Chapter 4
Scott
“Watch them do what?” I asked, studying Grace’s lovely, bright pink face very closely.
Her face somehow managed to go even redder, and she pressed her thighs together in that telltale way that told me exactly how aroused she’d become watching Annabelle’s training. I waited, letting the silence stretch between us until she had no choice but to answer.
“Have… have relations,” Grace finally whispered, her voice so soft I had to lean closer to hear. “While she watches. To show her what’s expected in marriage.”
Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Sharon had been right about this one—Grace had exactly the kind of mind we needed, coupled with that delicious combination of genuine modesty and reluctant arousal that our viewers craved.
“That’s an excellent suggestion,” I said, keeping my tone professional even as I noted every small reaction—the way her breathing had quickened, the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped the arms of her chair. “In fact, we’ve already filmed something similar. Would you like to see it?”
“I…” She swallowed hard, and I could see the war playing out behind those wide eyes. The part of her that had been trained to please did obvious battle with the part that wanted to flee. “Yes, sir.”
I clicked to the next scene, watching her face as the screen filled with the image of Kevin and Lara’s bedroom. Annabelle knelt in the corner, still in her training underwear, hands clasped behind her back as she faced the bed where her foster parents were beginning to undress each other.
“Oh,” Grace breathed, and the sound went straight to my cock.
On screen, Lara was explaining to Annabelle exactly what Kevin liked, how a good wife should touch her husband, while Kevin demonstrated wordlessly on Lara’s body how a husband expects to fuck—hard and fast, from behind, as his wife cries out in mingled need and discomfort.
The camera work was exquisite, cutting between the couple on the bed and Annabelle’s face as she watched, her expression a mixture of embarrassment, curiosity, and unmistakable arousal.
“Your body seems to be responding to the material,” I observed, deliberately keeping my voice neutral. “That’s good. It means you understand our target audience.”
Grace’s hands fluttered to her lap, as if she could somehow hide her reaction from me. “Mr. Yellen… Scott… I don’t think…”
“Stand up,” I commanded, using the tone I’d perfected over years of managing exactly this type of woman—the ones who needed authority, but fought against it every step of the way.
She stood immediately, her body obeying even as her face showed her dismay at her own compliance. Interesting. Jacob had trained her well in some ways, but there were clearly gaps. Gaps I would very much enjoy filling—even as I filled Grace’s sweet, pleasurable holes.
“Sharon told me she had you change into appropriate interview attire,” I said, moving to stand directly in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “I need to verify that you followed her instructions fully and correctly.”
Grace
My breath caught in my throat as Scott’s words hung in the air.
The screening room suddenly felt impossibly small, the leather chair beneath me a trap I couldn’t escape from.
On the monitor, Annabelle still knelt in the corner while her foster parents demonstrated what a husband expected from his wife, but I couldn’t focus on anything except Scott’s presence looming over me.
“I…” My voice came out as barely a whisper. “Ms. Fagan already checked.”
“Sharon checks for compliance with basic standards,” Scott said, his tone patient but firm. “I need to ensure you meet my specific requirements for this position.”
My hands trembled as I smoothed my navy dress against my thighs, knowing the gesture was pointless. He would see what he wanted to see. That was how it worked at Selecta. That was how it had always worked, even with Jacob, though somehow this felt different. More exposing. More terrifying.
“Lift your dress,” he commanded softly.
The words should have shocked me, but instead I felt that familiar flutter in my stomach—the one I hated, the one that meant my body was betraying me again.
My fingers found the hem of my dress, and I slowly raised it, revealing the pink stockings inch by inch.
The whisper of fabric against my skin seemed deafening in the quiet room.
“Higher,” Scott instructed when I paused at mid-thigh.
I closed my eyes, unable to watch his face as I lifted the dress to my waist, exposing the delicate pink panties and the garter belt Sharon had made me don. The cool air of the office against my barely covered skin made me shiver.
“Open your eyes, Grace.”
I obeyed, meeting his gaze with difficulty. His expression remained professionally neutral, but there was something in his eyes—a heat, an appreciation—that made my knees feel weak.
“Good,” he said simply. “The panties are correctly positioned over the garter straps. Sharon instructed you properly.” His fingers brushed against my hip, adjusting the small pink bow on the side of the panties, and I gasped at the contact.
“These are from our executive line. Much more appropriate than what you came in wearing.”
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“You can lower your dress now.”
I dropped the fabric immediately, my face burning with humiliation even as that terrible warmth continued to build between my legs.
Behind Scott, the scene on the monitor had progressed—Lara moaned into the mattress as Kevin gripped her hips and firmly pounded her shapely bottom with his strong hips.
From her corner Annabelle watched intently, her brow furrowed and her cheeks bright pink.
“Sit here, with me,” Scott said, settling back into his chair and patting his thigh.
The command brought new butterflies to my tummy.
I stared at him, frozen, as he waited with that same patient confidence that seemed to radiate from every gesture.
