Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

I ngrid

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.

"Oh, but I can," he said, and then he had my skirt up above the tops of my stockings, and I knew he could see that I had indeed, foolishly, worn the red lingerie—the same tiny panties and garter belt he had, to my mortification, apparently seen in the stupid selfies I'd taken for an utterly undeserving man.

Undeserving, but not… not… horrid , like this Mr. Alden.

Horrid, but also… arrogant. Superior.

Dominant.

When that word popped into my mind, my body responded in two contrary but unfortunately also intertwined ways. First, I tried again to twist myself out of his grasp, because second, I felt between my uncovered thighs, inside my humiliatingly exposed lacy panties, a warmth I wanted to put a stop to at all costs. To my distress, the strength with which Mr. Alden kept me in place had the opposite effect. I bit my lip and whimpered as I felt his huge hand return to my bottom, which the narrow back of the red thong left almost entirely bare.

He held my little cheeks, and he squeezed them and fondled them, as if they belonged to him. I whimpered, a sound so embarrassing that my face blazed up like the surface of the sun as I heard it emerge from my throat.

"And not just because I'm a big, strong man, and you're a lovely, small girl," he continued.

"Wh-what?" I stammered. "What do you… do you…"

His hand, while I tried to force my question out of my throat, had begun to press its two middle fingers between my thighs, along the gusset of the naughty panties. To my abject horror, I felt my hips jerk and my backside push out, exactly as if I meant to welcome the hand's attentions.

"You're getting wet and you know it, Ingrid Vogel," he said softly into my ear, as if telling me a terrible secret.

"Oh, God," I sobbed. "No… no, I'm… I'm…"

The hand holding my bottom went away. My eyes went wide as I tried to understand, as I suspected… and then my suspicion came true: Mr. Alden's palm came down hard on my rear end. The very first spank of my life. I cried out and pressed forward, trying to put my hands behind me to cover my backside and rub away the sharp sting.

"No!" he said, his voice rising. "Put your hands on the door, Ingrid. You lied just now, and you're going to start to learn the kinds of consequences a secretary at Selecta receives when she's naughty."

I froze, my hands on my suddenly warm bottom cheeks. The words had far too many deeply troubling implications for me to sort out. Mr. Alden took a step back, releasing my chest. For a moment, wide-eyed, I thought he had decided to relent, to let me leave. I felt my brow crease hard at the dismaying complexity of my mind's and my body's response to that thought.

I shouldn't have worried—if it represented a worry—though. An instant later I felt his enormous hands grab my wrists. He took my hands off my rear cheeks, separated them, raised them skillfully as I let out a terrified little noise. Afraid he might break my arms if I struggled, but sensing that he knew how to avoid hurting a woman he treated this way—that he had done this many times before, to many different young women—I let him put my hands in front of my face, palms up against the smooth, polished blond wood of the door.

He put my left hand atop my right, and he secured both of them there with his much bigger left hand. I sensed him turning his upper body, shifting his weight.

"Wait!" I said, somehow just becoming aware of what his right hand would do. "Wait!"

I tried to twist, to get my backside somehow out of range, but Mr. Alden brought his palm down directly on my bottom anyway. I twisted in the other direction, and got another spank, even harder. The pain started to compound, and my rear cheeks clenched and unclenched, trying to lessen it, not caring what it looked like to the man punishing me.

When his hand returned a third time, though, he didn't deliver another spank. Instead he took hold of my bottom more forcefully than he had before, and the two fingers between my legs probed more insistently. To my horror I felt my privates melt with helpless arousal into my lacy panties.

Abruptly, he moved his left hand again, keeping his obscene hold on my rear end and my privates with his right. He gripped my shoulder, and he turned me back toward his desk.

"Put your hands on your head," he ordered, his voice stern.

The conflict inside me raged so high that my body seemed, mortifyingly, to welcome the command. My hands, released from his grip, went automatically to the top of my head. A whimpering cry escaped my mouth as I felt how the posture raised my chest, how it seemed to make my body available to Mr. Alden.

His left hand moved to my hip, while his right propelled me forward, his fingers still rubbing lewdly at the place where the red lace covered my shamefully tingling clit. I let out another little cry, and I tried to move fast enough to get away from his possessive right hand.

