
The command was delivered so casually that I almost obeyed without thinking. Then I caught myself, my arms tightening across my body. “I… please, Ms. Fagan…”
“Do you want more paddling?” she asked, her hand already moving toward the drawer where she’d replaced that terrible implement.
“No!” The word came out as a strangled gasp. Trembling, I forced my arms down to my sides, every instinct screaming at me to cover myself again. The air conditioning seemed suddenly arctic against my exposed skin.
Sharon’s gaze swept over me with professional assessment. “You’ve done a good job keeping your pussy groomed,” she observed, and I wanted to die of mortification. “Even though Jacob left two weeks ago, you’ve maintained your shaving routine. Very disciplined of you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to bear the clinical way she discussed my most private areas. It was true—even in my despair and anger over Jacob’s abandonment, some deeply ingrained habit had kept me maintaining the grooming standards he had demanded.
“Your pussy will look quite sweet and sexy in the pink panties,” Sharon continued, her tone as businesslike as if she were discussing quarterly reports. “Much more appropriate for a Selecta candidate than those dreadful beige things you came in wearing.”
The conflicting emotions churning through me were almost unbearable.
Part of me—the part that had been trained so thoroughly by Jacob and the New Modesty program—responded to her authoritative tone with that familiar flutter of arousal.
But another part recoiled from the humiliation, from being discussed and evaluated like a piece of merchandise.
“Now,” Sharon said, tapping her fingers impatiently on the desk. “Are you going to put on the lingerie I selected for you, or shall I retrieve the paddle?”
My hands shook as I finally pushed my panties down the rest of the way and stepped out of them.
The bra followed, and I stood completely naked before her, fighting the overwhelming urge to flee.
The pink lingerie lay on the desk like a taunt, those delicate scraps of lace that I knew would make me feel more exposed than nudity itself.
“Much better,” Sharon said, picking up the bra and holding it out to me. “Put this on first.”
I took it with trembling fingers, the lace impossibly soft against my skin as I slipped my arms through the straps.
The cups barely contained me, the sheer fabric doing nothing to hide my nipples, which had hardened from the cold air and all the stuff I didn’t want to acknowledge.
The tiny rosettes along the edges seemed to mock the severity of this supposed business interview.
“Now the panties,” Sharon instructed, watching me with that same clinical detachment.
I stepped into them, pulling the delicate lace up my thighs. They sat low on my hips, the ribbons at the sides making me feel like a present waiting to be unwrapped. The back provided minimal coverage, and I could feel the cool air against the still-burning skin of my punished bottom.
“Turn around,” Sharon commanded. “Let me see.”
I rotated slowly, my face burning with humiliation as she inspected me like I was modeling for a catalog. When I faced her again, she was pulling something else from her desk drawer—a thick folder that she opened with practiced efficiency.
“Now then,” she said, as if I weren’t standing before her in lingerie that belonged in a honeymoon suite rather than an office, “let’s discuss why you might actually be valuable to Selecta, despite your obvious challenges with female authority.”
She spread several documents across her desk. “Are you familiar with our New Modesty training underwear product line?”
The question caught me so off guard that I almost laughed. “I… what?”
“Training underwear,” Sharon repeated patiently. “Selecta manufactures a line of thick, absorbent undergarments for young women in the New Modesty program who require additional behavioral modification.”
I felt a lurch in my belly as understanding dawned. I knew exactly what she meant—I had worn them myself during my first months in the program, when my foster parents had decided I needed the extra humiliation to break my willfulness.
“I see from your expression that you’re familiar with the product,” Sharon observed. “In fact, according to your file, you wore them for approximately three months.”
The memory of those awful, bulky things made my cheeks burn even hotter.
They had been like wearing diapers, making me aware of them with every movement, feeling almost visible under even the loosest skirts.
And they came with the humiliating recommendation that the wearer’s toileting be monitored.
The shame of having to ask permission to use the bathroom, of having my foster mother check them for accidents that never came, but were always threatened as a possibility if I misbehaved and had permission to use the toilet denied…
“Yes,” I whispered, unable to meet her eyes.
“Good. Then you can provide valuable consumer insight.” Sharon pulled out a market analysis chart. “Sales have been declining. The foster families are still ordering them, but at lower rates. Assessment believes the product line needs refreshing.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the revealing pink lingerie, acutely aware of how the delicate lace felt against my skin compared to those horrible training garments. “What kind of refreshing?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.” Sharon leaned forward, her fingers steepled. “You’ve worn them. You understand the psychological impact. What would make them more effective?”
The question hung in the air between us. I knew exactly what would make them more effective—I’d thought about it endlessly during those three humiliating months. But admitting that knowledge felt like betraying every girl who would suffer because of my suggestions.
“I…” I swallowed hard. “The washing instructions.”
Sharon’s eyebrow arched. “Go on.”
“They’re machine washable,” I said quietly, hating myself for each word. “But if girls had to hand wash them—had to spend time every evening scrubbing them clean—it would reinforce the lesson. Make them really think about why they’re wearing them.”
“Interesting.” Sharon made a note. “What else?”
My mind raced back to those awful months, to the specific moments of deepest shame.
“The coverage. They’re designed to be modest, to cover everything completely.
But that’s… that’s not the only point, is it?
The point is humiliation. Part of that comes from the modesty involved, but could there be… more?”
“Continue.”
“A cutout,” I whispered, my face burning. “Over the… over the middle of your bottom. So that if a foster parent or a suitor needs to correct her… you know… that way…”
To my dismay I flashed back to a vivid memory of Jacob correcting me that way, with his middle finger up my anus as a quick, quiet admonishment to behave myself.
Sharon had raised her eyebrows as she waited for me to finish. I swallowed hard.
“Well… she doesn’t have to have them pulled down. She’s already exposed. Already vulnerable. And… she knows that… you know, when she puts them on, and when she’s allowed to use the… the toilet, too.”
Sharon’s pen moved quickly across her notepad. “That’s brilliant, Grace. Absolutely brilliant. You understand the psychology perfectly.”
I wanted to sink through the floor. I had just suggested ways to make an already humiliating product even more degrading for young women like I had been.
But the way Sharon looked at me—with genuine professional approval rather than the clinical assessment from before—made something twist in my chest.
“This is exactly the kind of insight Selecta needs,” Sharon said, closing the folder with satisfaction. “Someone who understands our products from personal experience, but can think strategically about market positioning.”
She stood, moving around the desk to face me directly. “I’m very impressed, Grace. Very impressed indeed. I think you might be exactly what Scott Yellen has been looking for.”
“Scott Yellen?” The name was vaguely familiar from Selecta’s corporate communications.
“Head of programming. He’s been searching for a special candidate to serve as his personal intern.” Sharon’s smile had an edge to it that made my insides flutter nervously. “Someone with your unique combination of experience and analytical ability would be perfect.”