Page 14 of His to Enjoy
Put your middle finger in your anus.
Through the surveillance feed, I watched Grace’s eyes widen at my command, her hand hesitating for just a moment before she shifted position on the sofa. The way she bit her lower lip as she reached behind herself, the flush spreading down her chest as she worked her finger into that tight little hole—Christ, she was exquisite.
I found myself leaning forward, my breathing quickening as she whimpered and obeyed. The sight of her violating her little butt on my command while her other hand worked frantically at her clit sent an unexpected jolt through me. I’d supervised dozens of women through their Selecta training, had broken in more corporate submissives than I could count, but something about Grace was different.
The intensity of my response to her caught me off guard. My cock strained against my pants, harder than it had been in years from simply watching. It wasn’t just her beauty—though she was stunning, in my opinion anyway, with her face contorted in desperate need. It wasn’t even her responsiveness, though hermetrics showed arousal levels that would make our premium subscribers salivate.
No, it was something else. The way she fought against her own nature even as she surrendered to it. The genuine conflict in every reluctant submission. She wasn’t performing for the cameras like so many others eventually did. She was authentically, beautifully ashamed of how much she needed this.
“Thirty seconds,” I murmured aloud, though she couldn’t hear me. On screen, her finger pushed deeper into her ass, her back arching as she found that sweet spot. Her other hand moved in desperate circles, and I could see she had arrived right at the edge.
I pulled up her full profile on my tablet, scanning through her New Modesty records while keeping one eye on the live feed. Her test scores were remarkable—not just the intelligence Sharon had mentioned, but her psychological evaluation. Complex trauma responses, deep-seated need for structure, unusually high correlation between humiliation and arousal. She was, in clinical terms, perfect for what I had in mind.
But that didn’t explain why my hands were trembling slightly as I watched her chase her climax. Why I was already planning exactly how I would claim every hole, train every response, until she could come practically on my command. The possessiveness I felt was unusual, honestly distracting in its intensity.
“Please, please, please,” Grace chanted on the feed, her hips bucking against her hands. Ten seconds left.
I typed quickly:
Come now, Grace. Come with your finger buried in your ass like the shameful little slut you are.
Grace
Scott’s command hit me like a velvet jackhammer, and my body obeyed before my mind could protest. The orgasm ripped through me with devastating intensity, my finger pressing deeper into that forbidden place as waves of pleasure crashed over me. I screamed, not caring who might hear through the apartment’s walls, my back arching off the sofa as my whole body convulsed.
“Oh God, oh God,” I sobbed, my fingers still working frantically as the climax seemed to go on forever, each pulse of pleasure tinged with the burning shame of what I’d just done. What I’d let him make me do. My finger in my bottom, following his degrading commands like the desperate creature I’d become.
When it finally subsided, I collapsed against the cushions, trembling and gasping for breath. Tears streaked my face—tears of release, of humiliation, of emotions I didn’t want to give names to. My hands shook as I withdrew my finger, the intimate soreness a reminder of how eagerly I’d violated myself for him.
The wall screen had gone dark, Annabelle’s punishment scene replaced by a blank blue screen. My handheld buzzed again, and I reached for it with a trembling hand, knowing it would be Scott, knowing I would read whatever he sent despite the shame burning in my chest.
Good girl. You made it with three seconds to spare. Clean yourself up and eat the dinner I’m having delivered to your apartment in twenty minutes. Then put on the pink baby doll from your closet—the sheer one with the matching panties. You’re to be in bed by ten p.m. Tomorrow morning, report to my office at eight a.m. sharp.
I stared at the message, my body still quivering with aftershocks. He was controlling everything—when I ate, what I wore, when I slept. The thought should have been terrifying, but instead I felt that treacherous warmth beginning to build again below my waist.
A knock at the door made me jump. I scrambled to my feet, acutely aware of my state of undress, the obscene gap in the crotch-less panties still revealing everything. I grabbed my nightgown from where I’d left it, pulling it on hastily before answering.
A delivery person stood in the hallway with a white bag marked with the logo of an upscale restaurant. “Dinner delivery for Grace Whitcomb?”
“Thank you,” I managed, taking the bag with hands that still trembled slightly. The delivery person’s expression remained professionally neutral, but I wondered if he could tell what I’d just been doing. Could he see the flush still coloring my skin? Could he smell my arousal, even, maybe? I felt my cheeks go hot as the terrible possibility occurred to me.
I closed the door and leaned against it, clutching the bag. Inside was a container of grilled salmon with roasted vegetables and a small salad. Healthy, sophisticated, carefully chosen. Even my meals were under his control now.
I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food despite its obvious quality. My mind kept returning to Scott’s instructions, to the pink baby doll waiting in my closet. Every bite reminded me that even this simple act of eating had become part of his control over me.
After dinner, I cleaned up carefully, placing the containers in the recycling bin like a good girl following rules. The thought made me flush with renewed shame. Was that what I was becoming, even after I had thought myself rid of that life? Scott’s good girl, obedient and eager to please?
I showered quickly, trying not to think about the cameras that might be watching even here. The bathroom supposedly had privacy mode, but Tyler from Human Resources had said it could be overridden. Was Scott watching me wash away the evidence of my shameful display? The possibility made my hands tremble as I soaped down there, my slit still sensitive from my desperate self-pleasure.
The pink baby doll hung in the closet like an invitation to immodesty. I held it up to the light, noting how the sheer fabric would hide nothing. The matching panties were equally revealing, just a wisp of pink lace that would barely cover the shaven cleft of my pussy. My brow furled hard as I put them on.
I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror and immediately looked away. The baby doll made me look like something from a soft-focus honeymoon ad, softly feminine and readily available. My nipples were clearly visible through the sheer pink fabric, and the panties sat low on my hips, emphasizing the curve of my bottom. I looked like exactly what I was becoming—not a Midwestern small-town girl, but a kept woman, dressed for a man’s pleasure even when alone in my monitored apartment.
The bed seemed enormous, the white sheets crisp and expensive. I slipped between them, hyperaware of how the nightgown rode up, how the delicate fabric felt against my skin. It was only 9:30, but Scott had said to be in bed by ten, and I didn’t dare disobey. Not after seeing what happened to Annabelle for touching herself without permission.
The early bedtime meant that when the alarm—which I hadn’t set—woke me at 6:30 I came awake immediately.
I lay there for a moment, blinking in the soft morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My body felt heavy, languid in a way that reminded me immediately of what I’d done last night. The memory made me squeeze my eyes shut, heat flooding my face.