Mr. Alden didn't allow it; he slowed me with his hold on my hip and he gripped my bottom and privates more tightly. I shuddered. My hips jerked in that same humiliating way, sending a wave of fiery heat into my face. He marched me at his preferred pace, slow and steady, toward the desk. On top of it I saw the horrid thing he had indeed gotten out of the drawer: a wooden paddle with three air holes in it, lying menacingly on the leather upholstered desktop.

I gave a yelp of fear, and instead of trying to get away I found myself pushing back against him, not caring for a moment about his obscene grip on my nearly bare bottom and my scantily clad privates. Mr. Alden stopped pressing me forward, apparently satisfied with my position a few feet away from the desk. To my horror, the hand between my thighs became gentler in its fondling, and I suddenly cared very, very much about it. I let out a choked moan.

"You see the paddle, Ingrid," his voice said in my ear, not loudly but with absolute authority. "This is your last chance to keep from feeling it on this gorgeous little ass this afternoon."

"I…" I said, my voice so thick with fear, arousal, and shame that I could hardly recognize it. "I… I… don't…"

The hand probed. I whimpered from deep in my throat as I felt Mr. Alden's skillful fingers work their way inside the gusset of the thong. I felt them slip and slide with the humiliating abundance of my liquid need, running along the sensitive cleft of my private lips, to the hood of my clit, and back to the opening—the place I hadn't had a man's hardness in more than a year.

Jake had been my first and only sexual partner. We had had sex twice before I had broken up with him—once before the naughty selfies and once after, and neither time had felt the way I thought sex was supposed to feel.

To my dismay, I realized that this— the terrible things Mr. Alden had done to me, was doing to me—felt that way. Like the crawling, tingling sensation in my tummy when I saw something naughty in a video, or when stealing a glance at a couple in the park. My tummy… and further down, so that I had to fast forward or look away to keep myself from the temptation of putting my own hand down there.

The thought made me try to twist away. I took my hands off my head and used them for leverage, shifting around to my right. I felt like I almost evaded his grasp. Mr. Alden gave a little grunt, though, and grabbed me around the waist, his left hand on my right hip and his right hand squeezing my pussy so hard I let out a scream of mingled discomfort and terrible, helpless arousal.

He began to move me toward the desk again. I struggled, but it only seemed to make the problem worse.

The problem: the way I'm supposed to be a high-powered businesswoman. Not an executive, no… not yet —but on my way, someday, working my way up from a high school education in the cruel corporate world. A high-powered businesswoman in training. Interviewing for the job that should finally get her started on her way. ‘Opportunities for rapid advancement.'

With an executive's hand between her legs. Being marched toward his desk, where there's a paddle to punish her for not taking off her clothes when told to do so.

"I'm going to paddle you until you strip for me, Ingrid Vogel," Mr. Alden growled. "Then I'm going to paddle you for disobedience. Then we're going to fuck."

He had me to the edge of the desk. His left hand came off my hip, but before I could react, I felt it on my back, pushing me, bending me over, toward the terrifying wooden paddle. Blond wood, like the door Mr. Alden had locked to make sure I stayed here for my ‘interview.' Three holes that I knew—much to my embarrassment, in fact—the blade had to help it travel faster through the air and inflict more pain on a miscreant's backside.

"Elbows on the desk, sweetheart," he commanded. "If it helps, I'm only going to have you strip to your lingerie. I like to fuck girls in lacy underwear, and with this thong on I don't even have to pull your panties down if I don't want to, when I paddle you. You can save yourself the first part of your punishment by taking off your skirt and your blouse right now."

His left hand pressed with more force, while his right worked me degradingly but skillfully between my thighs. My breath had begun to come in ragged pants, and I felt so lightheaded I wondered if I would faint.

I bent my head and I put my elbows on the desk. In my confused, fevered mind, I obeyed because I knew how shameful it was to get wet inside my panties, with a man's hand there. To hear him say he meant to fuck me in my lingerie, and feel an ache in my vagina at the words.

"Good girl," he said, and I watched him pick up the paddle.