Chapter 7
Scott
I smiled at the notification that popped up on my screen—Grace’s arousal metrics were rising beautifully.
The combination of the punishment scene and my command had pushed her exactly where I wanted her.
Through the surveillance feed on my secondary monitor, I watched her obey, those lovely legs spreading wide on the cream sofa, the obscene gap in the crotch-less panties revealing everything.
My cock hardened at the sight, but I maintained my composure. This was about her training, not my immediate gratification. I’d already sampled her mouth earlier—now it was time to see how well she could follow instructions, and in particular instructions delivered at a distance.
I typed my next message:
Watch Annabelle’s punishment. Count the strokes aloud. Do not touch yourself.
On my screen, I saw Grace’s hands clench at her sides as she focused on the wall monitor. Her voice came through the audio feed, soft and trembling: “One… two… three…”
The strap continued to fall across Annabelle’s sweet little bottom on screen, each impact making Grace flinch sympathetically. By stroke ten, she had begun to squirm against the sofa cushions, her hips making tiny, unconscious movements. By fifteen, soft whimpers escaped between her counting.
“Twenty,” my gorgeous new intern finally gasped as Kevin lowered the strap on screen.
I let her sit there for a moment, watching as Annabelle sobbed in her restraints while Kevin explained to the camera about the importance of self-control.
Grace’s arousal metrics had somehow climbed even higher—9.
4 now, approaching the maximum previously observed by her perineal sensor. Her body was primed perfectly.
Good girl. Now you may touch yourself, but only your clit. Two fingers, gentle circles. You have exactly three minutes to come. If you fail, you’ll receive the same punishment as Annabelle tomorrow morning.
I watched her hand fly between her legs with desperate urgency. The angle of the living room camera gave me a perfect view—those delicate fingers finding her swollen clit, working it with frantic need. Her other hand gripped the sofa cushion, knuckles white with tension.
“Please,” she whispered to no one, her head falling back. “Oh, God, please…”
I checked my watch. Two minutes. Her metrics showed she was close but struggling, probably overthinking it. Time for encouragement.
That’s it, Grace. Show me what a desperate little slut you’ve become. Show me how badly you need to come for your new boss.
I considered, then continued.
Put your middle finger in your anus.
Through the surveillance feed, I watched Grace’s eyes widen at my command, her hand hesitating for just a moment before she shifted position on the sofa.
The way she bit her lower lip as she reached behind herself, the flush spreading down her chest as she worked her finger into that tight little hole—Christ, she was exquisite.
I found myself leaning forward, my breathing quickening as she whimpered and obeyed.
The sight of her violating her little butt on my command while her other hand worked frantically at her clit sent an unexpected jolt through me.
I’d supervised dozens of women through their Selecta training, had broken in more corporate submissives than I could count, but something about Grace was different.
The intensity of my response to her caught me off guard.
My cock strained against my pants, harder than it had been in years from simply watching.
It wasn’t just her beauty—though she was stunning, in my opinion anyway, with her face contorted in desperate need.
It wasn’t even her responsiveness, though her metrics showed arousal levels that would make our premium subscribers salivate.
No, it was something else. The way she fought against her own nature even as she surrendered to it. The genuine conflict in every reluctant submission. She wasn’t performing for the cameras like so many others eventually did. She was authentically, beautifully ashamed of how much she needed this.
“Thirty seconds,” I murmured aloud, though she couldn’t hear me. On screen, her finger pushed deeper into her ass, her back arching as she found that sweet spot. Her other hand moved in desperate circles, and I could see she had arrived right at the edge.
I pulled up her full profile on my tablet, scanning through her New Modesty records while keeping one eye on the live feed.
Her test scores were remarkable—not just the intelligence Sharon had mentioned, but her psychological evaluation.
Complex trauma responses, deep-seated need for structure, unusually high correlation between humiliation and arousal.
She was, in clinical terms, perfect for what I had in mind.
