Chapter 5 #3
“It’s a comprehensive employee evaluation system based on quantitative and qualitative assessments of task completion and behavioral compliance.”
She blinks. “But what does that mean?”
“It means I’ll be monitoring how well you follow instructions. How efficiently you complete tasks. How you represent my interests.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Ok. So… how does it work?”
I set my cup down with precise movement. “It’s a system of demerits. Based on how well you perform. If you show up late, like you did today, ten demerits.”
“And if I accumulate too many?”
“The contract explains the graduated response protocol.”
She scrolls again, her patience visibly thinning. “It says ‘appropriate corrective measures at employer’s discretion.’ What does that actually mean?”
I watch her frustration build. Every vague answer reinforces the power dynamic. She needs clarity. I provide fog.
“Is there a limit? I mean, before I get fired?” she asks, finally cutting to what she really wants to know.
“No limit. Just... consequences.”
“Such as?” Her voice has an edge now. Good. Let her worry.
I move closer, standing over her as she holds my phone. The height difference is deliberate. Everything is.
Finally, I spell it out in terms she has no hope of seeing through. I shake my head, doing my best not to smile.
“A series of... punishments.”
I see the shift in Emmaleen’s expression—the tightening around her mouth, the slight backward tilt of her head. Little Miss Take doesn’t like the word “punishments.”
“Punishments? Like I’m a child?” she scoffs, voice dripping with indignation.
“Maybe you are a child,” I say flatly. “Adults show up on time.”
The words hit their mark. Her spine stiffens, cheeks flushing with a heat I can almost feel. Pride is such a predictable weakness. The most reliable pressure point in anyone’s psychological anatomy.
I wait, giving her the space to either fold or fight back. Silence is a tool—one I’ve mastered. Most people rush to fill it, revealing more than they intend. Their desperation to end the quiet betrays everything they’re trying to hide.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“So what, you’re gonna spank me, or something?” The words come out as a joke, but her voice catches slightly on the last syllable.
The question hangs between us. I let it linger deliberately. A test disguised as a mistake.
I could take this bait. Could lean into the current now charging the space between us.
Could let her see exactly what I’m thinking.
The possibility of her bent over my desk flashes through my mind—unwelcome, distracting, and entirely inappropriate for this transaction.
The image burns itself into my consciousness with startling clarity: her dark waves spilling across the polished mahogany, those pale green eyes looking back at me over her shoulder, defiant even in submission.
My hands would span her narrow waist perfectly, fingers pressing into the soft curve of her hips as I pressed myself forward, hard cock between her ass cheeks.
I banish the thought immediately, disgusted with myself for the momentary lapse in discipline.
But even so… the electricity between us crackles with dangerous potential. A seed planted.
Power isn’t about indulging impulses—it’s about mastering them. About making others surrender while giving nothing of yourself away.
None of these thoughts leave the vault of my mind. “Absolutely not.” My voice drops an octave, turning to ice. “What do you take me for? I’m your boss, Emmaleen. It’s in your best interest to remember that.”
The rebuke lands with heat. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—relief mixed with something else. Disappointment? Unlikely. Embarrassment at her own presumption? More probable.
I turn away, creating distance before my body betrays thoughts I’d rather keep hidden. The heat in my blood contradicts the coldness of my words.
Despite the reward of the game, the urge to touch her and ruin everything is there.
I will resist.
Wanting is weakness. And I am not weak.
Emmaleen tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Then what are these punishments?”
“I take away your desk chair.”
Her expression freezes, the machinery behind those pale green eyes grinding to a halt. Gears jammed. System error. Recalculating.
“What?”
Perfect. Confusion is the first step in rebuilding someone’s reality to your specifications. Demolition before construction.
“Make you stand up all day.” I shrug, keeping my voice flat, matter-of-fact. A statement of natural consequences rather than punishment. “Sore feet are a suitable punishment for being late.”
The confusion spreading across her face is disbelief chased by indignation, followed by the dawning realization that she doesn’t have the leverage to object.
I’ve seen this sequence play out in boardrooms across Pittsburgh when the opposition realizes they’ve miscalculated their position. But hers has a certain... transparency that the practiced poker faces of businessmen lack. Authenticity. Refreshing, in its way.
“I don’t even have an office,” she stutters, hands fluttering uselessly in the air as she gestures around my apartment. “Is this where I work? I don’t understand. This is all... very confusing.”
The urge to smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I suppress it. Smiling betrays satisfaction, and satisfaction reveals intent.
“Oh.” I feign surprise, glancing around my apartment as if seeing it through her eyes for the first time.
As if I hadn’t calculated every inch of this space for maximum psychological impact.
“Don’t mind all this domestic furniture.
I don’t usually live here. I own that mansion on the top of the hill over there. ”
I motion toward the window, watching as her gaze follows my hand. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the Victorian monstrosity looming over Riverview like a fortress. Another data point collected. Another lever identified.
“But I’ve decided to live here while you’re in training.
There are too many women over there.” I pause, weighing precisely how much information to divulge.
Too little creates paranoia. Too much creates familiarity.
I need her balanced perfectly between both.
“My associates bring them in every Sunday. The noise gets tiresome. The walls are thin, and the women they choose are... enthusiastic. It’s become a distraction I don’t need. ”
Her expression shifts again—processing, buffering. I watch her mind work, trying to fit these new pieces into whatever narrative she’s constructed about me. Good. Let her try. The more she thinks she understands, the less she’ll question.
Confusion is a state I can exploit. People who are off-balance reach for anything stable—even if that stability is the hand of the person who pushed them.
“I’m bringing in a desk,” I continue, deliberately changing subjects before she can ask questions. Whiplash keeps her defensive systems compromised. “It should be here...” I check my watch, counting down the seconds I arranged hours ago.
On cue, a truck rumbles in the alley below. The timing is immaculate. Not luck—preparation.
I move to the window, gesturing down at the delivery truck. “Well, right now, it appears. I’ll be right back.”