Page 8 of His to Enjoy
“Higher,” Scott instructed when I paused at mid-thigh.
I closed my eyes, unable to watch his face as I lifted the dress to my waist, exposing the delicate pink panties and the garter belt Sharon had made me don. The cool air of the office against my barely covered skin made me shiver.
“Open your eyes, Grace.”
I obeyed, meeting his gaze with difficulty. His expression remained professionally neutral, but there was something in his eyes—a heat, an appreciation—that made my knees feel weak.
“Good,” he said simply. “The panties are correctly positioned over the garter straps. Sharon instructed you properly.” His fingers brushed against my hip, adjusting the small pink bow on the side of the panties, and I gasped at the contact. “These are from our executive line. Much more appropriate than what you came in wearing.”
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“You can lower your dress now.”
I dropped the fabric immediately, my face burning with humiliation even as that terrible warmth continued to build between my legs. Behind Scott, the scene on the monitor had progressed—Lara moaned into the mattress as Kevin gripped her hips and firmly pounded her shapely bottom with his strong hips. From her corner Annabelle watched intently, her brow furrowed and her cheeks bright pink.
“Sit here, with me,” Scott said, settling back into his chair and patting his thigh.
The command brought new butterflies to my tummy. I stared at him, frozen, as he waited with that same patient confidence that seemed to radiate from every gesture. My legs moved before my mind could form a protest, and suddenly I was perched awkwardly on his lap, my dress riding up despite my attempts to keep it in place.
His arm came around my waist, steadying me, and I could feel the solid warmth of his chest against my side. The position was impossibly intimate—far more so than anything Sharon had demanded. I could smell his cologne, feel his breath against my neck, and worst of all, I could feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against my bottom through his expensive suit pants.
“Much better,” he murmured, his free hand coming to rest on my knee. “Now we can watch together and discuss your observations properly.”
On the screen, Kevin had finished with Lara, and the camera focused on Annabelle’s face—flushed, confused, unmistakably aroused despite her obvious embarrassment. The foster mother was explaining something about a wife’s duties while smoothing down her skirt, but I couldn’t focus on the words. All I couldthink about was Scott’s hand on my knee, the way his thumb had started making small circles against my stocking.
“Tell me,” he said conversationally, as if I weren’t sitting in his lap like some kind of secretary from an old movie, “what you think Annabelle is feeling right now.”
I tried to gather my scattered thoughts, acutely aware of every place our bodies touched. “She’s… conflicted. Aroused, but ashamed of it. She knows she shouldn’t want what she’s seeing, but her body is responding anyway.”
“Hmm.” His hand moved slightly higher on my thigh. “And how do you know that’s what she’s feeling?”
The answer stuck in my throat because we both knew exactly how I knew. Because I was feeling the same thing right now—that horrible, wonderful, confusing mix of humiliation and desire that had haunted me throughout my marriage to Jacob and was now threatening to overwhelm me completely.
“Personal experience,” I whispered.
“Good girl,” he said, and those two words sent a shock through me that I felt all the way to my toes. “Honesty is essential in this position.”
His hand continued its slow exploration of my thigh, never quite reaching the top of my stocking, but making me intensely aware of how little separated his fingers from bare skin. On screen, the scene had shifted—Annabelle was now being instructed to undress for her evening bath while her foster parents watched, offering corrections on her posture and movements.
“We’re looking to develop an entire stream around Annabelle,” Scott explained, his professional tone at odds with the intimateposition of his hand. “Something that follows her journey from initial training through eventual placement with a husband. Your insights would be invaluable in shaping that narrative.”
His fingers suddenly slipped further up, beneath the hem of my dress, trailing along the inside of my thigh above the stocking. I gasped, my whole body going rigid.
“I need to check something,” he murmured against my ear, his fingers continuing their journey upward until they found the edge of my panties. “Stay very still.”
I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to. His fingers pressed against the delicate lace, right over my most intimate place, and I knew he could feel how wet I’d become. The humiliation of it made me want to die, even as my traitorous body responded to his touch with a fresh surge of arousal.
“Just as I thought,” he said, his voice low and satisfied. “Soaking wet. You respond to authority even more strongly than your file suggests.”
He withdrew his hand and shifted me off his lap, setting me on my feet in front of him. My legs trembled, barely holding me upright.
“Take off your dress,” he commanded, leaning back in his chair to watch me.
My hands shook as they moved to the zipper at the back of my dress. This was happening so fast, so much more intensely than anything I’d experienced even in the New Modesty, where quick courtship was encouraged. The dress pooled at my feet, leaving me standing before him in nothing but the pink lingerie and heels.
“Turn around,” he instructed. “Slowly.”
I rotated, knowing he was examining every inch of me, evaluating every response. When I faced him again, he beckoned me closer with one finger.
