Chapter 13
Scott
I reviewed Grace’s latest report Friday morning with considerable satisfaction.
Her analysis of Ruth’s Punishment demonstrated again exactly the kind of psychosexual insight I’d hoped my lovely, still in many ways wonderfully innocent new intern could develop under this unorthodox method of cultivation.
The suggestion about introducing a suitor to witness Debbie’s arousal was particularly inspired—creative, degrading, ultra-hot, and perfectly aligned with our target demographics’ preferences for the darker extremities of discipline and submission delivered with a wholesome sweetness.
I glanced at my watch. Grace would arrive in a few minutes for our first weekly meeting.
The thought of her walking through my door, clutching those plastic bags containing her soiled panties, sent a pulse of anticipation straight to my cock.
I’d watched the surveillance footage of her completing each assignment.
The way she’d twisted the sophisticated ivory satin panties into her needy slit, working the fabric desperately between the pouting pink lips during Ruth’s punishment, had been particularly captivating.
But there was something about making her hand over the physical evidence, forcing her to acknowledge what she’d done, that appealed to me on an even deeper level.
My phone buzzed with a message from Van Gregory in Assessment. Got to hand it to you. Grace’s metrics look very promising. She recalibrated last night while she was watching the video.
I smiled at the news. A recalibration—a girl’s feeling more physical pleasure than yet recorded in her data feed—was a highly unusual occurrence for a young woman with so much experience of New Modesty life and its regular wifely duties in service of a husband’s pleasure.
Grace was different from other women I’d trained for Selecta.
Her genuine conflict between arousal and shame, the way she fought against her nature even as she surrendered to it, made every interaction electric.
I’d supervised dozens of corporate submissives, but none had captured my attention quite like this former New Modesty bride with her analytical mind and responsive body.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. “Come in.”
Grace entered. Her face was already flushed, and she clutched a small paper bag against her chest like armor. She wore a white dress, its hem reaching to just above her knees. She seemed to me so innocent in it that it made my heart ache even as my cock gave a little leap against my thigh.
“Good morning, Grace. Please, sit.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk, deliberately maintaining the professional tone that I knew would confuse her after the intimacy of our previous encounters.
She sat carefully, the dress riding up slightly to reveal the lace tops of her stockings. I let my gaze linger just long enough for her to notice before returning my attention to my computer screen.
“Your reports have been excellent,” I said, pulling up her latest analysis. “The suggestion about the suitor is particularly compelling. We’re going to film something similar next week.”
Her eyes widened. “You are?”
“Based on your recommendation, yes.” I leaned back in my chair, studying her reaction. “Your insights are shaping our content, Grace. How does that make you feel?”
She shifted uncomfortably, her thighs pressing together in that telltale way. “I… I don’t know, sir.”
“I think you do.” I stood and moved around the desk, stopping directly in front of her. “Put the bag on the coffee table.”
Grace
I watched, my face burning hotter than the sun as Scott took the plastic bags from the paper bag.
My hands gripped the arms of the chair as he lifted each one to the light, examining the contents with unmistakable satisfaction.
The blue lace from the first video, twisted and stained.
The ruined black thong. The ivory satin, darkened with evidence of my desperate need.
He opened the first bag slowly, deliberately, and pulled out the blue panties.
The scent hit me immediately—musky, intimate, shameful, filling his office with the unmistakable evidence of what I’d done.
My pussy clenched with mortification and that terrible, unwanted arousal as he held them up, letting the delicate fabric dangle from his fingers.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, bringing them closer to examine the stained gusset.
“You really soaked these, didn’t you? I watched the footage, of course, but there’s something about the physical evidence…
” He inhaled deeply, and I wanted to die from embarrassment even as fresh wetness gathered between my thighs.
He set the blue panties on the coffee table, moving the empty bags to his desk.
He opened the second plastic bag, extracting the destroyed black thong.
“This one’s my favorite,” he said conversationally, stretching the fabric to show how I’d pulled it, twisted it in my desperation.
“You worked so hard to get yourself off, pulling this between your pussy lips. Such dedication to your assignment.”
“Please,” I whispered, though I didn’t know what I was begging for. For him to stop? To continue? My body couldn’t seem to decide, caught between humiliation and arousal.
The ivory panties came last, and he spent the longest time with these, turning them over in his hands, running his thumb across the darkened satin. “Ruth’s punishment really affected you, didn’t it? The anal discipline, the complete submission…” He looked directly at me. “Stand up, Grace.”
I obeyed on trembling legs, smoothing my white dress with nervous hands.
“I want to try something with you,” he said, setting all three pairs of panties on the coffee table in a neat row. “To see how suitable you are for advancement within my department. This is a test of sorts.”
My stomach dropped. “A test?”
I understood at some deep level what the test would be—or maybe just how utterly degrading—before he even spoke the words. My legs felt like water as he gestured to the floor beside the coffee table.
“Kneel here,” he commanded softly.
I sank to my knees on the plush carpet, feeling the shortness of the white dress acutely. The three pairs of panties lay before me like evidence at a trial, each one telling its own shameful story. The scent of my arousal from them mixed in the air, making my head swim.
