Chapter 3
Grace
Sharon returned to her desk drawer, pulling out more items. My eyes widened as I recognized a garter belt and stockings in the same delicate pink as the lingerie I wore, along with matching heels.
“Put these on,” Sharon instructed, gesturing to the items on the desk. “The panties go over the garter straps, not under. I want you to understand that distinction clearly.”
I blinked at her, not sure what she meant, but Sharon only looked back at me steadily and with clearly growing disapproval despite her words of praise only a few moments before.
I lowered my eyes to the floor so that I wouldn’t have to see her expression, my cheeks burning at having to take the lacy panties off again in order to wear these lovely, degrading garments correctly.
Awkwardly I removed them and put them on the chair, and then my hands trembled as I picked up the garter belt, the pink lace so delicate it felt like it might tear at the slightest wrong movement.
I wrapped it around my waist, fumbling with the tiny hooks in back while Sharon watched with that same clinical assessment that made my skin burn.
“You’re taking too long,” she observed. “In a corporate environment, efficiency matters.”
I finally managed to secure the belt, then sat in the chair to roll the stockings up my legs.
The sheer pink fabric felt impossibly soft against my skin, and I tried not to think about how I must look—like something out of a lingerie store rather than a serious business candidate.
The clips that attached the stockings to the garter belt proved even more challenging than the hooks, my fingers clumsy with nervousness.
“Stand up,” Sharon commanded once I’d managed to attach all four clips. “Now the panties.”
As I reached for the wisp of fabric I suddenly understood what she had meant by her order—with the panties over the straps, they could be removed without unfastening the stockings.
The implication made me quiver with that familiar mixture of dread and unwanted arousal.
Everything about this arrangement suggested easy access, suggested availability in a way that made my cheeks burn.
I drew the delicate pink panties back up, settling them over the garter straps as instructed. The heels came last—not impossibly high, but enough to change my posture, to make me acutely aware of every step.
“Good,” Sharon said, moving around the desk to inspect me. “Now your dress.”
Relief flooded through me as I reached for my navy dress, pulling it over my head with desperate gratitude for even this small covering. But I could feel everything underneath—the lace against my skin, the pull of the garter straps with each movement, the way the heels made me stand differently.
Sharon returned to her seat, pulling out a tablet and making several quick notes. “Scott’s office is on the twentieth floor. Suite 2012. You’re expected there immediately.”
“Now?” My voice came out higher than intended. “Like this?”
“Yes, like this.” Sharon’s tone brooked no argument. “And Grace? Remember that Scott’s standards are even higher than mine. He’s accustomed to absolute obedience from his interns.”
I stood frozen for a moment, acutely aware of the pink lingerie beneath my conservative dress, of how the stockings whispered against each other when I moved. But Sharon’s expression made it clear that hesitation would only earn me another session with that horrible paddle.
“Yes, Ms. Fagan,” I whispered, turning toward the door.
“Oh, and Grace?” Sharon called as my hand touched the doorknob. “Scott will want to verify that you’re properly dressed according to company standards. He has the right to inspect you as he chooses. Don’t be surprised if he checks that you’ve followed instructions correctly.”
My legs felt unsteady as I made my way to the elevator, each step a reminder of the heels and the way the stockings pulled against the garter clips.
Other Selecta employees passed me in the hallway, and I wondered if they could tell—if they could somehow see through my modest navy dress to the scandalous pink beneath.
My face burned with the certainty that everyone must know exactly what kind of ‘interview’ I was undergoing.
The elevator ride to the twentieth floor seemed endless.
I stood in the corner, trying to take up as little space as possible, terrified that someone might brush against me and somehow feel the lace through my dress.
When the doors finally opened, I found myself in a hushed corridor lined with dark wood paneling and thick carpet that muffled the click of my heels.
Suite 2012 was at the end of the hall, the nameplate reading ‘Scott Yellen, Head of Programming’ in elegant gold lettering.
I raised my hand to knock, then hesitated.
Sharon’s words echoed in my mind—absolute obedience, even higher standards.
What if I couldn’t do this? What if I broke down sobbing the way I had in Sharon’s office?
But I needed this. I needed something beyond being someone’s discarded wife, beyond the humiliation of Jacob leaving me for his secretary. I knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice was deep, assured, and something about it made my pulse quicken even before I opened the door.
Scott Yellen was nothing like what I’d expected.
Where Sharon had been severe and businesslike, he possessed an almost relaxed confidence, leaning back in his leather chair with the easy grace of someone who never doubted his own authority.
He was handsome in a way that brought butterflies to my belly—mid-forties, I guessed, with silver just beginning to touch his temples and eyes that seemed to take in everything about me in a single sweeping glance.
“Grace,” he said, and the way he said my name—like he already knew everything about me, like he’d been expecting me specifically—made my knees feel weak. “Sharon speaks very highly of your potential.”
I stood just inside the doorway, unsure whether to sit or wait for permission. The office was larger than Sharon’s, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a spectacular view of the city below. Everything about the space radiated power and control.
“Thank you, Mr. Yellen,” I managed, hating how breathless I sounded.
“Scott,” he corrected, standing with fluid grace.
“We’re not that formal here, despite what Sharon might have led you to believe.
” He moved closer, and I caught a hint of expensive cologne—something subtle and masculine that made my head swim slightly.
