Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

I ngrid

I arrived at work feeling an electric restlessness coursing through my veins that the sleek, modern lobby only seemed to intensify with its promise of corporate power politics. The previous night's denial had left me on edge, a molten core of frustration simmering beneath my calm exterior.

The memory of Joseph forbidding me to touch myself as he used me lingered distractingly. The sound of his commanding voice as he held me down, thrusting mercilessly into my tightest place, echoed in my mind. The remembered sound alone made me clench down there as I approached Cathy's station, the intense sensation between my thighs bringing a deep blush to my face.

Joseph and I usually arrived together, taking the special elevator up from the executive garage where the limo dropped us off. Today he had woken before me and come to the office early to get ready for the meeting with John Grappler, the CEO of our division, so I didn't even have his presence to steady me as I contemplated the day ahead.

"Morning, Ingrid." Cathy greeted me with a professional smile, her fingers tapping briskly on her keyboard.

"Morning," I replied, hearing surliness in my tone and not caring. I had the right to treat these people however I wanted, didn't I? I was the one who had to take the punishing thrusts of Joseph Alden's massive cock morning, noon, and night.

Cathy's reproachful look at my failure to give her my usual bright greeting stirred a similarly scolding voice inside me. Really the office manager had always shown me kindness and sympathy.

Who gives a fuck? asked the rebellious part of me. Seriously… who gave a fuck about her so-called ‘kindness' when it meant making sure my pussy and ass crack got waxed once a week for Joseph's pleasure?

As I walked toward my cubicle, I felt the familiar weight of my old-fashioned paper notepad in my bag. With the super-important, but inevitably also super-boring ‘You and Selecta' meeting this morning, I knew I would need to do some serious doodling to make it through. The escape of my pen on the ruled paper always seemed to channel my nervous energy and restless thoughts. Today, it held a special promise, maybe because I had such an obvious need for some semblance of control in the chaos of my desires.

I settled into my chair, the leather cool against the exposed skin of my shoulders and arms. The big meeting loomed ahead, but I couldn't focus. Instead, I found myself opening my email, scrolling through the same messages over and over. My thoughts drifted back to Joseph's piercing blue eyes, the firm grip of his hands, the way he commanded every inch of my being.

Hey, Ingrid, you got those numbers for me?

Sarah from accounting messaged me, the little pop-up in the lower-right corner of my screen breaking my reverie. Right: Grappler had asked for hard data on how much Joseph planned to spend on the rollout of ‘You and Selecta,' and accounting needed to verify our numbers.

Yeah, just finishing up , I answered, glad that Sarah couldn't hear the resentful tone of the words in my head. I felt like a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.

I typed furiously, the rhythm of the keys a poor substitute for the release I craved.

Communications estimates pubic response to the campaign will stay within this range. Thanks for your help, Ingrid.

I read it back, and I caught the typo, though in my current mood it barely brought a smile: public , not pubic. On another day, I might even have blushed. Not today.

On the verge of fixing it, I had the sudden urge to click Send instead. The whole team was cc'd on this mail, so we would be on the same page for the meeting. Joseph was a stickler for good editing. Cathy had even told me that my predecessor in the role of executive secretary had been paddled for typos several times.

If I sent it this way… who knew what might happen—but something would befall me, wouldn't it? Part of me knew that it represented a bizarre response to having been denied a climax, but my body didn't seem to care.

I clicked Send , and my face did get hot the moment afterward, as the thought of all the possible consequences went through my head. I hovered my cursor over Unsend. I was on the verge of clicking when the response from Sarah came back: Thanks, Ingrid!

I could send another message around, apologizing for the typo. I could pretend, when someone caught it, that the rush to prepare had caused it, and I would probably get off with a reprimand— get off, ha , said a wry voice in my head. Or I could wait.

Minutes ticked by of furious preparation in the bullpen—quiet, urgent conversations I could only hear the speech rhythms of as Kevin, Louis, and Martin got their story straight. Joseph remained in his office, though I could hear his keyboard urgently clicking through the open doorway. They must all have looked at the memo by now.

No one noticed. No reprimand, no discipline. Just the mundane, if frantic hum of office life continuing unabated. It should have been a relief, but instead, a strange disappointment gnawed at me.

"Numbers look good," Sarah said as she passed by, flashing me a thumbs-up.

