Page 7 of His Naughty Secretary

“Oh, yes,” he said, his voice lower, a satisfied, arrogant tone making its way into his words. “This is a very wet pussy. Wet as a little slut’s pussy should be when she knows she’s going to get fucked soon.”

I moaned, long and low, as his fingers worked me. Pussy. It wasn’t the worst word I knew for that part of me, but I still never used the naughty word myself. Mr. Alden seemed able to establish his ownership of it simply by touching me there and calling it by that naughty name.

As if he could read my mind, and wanted to teach me a new lesson in degradation, he said, “Tell me what part of you is wet and ready for my cock, Ingrid. What is this place where I have my hand?”

“M-my… my privates,” I whispered.

He laughed. “I thought you’d say something like that. I think you should learn to call it your pussy or your cunt, like grownup men and women do.”

My face flooded with heat at the sound of the c-word. The worst word.

“Actually, I want you to call this part of you your cunt from now on. I know how hard that will be, but it’s a very important lesson in submission. Tell me, Ingrid. Where am I going to put my cock when I’m finished paddling you?”

My head shook violently, but only a millimeter in either direction: it didn’t say no, because—I understood to my mortification—I couldn’t say no even to this.

A keening whimper came through my nose as I tried to hold the words back. They came out, though, in a choked sob.

“My cunt, sir.” The wave of helpless need and burning shame that traveled through my whole body felt like nothing I’d ever experienced. Suddenly, confusingly, I did want him to paddle me. All of me wanted him to start my first old-fashioned punishment. I needed to learn what happened to a young woman who said the c-word… who got wet… who had her new boss’ hand between her thighs, fingers opening her wet little cunt, preparing the way for his huge, rigid cock.

Mr. Alden’s right hand pulled away, and the terrifying paddle with it. I felt his left hand push down just a little harder on my back, as if to warn me to ready myself for my stern lesson in obedience.

I heard a soft whoosh, I felt a puff of air, and I cried out even before the paddle struck, full across both cheeks of my bottom. The sound rang out like a shot, echoing in the corners of Mr. Alden’s big office. For a moment I thought I had made a fuss over very little; the swat didn’t seem to hurt much. Then the pain started to build, and I heard the second whoosh, felt the second puff, and heard the second smack of the wood on my rear end.

“Doesn’t feel as nice, does it, Ingrid Vogel?” Mr. Alden said, from what felt like a hundred miles above me. “Let’s make sure we cool that hot cunt down a little before I put my cock in it. That will teach you to be grateful to serve as an office fuck toy.”

CHAPTER 5

Ingrid

He had asked a question. I had no choice but to answer.

Before I could form the words, though, the answer so obvious that it required no thought at all, he struck a third time.

“No, sir,” I wailed, my body shaking like a leaf with the conflicting signals racing through my limbs, my bottom clenching and unclenching in a vain attempt to lessen the fiery agony.

I sounded to myself so much like a naughty little girl who’s learned the consequences of her misdeeds that for a moment I seemed to lose track of where I was—who I was, even. Whoever I became in that moment though, wasn’t a little girl, or maybe not only a little girl.

I knew that because even with all the agony coursing through my nervous system, radiating out from my burning rear end, it brought a sudden surge of arousal down there. The idea of that young woman—me and not me—discovering the terrible difference between naughty pleasure and its old-fashioned just deserts… it made it even clearer to me how impossible a problem Mr. Alden’s compliance wand presented to me.

Then he made the problem much, much worse. I had bowed my head and closed my eyes, but when I heard something clatter just to the right of my clenched fists, I opened them to see that Mr. Alden had put his horrible paddle back on the desk. A millisecond later, it felt like, his big hand took hold of my bottom—all of it, it felt like—and squeezed, very gently.

The surge of need that seemed to burst outward from deep inside me put my mind and, more troublingly, my heart in utter turmoil. A flash of urgent, independent will spoke from some remaining rational part of my brain: Resist! Try to resist, at least.

Then hot shame blossomed in my face, scalding me to my scalp, because I couldn’t even generate the impulse to defy the soothing, much-too-pleasant movements of my new boss’ hand. Worse, I felt a throb of… of gratitude. I sobbed, and though I tried to pretend to myself that the sound came from anger and shame and frustration, I knew that I’d made it to stop myself from saying thank you, sir.

What the… the hell did the horrid wand thing do? What had it done to my body? To my mind?

I whimpered, sobbed again, because Mr. Alden had begun to move his hand in little circles, on my right cheek, then on my left. Each one seemed to get a little closer to the center, traveling gradually downward and inward. He touched a place that felt like the paddle had visited my cheek there with particular force and I cried out not in pain but with the urgent contraction of my wayward vagina.

My… my… I realized that although it seemed like the compliance wand hadn’t given Mr. Alden complete control over my actual thoughts, the control he had over my body seemed to affect the ideas in my head, as if at some deep level my muscles and my nerve endings could override conscious thought. So as soon as I had thought the word vagina, something deeper inside me even than my brain had commanded that I use a different word—the filthy word my new boss had told me I must use for my private parts.

My… I couldn’t keep it back, couldn’t stop myself from thinking it. My hot, wet cunt.

Oh, no. I moaned, because I had clenched again, there, just at the thought of its dirtiest name. My new boss had made my cunt spasm with need.

Only then did I realize that I had just called him my new boss in my head—had done it several times already without noticing.

I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes firmly shut, willing it all to vanish into the dream—the bad dream, my reason declared, with all the authority it could muster—the scene had to be. Mr. Alden’s hand rubbed another pair of matched circles, so near to the gusset of my naughty panties that I cried out, my hips jerking as if to beg him for more.

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