“Though I understand she’s already introduced you to some of our corporate standards. ”
My face flamed as his eyes traveled over me, and I knew with horrible certainty that he was aware of exactly what I wore beneath my dress. Worse, that I wore the lacy panties over a bottom that Sharon had had to paddle to correct my hesitancy. “Yes, sir. I mean… she did.”
Scott smiled, and something about that smile made my breath catch. It wasn’t cruel like Sharon’s clinical assessment, but there was a knowing quality to it that suggested he understood exactly how difficult this was for me.
“Good,” he said simply. “I have something I’d like to show you. A new series we’re developing for NMB.”
My stomach dropped. Of course this would involve NMB. Everything in my life seemed to circle back to those cameras, to the streaming service that had broadcast my most intimate moments to paying subscribers.
“Follow me,” Scott said, moving toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, set into the wood paneling of his office wall.
I followed on unsteady legs, intensely aware of how the stockings whispered against each other with each step, how the heels changed my gait. The door opened into a small screening room with a large monitor and two leather chairs. The space felt intimate, almost uncomfortably so.
“Sit,” Scott instructed, gesturing to one of the chairs.
I lowered myself carefully, trying to keep my dress from riding up, though I knew the effort was pointless. Scott would see whatever he wanted to see before this interview was over.
He picked up a remote and the screen flickered to life. “This is Annabelle’s Story,” he said, settling into the chair beside me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Our newest premium series. I’d like your professional opinion.”
The image on screen showed a young woman, perhaps twenty-two, with long auburn hair and wide green eyes.
She knelt on a plush carpet in what looked like an upscale living room, completely naked except for what I immediately recognized as her training underwear—the thick, clinging waist-to-knees panties and the matching halter.
The camera angle was intimate but not crude, artistic in a way that made it somehow more shocking.
“This is Annabelle,” Scott explained as the scene continued. “She’s been with her foster family for six months now. Her foster father Kevin is preparing her for courtship.”
On screen, a man entered the frame—handsome, authoritative, perhaps forty. He wore work jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The way Annabelle’s eyes followed his movement, the mixture of fear and anticipation in her expression, made my chest tighten with recognition.
“Open,” Kevin commanded on screen, and Annabelle’s mouth fell open obediently.
I shifted in my chair, pressing my thighs together as Kevin positioned himself in front of the kneeling girl. Behind him, a woman appeared—blonde, matronly… and holding a riding crop.
“That’s Lara, Annabelle’s foster mother,” Scott said conversationally, as if we were discussing a nature documentary rather than what was about to happen. “As you probably know from your own experience with your New Modesty fosters, she assists with the training.”
I watched, transfixed and horrified, as Kevin unfastened his pants. The camera cut back and forth between Annabelle’s wide eyes and the enormous, rigid penis that her foster father withdrew from his fly. Annabelle’s cheeks had gone red, but I thought my own could give them serious competition.
“Take it in your mouth, Annabelle,” Kevin instructed, his voice patient but firm.
I watched as the girl on screen leaned forward hesitantly, her lips parting to accept him. The camera captured every detail—the way her eyes watered as she struggled to accommodate his size, the way Lara moved behind her with the crop raised.
When Annabelle gagged slightly and pulled back, the crop came down across her bottom with a sharp crack that made me jump in my chair.
“All the way, sweetheart,” Lara said gently, even as she raised the crop again. “You need to learn to please your future husband properly.”
My breathing had become shallow, and I was desperately aware of Scott beside me, of how he must be cataloguing every reaction.
The scene continued—Annabelle trying again, taking Kevin deeper this time, Lara providing correction with the crop whenever the girl’s technique faltered.
The combination of tenderness and discipline, of Lara’s maternal encouragement paired with the sting of the crop, created something that made my belly lurch with unwanted recognition.
“What do you think?” Scott asked, his voice low and intimate in the small screening room.
I couldn’t look at him. My face burned so hot I thought I might combust. “I… it’s very well shot,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He shifted in his chair, angling toward me. “What do you think of the content? The dynamic?”
On screen, Annabelle had found a rhythm now, her head bobbing steadily while Lara stroked her hair with one hand, the crop still ready in the other. Kevin’s expression remained controlled, almost businesslike, as if this were simply another training exercise.
“It’s…” I swallowed hard, trying to find words that wouldn’t reveal how wet I’d become, how my body had responded to watching this despite my mind’s protests. “It’s effective. The… the contrast between Lara’s gentleness and the discipline. It creates a complex emotional response.”
“Go on,” Scott prompted, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
“The viewer can identify with Annabelle’s struggle,” I continued, hating myself for the analysis even as my marketing training kicked in. “The foster mother’s presence adds a layer of… of safety, even while she’s enforcing the training. It’s not just about submission to the male authority figure.”
“Interesting.” Scott leaned back slightly. “What would you add to make it more compelling?”
The question hung in the air while on screen, Kevin finally climaxed, holding Annabelle’s head firmly in place as she struggled to swallow. Lara’s crop came down twice more when the girl tried to pull away too soon.
“Good girl,” Kevin said on screen, finally releasing her. “You’re learning.”
A thought rose unbidden in my mind, something so mortifying I couldn’t believe it had come from my brain.
“She… she should have to watch them… her foster parents, I mean,” I whispered.