Scott moved behind me, his hand tangling in my hair with surprising gentleness.
“I’ve watched you, Grace,” he murmured, firmly guiding my head down toward the coffee table.
“After each video, when you thought you were alone. The way you like to see what you’ve done…
how naughty you’ve been… to smell it, even. ”
My face burned with fresh humiliation. Of course he’d seen. The cameras saw everything.
“I find it charming,” he continued, pressing my face closer to the blue panties. “The way you can’t resist knowing what your desperation smells like.”
My nose touched the stained fabric, and the concentrated scent of my shame filled my nostrils. A whimper escaped me as he rubbed my face against them, the still-damp evidence of my arousal clammy against my skin.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, moving my face to the black thong next. “Be honest, Grace.”
“I don’t know,” I gasped against the ruined fabric.
“Yes, you do,” Scott said, pressing my nose harder against the thong’s ruined gusset.
The scent was overwhelming—obvious evidence of how desperately I’d pulled the fabric against myself during Morning Corrections.
“You know exactly what you want. Even when I give you permission to touch yourself, Grace, there’s always a price for naughtiness. ”
He moved my face to the ivory panties next, rubbing the stained satin against my cheeks, my lips. I could taste myself on the fabric, salty and shameful. “Three videos, three pairs of ruined panties. Three times you’ve proven what a desperate little slut you are.”
His hand released my hair, and I stayed there on my knees, breathing hard, my face burning from both the physical friction and the humiliation.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I raised my eyes to find him watching me with that intense gaze that made my insides flutter.
“Tell me what you need,” he said. “Ask for it properly.”
The words stuck in my throat. I knew what he wanted to hear, what my body was already begging for, but saying it out loud felt impossible.
“I…” My voice came out as a whisper. “Please, sir.”
“Please what?” His tone was patient but firm.
“Please spank me,” I managed, the words burning my tongue. “I need… I need you to punish me for being so desperate.”
“And?”
I closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I spoke the rest. “And fuck me. Please, sir. I need you to spank me and then fuck me.”
“Better,” he said. “Stand up.”
I rose on shaking legs, my knees aching from kneeling on the carpet. My white dress felt too short, too thin, too everything.
“Show me what you’re wearing underneath,” he instructed, settling back into his desk chair to watch.
My hands trembled as I lifted the hem of my dress, revealing the white lace panties I’d chosen that morning—delicate, innocent-looking, already damp from this encounter. The matching garter belt held up nude stockings that made my legs look longer, more elegant.
“Very pretty,” he observed. “Now take them off.”
I hooked my thumbs in the waistband, pushing the panties down over the stockings, stepping out of them carefully. The cool air against my exposed flesh made me shiver. I held the delicate white lace in my hand, unsure what to do with it.
“Give them to me,” Scott commanded.
I walked to him on unsteady legs, extending the panties. He took them, examining the damp gusset with clinical interest.
“Kneel,” he said simply, pointing to the floor in front of his chair.
I dropped to my knees immediately, the automatic obedience making my face burn even hotter. He held my white panties in front of my face, the damp fabric inches from my nose. I could smell my arousal on them, fresh and undeniable.
“You’re going to wear these,” he said softly, “but not how you’re used to.”
Before I could process his words, he began stretching the delicate lace, pulling the leg openings wider. My breath caught as I realized what he intended. “Please, sir, I—”
“Shh.” He positioned the panties above my head, then slowly, deliberately, began pulling them down. The waistband caught on my hair, tugging slightly as he worked them lower. The leg openings framed my face obscenely, and then—oh, God—the soaked gusset pressed directly against my nose.
The scent of my arousal surrounded me, inescapable. Every breath I took filled my lungs with evidence of my desperation. I whimpered, the sound muffled by the fabric, as he adjusted the panties to ensure the wettest part sat perfectly over my nostrils.
“There,” he murmured with satisfaction. “Now you can’t pretend you’re not a desperate little slut, can you? Every breath reminds you of what you are.”
My pussy clenched hard at his words, at this complete degradation. How could I be aroused by this? How could my body respond with such urgent need when I was kneeling on his office floor with my own soaked panties over my head like some kind of perverted mask?
But that was the thing about Scott—he didn’t just dominate my body.
He reached into the darkest corners of my mind and pulled out fantasies I didn’t even know I had.
Jacob had been controlling, yes, had used my body according to his rights as my husband.
But it had always felt… surface level. Obligatory.
Like he was following a script from the New Modesty handbook.
Scott was different. He saw through me, into me, finding those shameful desires I’d buried so deep I’d forgotten they existed. And somehow, in the midst of this complete humiliation, he made me accept them. Made me accept myself.
The realization hit me like a physical blow: I was falling in love with him.
Not just attracted to him, not just submitting to his authority. Actually falling in love with this man who could strip me bare in every sense, who could make me beg for things that should horrify me.
“Stand up and turn around,” he commanded, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.
I obeyed, the panties still covering my face, my vision obscured by the white lace. I felt him move behind me, his hands on my hips, guiding me toward the easy chair next to the coffee table.
“Bend over,” he said. “Elbows on the seat of the chair. Just like Ruth when she got her bottom fucked.”