Page 18 of His Naughty Secretary

I sipped my coffee and ate my yogurt, doing my best to keep my attention on my phone, trying to absorb at least a little of the news instead of thinking about Selecta. I put my breakfast things in the sink. I brushed my teeth. I moved toward the door.

As I reached for the doorknob, an electric jolt of awareness sizzled through me, along with the degrading memory of Joseph’s words, again as if he stood right there, right behind me, smiling at my helpless blushes.

No panties until I say you can wear them again.

Joseph’s decree. An assertion of his control, in my mind, that clung closer than any fabric.

A little whimper rose in my throat. I stood in front of the door, my hand still reaching for the knob. I wondered how I had managed to put my panties on without remembering my new boss’ command, and then I almost wished I’d managed to get out the door and onto the subway without having remembered.

I bit my lip, thinking of what would happen. Thinking of the horrid wooden paddle, above all.

My face burning, I dropped my purse and went back to the bedroom. I tried not to think about it as all the conflicted feelings I had managed to push down and away a few minutes before came rushing back into my head, my chest, and worst of all my private parts.

I hiked my pencil skirt up to mid thigh and drew the sensible gray cotton bikini panties down, glad that at least in the warmth of summer I didn’t have to worry about stockings.

Until he tells you to wear them. And the garter belt. And tiny panties over the suspenders when he allows it.

I tossed the tangle of fabric aside onto the bed, willing myself to return to that automatic state in which I’d almost made it out the door. It didn’t help. As I checked my reflection one final time, I saw Mr. Joseph Alden’s secretary and I couldn’t push down the sob as I remembered too well that at Selecta secretary also meant fuck toy.

Walking from my building to the subway, I felt as if I had traveled to some other, darker, plane of reality. The warm morning and the city’s noises enveloped me just as they had every morning I’d left home for my ordinary admin assistant jobs.

Beneath the crisp lines of my office clothes, though, I felt raw and terribly vulnerable. My lack of underwear brought a shamefully new sensation to which the soreness in my backside and between my legs only called more of my attention. Every step seemed like an insane, impossible bit of progress toward a place my rational mind told me I shouldn’t return to, while my body refused to pay my brain any heed.

CHAPTER 12

Ingrid

The subway station swallowed me whole, the racket of train noise on damp concrete and stale air closing in around me. Every step reminded me of my lack of panties, a constant, surprisingly still raw reminder of Mr. Alden’s paddle. The soreness at the base of my spine pulsed with every move, each throb a twisted blend of pain and arousal.

Just focus on right now, I tried to persuade myself, pushing through the turnstiles. My desperate reason’s voice lost itself amidst garbled announcements, and then the rhythmic roar of the metal wheels of an approaching train.

I descended the stairs, each step bringing a little wince. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows that seemed to strip away my composure. The crowd jostled and pressed, only making me think about how exposed I felt beneath my skirt, how vulnerable.

Trying desperately to push those thoughts away, I stepped onto my train. I scanned automatically for an empty seat, my pulse quickening as I realized I probably shouldn’t sit down at all today if I could help it. To my dismay, a man stood up to offer me his seat. Confused and flustered, blushing, I took it so that I wouldn’t have to come up with some explanation of why I wouldn’t want to sit.

My backside came down hard on the rigid plastic and I had to bite my lip from uttering a little cry of discomfort. The train started to rumble forward, and I felt tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, from mortification as much as from the ache in my bottom-cheeks.

Sit still! I told myself, but it was impossible.

I fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing my legs, feeling the hem of my skirt ride up just a little too high. The sensation sent a shiver of both shame and excitement through me. I seemed caught between worlds—my conservative upbringing clashing violently with the unwelcome but somehow absolutely necessary thoughts and emotions Joseph Alden had awakened in me.

What if someone sees?

I shifted again, trying to find a position that wouldn’t aggravate the soreness or fuel the fire burning below my tummy. The question seemed to hang in the air around me… whether I would actually enter the lobby of the shining Selecta building, ride the elevator, step out of it into the luxurious corporate offices. With every passing second, the train hurtled me toward that destination, but I somehow kept telling myself I had a choice. I could still simply get on another train and go home and pretend none of it had happened.

“Good morning, Miss Vogel,” a security guard at the front desk greeted me as I entered. I stopped and blinked at him, taken aback that he knew my name. He smiled and pointed to a far corner of the lobby. “System tells me who you are, and where you’re going. Have a good first day.”

I blinked again, my thoughts roiling. Just a piece of tech, I told myself. Selecta is a tech company, after all. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Alden had somehow told them to make me feel especially controlled, especially watched.

I managed a polite nod, my voice caught in my throat. The lobby was a hive of activity, but I barely registered it. My focus remained on the elevator, the ride up, and then—Joseph Alden. My new boss.

I kept telling myself that I could get off the crowded elevator at a different floor. That I would get off the elevator—at fifteen, at twenty-two. I wouldn’t ride up to thirty-four, the Selecta executive level.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal the executive suite on thirty-four. Opulent and grand, it seemed a world away from my modest apartment. The plush carpet muffled my footsteps as I walked toward Cathy’s desk. Each step felt like a journey, a test somehow both of my resolve and of my sanity.

“Good morning, Ingrid,” Cathy said brightly, looking up from one of her three screens.

Run. My rational mind whispered it desperately. You can still get back in the elevator. It doesn’t matter that Cathy, the woman who booked your Brazilian wax and knows that your pussy was made smooth and bare for Joseph, just greeted you as a colleague.

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