Page 10 of His Naughty Secretary

“We provide fully subsidized aesthetician visits as a basic benefit for our secretaries. You should talk to Cathy at the reception desk on your way out: she’ll schedule a Brazilian for you, for tomorrow. The next time I fuck you, your cunt will be smooth, or I’ll have to paddle you again.”

My mouth hung open, and my breath went in and out in little pants. On one level I couldn’t even believe Mr. Alden had said the words I had heard so very clearly. On another level, to my even greater distress, I remembered that I had thought the same shameful thing when I had looked at the selfies I had taken, in this naughty red lingerie, for my undeserving boyfriend.

At least he would never have said… that… about being smooth, down there. About waxing. Let alone ordered me to bare myself.

My brow creased hard. The hot, dark place that the compliance wand had seemingly discovered deep inside me refused to look at it that way. Instead, it showed me, in my imagination, the selfie I’d taken where I could see the golden curls escaping from the sides of the thong’s narrow front panel. I remembered despite myself how I had wondered whether I might ever have the courage to shave myself there—let alone to ask someone else, a complete stranger, put hot wax down there and then pull out the hair.

If Jake had been the kind of guy who gave commands, the voice from the hot, dark place whispered, I would have bared myself for him.

I shuddered violently, all over. I swallowed hard.

“Say, yes, sir, when I give you an order,” my new boss said, his eyes narrowing a little as if to make sure he caught every detail of my humiliation.

“Oh, God,” I said hoarsely, wondering immediately how those words had managed to escape, and then instantly grasping the answer—because I knew, deep down, that it would please Mr. Alden to hear me appeal to a higher power in vain. I could sense how much he was enjoying degrading me; I knew somehow with absolute certainty that it made his unseen cock hard to treat me like a plaything and hear my helpless acknowledgment of the effect it had on me.

“Oh, God,” I whispered, because suddenly I felt compelled to please him that way again, as if in confirmation that he had indeed humiliated me with terrible thoroughness. “Yes, sir.”

“Go fetch the paddle for me, sweetheart,” he told me, his tone so casual that for a moment I didn’t understand what it meant. Paddle, my brain tried to tell me, must mean something like coffee or maybe folder. I blinked at him, and then my heart jumped with fear as I processed his words fully.

The wand’s operation inside me let me give Mr. Alden a pleading look, my cheeks reddening anew. Then I turned, my body obeying the command, and I faced his desk, across the room. I swallowed as I realized that he would watch me walk over there, my bare, already pink bottom-cheeks moving suggestively and provocatively, as if challenging him to punish me harshly for the sluttiness that had urged me to wear lacy lingerie to a job interview.

Obviously, he had intended that. Obviously, he wanted to watch the slutty new secretary go get the paddle he would use to correct her faults with her rear end on full, lewd display. Surely it would inspire him to discipline me all the more thoroughly, so as to deliver as stern a lesson as possible in modesty and propriety.

The walk to the desk felt like a hundred miles. The war raging inside me seemed to slow my footsteps to a crawl. Part of me wanted to get it over with, and run toward the paddle. Part of me wanted to put off the horrible ordeal as long as possible. Part of me—the part that won, because of the wand and because of the hot, dark place it had revealed—wanted to give Mr. Alden the best possible view of his slutty secretary walking to fetch the instrument of her painful correction.

My legs quivered. Each step seemed to take a minute. I tried looking at my hands, to keep myself from looking at the horrible wooden thing on the desk. My eyes wouldn’t obey my reason; something in me knew that Mr. Alden wanted me to keep looking at the paddle, because it would make my shame and my fear greater.

I arrived at the desk. I could look at my hand then, because it had started automatically to reach for the paddle. I watched my trembling fingers descend. When they touched the smooth, lacquered surface of the handle, something like an electric shock went through my frame. I had to bite my lip to keep from whimpering.

“Bring it here, Ingrid,” I heard my new boss say from behind me, his voice sounding just a bit impatient. “It’s time to finish your punishment.”

CHAPTER 7

Joseph

Ingrid turned around. As sexy as I had found her reluctant walk to the desk, the sight of her blushing face as she looked down at the paddle in her hands sent an even stronger jolt to my dominant instincts. My cock leapt against my thigh when she raised her eyes to mine, still clearly under the influence of the command to look at me.

She started back toward me, and I stood up, extending my open right hand to receive the corporate-issued correctional implement. The expression on Ingrid’s lovely face aroused me even more than her lingerie or her nakedness. Her wide, practically glowing blue eyes and her pink cheeks told transparently of the turmoil inside her as she began to process how helplessly her submissive sexuality responded to old-fashioned discipline.

One of the most marvelous things I had learned about the compliance wand, as I onboarded previous hires in the secretarial program, lay in how its operation affected a girl’s innocence. I had never seen a young woman respond as strongly to this element of the effect, though.

In general, a girl under the influence of the device got to experience the satisfaction of her submissive needs without feeling crippling shame that might threaten her ability to develop into a fulfilled, mature woman. Before the arrival of the compliance wand, in fact, the range of young women Selecta had to recruit from had been a great deal narrower. Only a relatively small percentage of submissives had the psychological makeup suited for the company’s available techniques for awakening them to their need for sexual discipline and service.

Without the wand, a girl like Ingrid Vogel wouldn’t have represented a viable candidate for a secretarial role at Selecta. She might well have retreated into an unsatisfying vanilla sex life after the humiliation of taking those naughty selfies for her worthless boyfriend.

With the wand, she could feel that her innocence and her modesty still belonged to her, even as she brought me the paddle that she knew I would spank her with before I fucked her right here in my office—even, more important, as she began to understand how deeply she enjoyed it and needed it.

She had her lower lip between her teeth, and she worried it gently and from my viewpoint very seductively as she walked slowly toward me. I felt like I could even read on her features—in the mobility of her forehead, in her little blinks, above all in the coming and going of color in her cheeks—how the battle inside her head was going. She wanted to get her paddling over with, but the idea that to get it over with meant that she would be fucked all the sooner troubled her—but that distress came not from her real reluctance to submit to her new boss sexually but from the sheer urgency of the need between her thighs.

I wondered if I could even see, in the hard, visible way she swallowed as she extended the paddle gingerly toward me, that she couldn’t stop thinking of her sweet young pussy as her cunt, since I had told her to think of it that way. The wand had varying degrees of effect, depending on the girl: I had never seen its operation take hold as strongly as it clearly had with Ingrid Vogel.

I’d heard that anecdotal evidence suggested that chemistry—something that most of Selecta’s scientists didn’t believe in—could heighten the action of the compliance wand. A little glow of affection lit up in my chest, very unexpectedly, as I wondered whether that could be the case with Ingrid.

I took the paddle from her hand. She shuddered as my fingers brushed hers, and her hand remained outstretched, as if awaiting my further orders. I had no intention of making her wait any longer.

“Turn around and touch your toes,” I told her. “Feet shoulder width apart.”

Ingrid

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