My legs moved before my mind could form a protest, and suddenly I was perched awkwardly on his lap, my dress riding up despite my attempts to keep it in place.
His arm came around my waist, steadying me, and I could feel the solid warmth of his chest against my side.
The position was impossibly intimate—far more so than anything Sharon had demanded.
I could smell his cologne, feel his breath against my neck, and worst of all, I could feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against my bottom through his expensive suit pants.
“Much better,” he murmured, his free hand coming to rest on my knee. “Now we can watch together and discuss your observations properly.”
On the screen, Kevin had finished with Lara, and the camera focused on Annabelle’s face—flushed, confused, unmistakably aroused despite her obvious embarrassment.
The foster mother was explaining something about a wife’s duties while smoothing down her skirt, but I couldn’t focus on the words.
All I could think about was Scott’s hand on my knee, the way his thumb had started making small circles against my stocking.
“Tell me,” he said conversationally, as if I weren’t sitting in his lap like some kind of secretary from an old movie, “what you think Annabelle is feeling right now.”
I tried to gather my scattered thoughts, acutely aware of every place our bodies touched. “She’s… conflicted. Aroused, but ashamed of it. She knows she shouldn’t want what she’s seeing, but her body is responding anyway.”
“Hmm.” His hand moved slightly higher on my thigh. “And how do you know that’s what she’s feeling?”
The answer stuck in my throat because we both knew exactly how I knew. Because I was feeling the same thing right now—that horrible, wonderful, confusing mix of humiliation and desire that had haunted me throughout my marriage to Jacob and was now threatening to overwhelm me completely.
“Personal experience,” I whispered.
“Good girl,” he said, and those two words sent a shock through me that I felt all the way to my toes. “Honesty is essential in this position.”
His hand continued its slow exploration of my thigh, never quite reaching the top of my stocking, but making me intensely aware of how little separated his fingers from bare skin.
On screen, the scene had shifted—Annabelle was now being instructed to undress for her evening bath while her foster parents watched, offering corrections on her posture and movements.
“We’re looking to develop an entire stream around Annabelle,” Scott explained, his professional tone at odds with the intimate position of his hand.
“Something that follows her journey from initial training through eventual placement with a husband. Your insights would be invaluable in shaping that narrative.”
His fingers suddenly slipped further up, beneath the hem of my dress, trailing along the inside of my thigh above the stocking. I gasped, my whole body going rigid.
“I need to check something,” he murmured against my ear, his fingers continuing their journey upward until they found the edge of my panties. “Stay very still.”
I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. His fingers pressed against the delicate lace, right over my most intimate place, and I knew he could feel how wet I’d become. The humiliation of it made me want to die, even as my traitorous body responded to his touch with a fresh surge of arousal.
“Just as I thought,” he said, his voice low and satisfied. “Soaking wet. You respond to authority even more strongly than your file suggests.”
He withdrew his hand and shifted me off his lap, setting me on my feet in front of him. My legs trembled, barely holding me upright.
“Take off your dress,” he commanded, leaning back in his chair to watch me.
My hands shook as they moved to the zipper at the back of my dress.
This was happening so fast, so much more intensely than anything I’d experienced even in the New Modesty, where quick courtship was encouraged.
The dress pooled at my feet, leaving me standing before him in nothing but the pink lingerie and heels.
“Turn around,” he instructed. “Slowly.”
I rotated, knowing he was examining every inch of me, evaluating every response. When I faced him again, he beckoned me closer with one finger.
“These need to come off,” he said, hooking his fingers in the waistband of my panties.
I made a small sound of protest that died in my throat as he slowly pulled them down my thighs, over the stockings, letting them fall to my ankles. The air against my exposed flesh made me acutely aware of how wet I was, how my arousal must be visible to him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers trailing over the bareness between my thighs. “You’ve kept yourself perfectly groomed, even after your husband left. That shows real discipline.”
His fingers explored me with terrible precision, finding exactly the spots that made me gasp and tremble. One finger slipped inside my folds, gathering the moisture there, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.
“So responsive,” he said approvingly. “Turn around now. Bend over and hold your ankles.”
The position was impossibly exposing, worse than anything Sharon had demanded. I bent forward, my hands grasping my ankles, knowing that everything was on display for him. I felt his hands on my bottom, spreading me wider, examining me in a way that made my face burn with shame.
“Such a pretty little hole,” he said, his thumb brushing over my most private place. “Jacob enjoyed you here, I know, but I must say that watching your anal sessions I never thought he was really the right master for you.”
I could barely think straight as his thumb pressed gently against that forbidden entrance.
The memory of Jacob’s fingers there flooded back unbidden—quick, perfunctory intrusions meant more to assert dominance than to truly possess.
But Scott’s touch was different, deliberate and knowing, as if he understood exactly how deeply this particular violation affected me.
“Please,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I was begging him to stop or continue. My legs trembled with the effort of holding the position.
“Stand up,” he commanded, and I straightened gratefully, my muscles already aching from the strain. “Now turn around and kneel here in front of me. You’re going to suck my cock.”