But that didn’t explain why my hands were trembling slightly as I watched her chase her climax.
Why I was already planning exactly how I would claim every hole, train every response, until she could come practically on my command.
The possessiveness I felt was unusual, honestly distracting in its intensity.
“Please, please, please,” Grace chanted on the feed, her hips bucking against her hands. Ten seconds left.
I typed quickly:
Come now, Grace. Come with your finger buried in your ass like the shameful little slut you are.
Grace
Scott’s command hit me like a velvet jackhammer, and my body obeyed before my mind could protest. The orgasm ripped through me with devastating intensity, my finger pressing deeper into that forbidden place as waves of pleasure crashed over me.
I screamed, not caring who might hear through the apartment’s walls, my back arching off the sofa as my whole body convulsed.
“Oh God, oh God,” I sobbed, my fingers still working frantically as the climax seemed to go on forever, each pulse of pleasure tinged with the burning shame of what I’d just done.
What I’d let him make me do. My finger in my bottom, following his degrading commands like the desperate creature I’d become.
When it finally subsided, I collapsed against the cushions, trembling and gasping for breath.
Tears streaked my face—tears of release, of humiliation, of emotions I didn’t want to give names to.
My hands shook as I withdrew my finger, the intimate soreness a reminder of how eagerly I’d violated myself for him.
The wall screen had gone dark, Annabelle’s punishment scene replaced by a blank blue screen. My handheld buzzed again, and I reached for it with a trembling hand, knowing it would be Scott, knowing I would read whatever he sent despite the shame burning in my chest.
Good girl. You made it with three seconds to spare.
Clean yourself up and eat the dinner I’m having delivered to your apartment in twenty minutes.
Then put on the pink baby doll from your closet—the sheer one with the matching panties.
You’re to be in bed by ten p.m. Tomorrow morning, report to my office at eight a.m. sharp.
I stared at the message, my body still quivering with aftershocks. He was controlling everything—when I ate, what I wore, when I slept. The thought should have been terrifying, but instead I felt that treacherous warmth beginning to build again below my waist.
A knock at the door made me jump. I scrambled to my feet, acutely aware of my state of undress, the obscene gap in the crotch-less panties still revealing everything. I grabbed my nightgown from where I’d left it, pulling it on hastily before answering.
A delivery person stood in the hallway with a white bag marked with the logo of an upscale restaurant. “Dinner delivery for Grace Whitcomb?”
“Thank you,” I managed, taking the bag with hands that still trembled slightly.
The delivery person’s expression remained professionally neutral, but I wondered if he could tell what I’d just been doing.
Could he see the flush still coloring my skin?
Could he smell my arousal, even, maybe? I felt my cheeks go hot as the terrible possibility occurred to me.
I closed the door and leaned against it, clutching the bag. Inside was a container of grilled salmon with roasted vegetables and a small salad. Healthy, sophisticated, carefully chosen. Even my meals were under his control now.
I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food despite its obvious quality. My mind kept returning to Scott’s instructions, to the pink baby doll waiting in my closet. Every bite reminded me that even this simple act of eating had become part of his control over me.
After dinner, I cleaned up carefully, placing the containers in the recycling bin like a good girl following rules. The thought made me flush with renewed shame. Was that what I was becoming, even after I had thought myself rid of that life? Scott’s good girl, obedient and eager to please?
I showered quickly, trying not to think about the cameras that might be watching even here.
The bathroom supposedly had privacy mode, but Tyler from Human Resources had said it could be overridden.
Was Scott watching me wash away the evidence of my shameful display?
The possibility made my hands tremble as I soaped down there, my slit still sensitive from my desperate self-pleasure.
The pink baby doll hung in the closet like an invitation to immodesty.
I held it up to the light, noting how the sheer fabric would hide nothing.
The matching panties were equally revealing, just a wisp of pink lace that would barely cover the shaven cleft of my pussy. My brow furled hard as I put them on.