Chapter 23
Grace
I managed to get the horrible belt back on and put myself more or less to rights before leaving Melissa’s office. I even got back to my cube without anyone, apparently, noticing just how distracted I was.
When my handheld buzzed with a message from Scott, though, all the composure I had tried so carefully to put back together melted away in an instant.
The readout from your meeting with Melissa was very promising. Well done, Grace.
The ‘readout.’ I swallowed hard, trying to make myself believe that it meant only that he had heard from Melissa that my ideas had struck her as useful. I knew, though, in my bones—and, to my dismay, below my waist as well—that it meant a good deal more than that.
My cheeks burned as I reread Scott’s message.
Of course he knew. He knew everything that happened in this building, especially when it involved me.
The thought that he’d watched Melissa use my face, that he’d seen me on my knees servicing another woman for the first time, made my stomach clench with an impossibly confusing mixture of humiliation and arousal.
I needed to focus on something productive, something that would keep my mind from spiraling about what Scott had seen.
With trembling fingers, I opened the folder of Debbie’s raw footage on my workstation.
The familiar interface of the editing software felt like a lifeline—something I could control, understand, manipulate.
The first clip showed Debbie in her New-Modesty-approved dress, standing in what looked like a study.
Her suitor—Mark, according to the file notes—sat behind a desk, reviewing papers with a stern expression.
I watched Debbie shift nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.
A title came to me suddenly: Learning to Please. It captured both the educational aspect Melissa wanted and the deeper psychological truth—that women like Debbie, like me, were learning not just how to please our superiors, but learning that we needed to please them.
I created a new project file with that name and began pulling clips.
But instead of starting with the punishment scene that opened the original edit, I searched for earlier footage.
There—Debbie alone in her bedroom that morning, her hand drifting between her legs as she stared at a photo of Mark on her nightstand. Perfect.
I layered in a voiceover track, recording my own voice pitched slightly higher to approximate Debbie’s: “I knew I’d ironed his shirt wrong on purpose. Some part of me, the part I try to pretend doesn’t exist, wanted to see that look in his eyes. The disappointment that comes before the correction.”
The next sequence showed Debbie doing laundry, but I slowed it down, zooming in on her face as she deliberately creased a collar instead of smoothing it. I added another voiceover: “My hands shook as I ruined his favorite shirt. But between my legs, I was already getting wet.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard, completely absorbed now.
I intercut the bedroom scene with the study scene, showing Debbie’s anticipation building throughout the day.
When Mark finally called her in to confront her about the shirts, I split the screen—on one side, Debbie’s contrite expression; on the other, a close-up of her nipples visibly hard through her thin blouse.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Debbie,” Mark said in the original footage.
I added Debbie’s internal monologue: “Disappointed. The word made my knees weak. I wanted to drop to the floor right there, beg him to punish me, to make me good again.”
The belt down there felt impossibly tight as I worked, my own arousal building as I crafted Debbie’s psychological landscape.
When the scene shifted to Mark ordering her over his knee, I found footage from a different angle—one that showed Debbie’s face more clearly.
The original edit had focused on her bottom being bared, but I wanted to capture her expression.
There—a tiny smile, just for a second, as her panties came down. I isolated that moment, zooming in until her face filled half the screen. On the other half, I placed a close-up of her hands gripping Mark’s ankle, her fingers flexing with what looked like eagerness rather than resistance.
My cubicle felt stifling despite its being open to anyone who happened to walk by, my breathing shallow as I worked through the spanking sequence.
Each strike of Mark’s hand made me shift in my chair, the belt’s pressure against my swollen flesh a constant reminder of my own desperate state.
I added layers of meaning with every cut, every transition, building a narrative that revealed Debbie’s true nature—one so similar to my own.
When I reached the footage of Mark fucking Debbie after her punishment, I nearly stopped.
The raw intensity of it, combined with my own memories of Scott using me the night before, was almost too much.
But I forced myself to continue, to find the moments that would speak to women like us.
Women who needed this kind of treatment but couldn’t admit it, even to themselves.
I found a shot of Debbie’s face as Mark entered her from behind, bent over his desk with her bright red bottom offered to her suitor and to the camera.
Her expression was complex—pain, pleasure, relief, and something else.
Gratitude, maybe. I added the voiceover: “This is what I’d wanted all along.
Not just the punishment, but this—being taken, used, claimed.
The spanking was just foreplay, really. This was the real correction. ”
I clicked play on my edited sequence, needing to see how it all came together.
The opening shot of Debbie touching herself filled my monitor, her soft gasps mixing with my carefully crafted voiceover.
My body responded immediately, that familiar ache building in my womb as I watched my own work transform Debbie’s submission into something deeper, more honest.
The split-screen moment when she deliberately ruined Mark’s shirt made me press my thighs together hard.
