Page 2 of His Naughty Secretary

The lacy bra whose underwire made my B-cup breasts look a little more prominent. The tiny thong that made me feel naughty just walking around in my apartment, let alone when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and saw that my blonde bush was mistily visible through the mesh in front.

The garter belt and stockings that I could hardly believe I had bought, and then actually donned, thinking about Jake and how it had felt to lose my virginity to him in his parents’ bed a few days before.

Here in the handsome, horrible Mr. Alden’s office I knew how very correctly he had spoken, saying that Jake was wrong for me. In fact, Jake’s unenthusiastic response to the selfies that I had taken such care in shooting for him had brought on the breakup. I had gotten so hot and bothered as I did so that I had actually masturbated—for the first and only time—while I thought about him seeing me in the lingerie, and what he might do. He had replied merely Nice.

Why had I decided to wear that lingerie today, under my conservative skirt and conservative blouse? How could this man know? What the… the hell… was going on?

I felt my face working in confusion.

I had worn it because I wanted to feel adventurous. I liked that, sometimes, despite thinking of myself as a sensible, self-contained person. I wanted to feel like a twenty-year-old badass, in charge of her body and of her life. If I happened to seduce someone at a bar—I never went to bars, really—I would know that when he took off my clothes, he would know just how experienced a young woman I was.

What had Mr. Alden said? He got you started thinking about what you really need.

I swallowed hard to force back a sob that unexpectedly rose into my throat.

I need a job, I thought fiercely. The company where I had risen to senior administrative assistant had gone bankrupt, from trying to compete with Selecta. The job posting that had popped up in my inbox had seemed like a dream come true.

I raised my eyes to Mr. Alden’s. He gazed back at me seriously, his eyebrows rising a little.

“Maybe…” I started, without the slightest idea of how I planned to bargain with him, but the notion that because the terrible things he was saying couldn’t really be true, I could strike some kind of a deal. I could promise not to tell the police, maybe, if he gave me the job and promised I would never see him again. “Maybe I can just have… you know… a regular interview? And, um, I won’t tell anybody… what…”

I could see on the man’s face that he didn’t feel the least anxiety that he had said anything I might report him for—to his bosses, to the police, to anyone.

“Ingrid, sweetheart, I know this is going to be difficult for you. You wouldn’t have gotten this interview if it weren’t. But if you don’t start taking your clothes off right now, you’re going to get acquainted with another old-fashioned side of Selecta corporate policies, when I bend you over my desk and paddle your bare backside.”

That broke the paralysis that had come over me when he had mentioned the naughty selfies. Part of my mind felt desperate to know what kind of logic lay behind… behind any of this. Logic… law… reason… whatever. How could this lunacy actually be taking place on the thirtieth floor of an office building in a major American city? Something about Mr. Alden’s outlandish threat of… of a paddling, though, stopped the futile analysis and got my body moving.

I stood up, and despite the trembling in my legs I managed to maneuver myself around the chair in the direction of the door. I didn’t want to look at the man behind the desk, but I couldn’t help it; my desperate need to know how he had reacted to my rising made me cast a glance toward him. Mr. Alden had leaned back in his chair. I thought his right hand might be reaching for a desk drawer, and my stomach flipped at the interpretation that came instantly into my mind: He’s getting the paddle out.

I walked in the direction of the door, and each step seemed to take an absurd amount of time.

He was lying, I told myself. The door is unlocked. I will open it, and walk out, and walk down the hall to the elevator. I will leave this building behind and I will never think about what just happened, or—above all—how it made me feel.

I half expected Mr. Alden to say something. Like, “Come back here. I was just testing you, and you passed,” or “I’m sorry—I was joking,” or even “Stop right there, Ingrid Vogel!”

He remained completely silent. I managed to keep myself from turning back to look at him. Did I hear a drawer opening? I bit my lip and told myself I had imagined it, and then I found myself at the door of the office. I reached for the handle, and I pressed down.

It didn’t move. I tried again, my heart sinking lower than my belly. I felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes as I rattled the handle.

Then, just a moment before I felt his hands on me, I realized that Mr. Alden had come up behind me. I started to turn, crying out in surprise and alarm, but he kept me in place, facing the door, with his left hand around my chest and his right hand, even worse, on my backside.

“I told you, Ingrid, sweetheart,” he growled into my ear. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve finished evaluating you.”

CHAPTER 2

Ingrid

I let out a sob, my body’s purely physical response to all the conflicting sensations, emotions, and thoughts that raced through my nervous system. The hand on my bottom squeezed firmly—not painfully, but very possessively, as if to make it completely clear to me that this awful, gorgeous executive considered himself entitled to treat me exactly as he pleased.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice becoming less gravelly and more gentle, as if he meant to coax a timid animal into relaxing. “I know this is very difficult for you.”

I turned my head, but the sheer proximity of his handsome face made me turn back to look at the wood grain of the door. I felt Mr. Alden shift and stoop a bit, releasing my rear end from his grasp. Then I cried out in alarm as I felt his hand much lower, at the hem of my skirt, brushing up against my nylon-clad calves and starting to raise the fabric, sliding it up over my knees.

“No… please…” I said. “You… you can’t!”

I started to struggle, only realizing very belatedly that I hadn’t really tried to resist at all until that moment. A split second later I had a good idea why I hadn’t tried to get away before: the feeling of Mr. Alden’s right hand and left arm holding me in place drew a terribly ambiguous response from my mind and my body.

I twisted against his restraining grip, and he easily kept me in place, still raising my skirt slowly and steadily all the while.

---