The belt prevented any real relief, but the pressure was something at least. I shifted in my chair, trying to find a position that didn’t make the leather press quite so insistently against my swollen clit.
On screen, Mark was pulling Debbie over his knee, and I’d slowed the footage just enough to capture every micro-expression on her face. The anticipation, the relief, the secret joy she tried to hide. My breathing had become shallow, my hands gripping the edge of my desk as I watched.
“This is what I needed,” Debbie’s voiceover confessed, in my own slightly altered voice, as Mark’s hand came down. “What I’d been craving all week.”
Without conscious thought, I found myself standing, my eyes still locked on the screen.
The footage continued—Mark’s hand turning Debbie’s bottom pink, then red, her cries mixing with the internal monologue I’d created.
My hands moved to my skirt, lifting it slowly, exposing the belt and my stockinged thighs.
I knew I shouldn’t. I knew Scott would know immediately through the belt’s sensors. But watching Debbie arch her back, presenting her punished bottom for Mark’s use, I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe Scott wasn’t paying attention to his handheld right now, I told myself.
I moved to the corner of my desk, positioning myself against it, the hard edge pressing through the leather directly against my desperate clit.
A whimper escaped me as I began to move, grinding against the desk corner with increasing desperation.
On screen, Mark was fucking Debbie hard, her grateful sobs filling my ears in my headphones.
I matched his rhythm, humping the desk like the desperate slut I’d become, knowing I was breaking the rules, knowing I’d be punished, but unable to stop.
“Such a naughty girl.”
I froze, my blood turning to ice. Scott stood in the entrance to my cubicle, his expression dark with disapproval. How had I not heard him approach? My skirt was still hiked up, my position against the desk unmistakably lewd.
“I… Sir, I can explain—”
“No need.” He pulled out his phone, showing me the alert on his screen. “Your belt notified me the moment you started trying to stimulate yourself. I’ve been watching you for the past three minutes, Grace. Waiting to see if you’d stop on your own.”
My face burned with humiliation as I straightened, smoothing my skirt down with trembling hands. Three minutes. He’d watched me humiliate myself against my desk for three minutes.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. For the first time I noticed that he had a black bag, like a small gym bag, in his hand.
I turned slowly, my legs trembling as I faced away from him. I heard him approaching, felt his presence behind me like a physical force. His hands moved to my waist, and I heard the soft beep of the belt’s lock disengaging.
“Since you clearly can’t control yourself,” he said, unfastening the clasps with practiced efficiency, “we’ll have to ensure you fully understand the challenge posed by the kind of distraction you seem unable to avoid.”
The leather came away from my privates, and I whimpered at the cool air against my swollen, desperate pussy. But instead of the relief I craved, I heard him unzipping something—the bag he had brought.
“These are the attachments for your belt that I told you about,” he explained. “Bend over. Touch your toes.”
I cast a red-faced glance over my shoulder, thinking for a moment that I might protest this abject humiliation.
The expression on Scott’s face told me that whatever I had coming, disobedience now could make it worse.
I bit my lip and turned my face forward.
With a tiny sob I folded at the waist as if I were assuming an obscene yoga pose.
As soon as my fingertips reached the tops of my shoes, I felt something cold and hard press against the entrance to my vagina. I cried out, tensing against the invasion, beginning to straighten up.
“Down, you little slut,” Scott growled, enforcing the command with a hand on my back. “This is medical-grade silicone, perfectly sized for a naughty girl who can’t follow simple instructions.”
Without further warning, he pushed the dildo inside me.
It was thick, ridged, filling me completely, making it impossible to think of anything but its presence, and what it meant—and above all who had put it there.
I gasped, my hands gripping the edge of my desk as he seated it fully inside my pussy.
“And this,” he continued, and I felt pressure against my rear entrance, still tender from the night before, “will remind you constantly of who owns every part of you.”
The plug was smaller than the dildo, but still substantial. He worked it in slowly, ignoring my whimpers of protest, until it too was fully seated. I felt impossibly full, stuffed in both holes, unable to escape the constant pressure.
He refastened the belt quickly, the leather now holding both insertions firmly in place. The lock engaged with its familiar beep, sealing my fate. Every tiny movement made the dildo and plug shift inside me, sending sparks through my oversensitive body.
“Tonight,” Scott said, moving around to face me, his eyes dark with promise, “you’ll come to my apartment at eight.
You’ll wear the white dress from your first day, nothing else except the belt and what’s inside it.
And Grace?” He gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“I’m going to whip your pussy for this disobedience.
Then I’m going to remove that plug and fuck your ass until you understand that your pleasure exists only when I allow it. ”
My knees nearly buckled at his words. The thought of having my pussy whipped—like Ruth in the series that had started all this—made me clench around the insertions, which only intensified the maddening fullness.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
“Good. Now sit down and get back to your work. I can tell that despite your distractibility you’re making some important progress. I’m going to sit in on your meeting with Melissa tomorrow.”