"Thanks," I murmured, my voice hollow. The lack of discipline only heightened my frustration, feeding the dark, erotic storm brewing within me. I needed Joseph's firm hand, his unyielding control to ground me. Anything less felt like… like I had gone adrift, a boat helpless to steer through a gale.

I pulled out my notepad, the pen gliding effortlessly over the paper, creating intricate designs that mirrored the tangled web of my emotions. Each stroke was a silent scream, a plea for the structure and discipline that Joseph alone could provide.

"Meeting in ten," Joseph reminded me with a shout from his office, snapping me back to reality. I closed the notepad, my heart pounding with a mix of dread and anticipation that I knew didn't fit the situation at all, but was apparently impervious to reason.

"…a 3.4% increase in market share," John Grappler droned on, his voice a monotonous hum that grated against my already frayed nerves. I had long since stopped writing words in my notepad and switched to finishing off a particularly intricate, looping design that represented my best effort so far at gothic filigree.

The doodle made the one solace I had amidst this corporate purgatory. I knew that some of the CEO's words were passing me by, and I forced myself to stop in the middle of a curve and listen. My eyes flicked toward Joseph sitting next to me at the long table, his piercing blue gaze fixed on the presentation.

"To repeat," John Grappler said, "with the growth in market share thanks to ‘You and Selecta' we'll be ready to retool several different units, and…"

I glanced at my notepad and found that I had recorded exactly the same words, verbatim, in a section I had taken down twenty minutes earlier. Frustration seemed to boil up from my chest. How could this man be Joseph's boss?

"Idiot," I muttered under my breath, the word slipping out before I could stop it. The room seemed to freeze, the air thickening with the weight of my transgression.

Joseph's head snapped toward me, his eyes narrowing. The junior executives, across the table from us, turned their heads in unison, disbelief etched across their faces. An electric tension surged through the room, making my heart pound wildly in my chest.

"Excuse me? Ingrid, is it?" John's voice, usually so assured, faltered slightly as he looked over from his slides, his silver hair catching the light. His eyes bore into mine, a flicker of something dangerous lurking behind his calm exterior. "Do you have something to add?"

I felt a flush creep up my neck, spreading like wildfire. "Nothing, sir," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. But the damage was done; I had done it, and everyone who counted, in my little corner of Selecta, knew it. In fact, only one person counted, the one seated next to me.

Joseph's silence was deafening. I stared down at my notepad, unable even to turn my eyes in his direction. I knew for certain, though, that his gaze on me had not wavered since I had spoken. I felt it pinning me in place, making my skin prickle with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I could almost feel the phantom touch of his hand, the promise of discipline that lingered just out of reach.

"I apologize, John," Joseph said finally, his tone icy and controlled. "Let's continue. I'll sort this out with my team later."

In the last three weeks I had blushed more frequently and more fiercely than in my whole life before coming to Selecta. The scalding heat that surged into my face, my neck, my scalp—my whole upper body, it felt like—seemed more like Joseph had sentenced me to burning at the stake than like any of those blushes.

It made the way my face colored at my master's shameful degradations seem positively girlish. All his commands, his inspections, his casual, possessive touches under my skirt in the presence of his other subordinates… I had thought they represented real shame.

No , the rational voice that never quite went away said, its tone almost sympathetic. No, Ingrid Vogel, this is shame.

As John's voice filled the room once more, the tension remained, a palpable force that crackled in the air. My mind raced, torn between the dread of impending punishment and the dark thrill that coursed through me at the thought of Joseph's wrath. The lines between fear and desire blurred, leaving me again adrift in a sea of conflicting emotions. The crucial difference lay in how high a wave, looming over my tiny raft, I could see.

I closed the notepad and I put my hands atop it. I looked at them, and nothing else. The meeting dragged on, each minute an eternity, until finally, mercifully, we were filing out of the conference room. I felt Joseph's gaze on me, a silent command that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Ingrid," he said softly, his voice nevertheless carrying the terrible weight of his authority. "My office."

"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice trembling. I kept my eyes downcast. I didn't need to look at Kevin, Louis, and Martin in the elevator to know how amused, how smug their expressions must appear.

I couldn't help it: I imagined them, Joseph's team wondering wordlessly among themselves just how prettily bruised the boss' secretary's backside would be the next time they saw it—and with how much difficulty I would walk when I emerged from Joseph's office. Even more immediately, how long and how loudly I would scream as I received the consequences of my insanely stupid failure to keep my opinion to myself.

Each step toward Joseph's office felt like a march toward the executioner's scaffold, a journey that would break me completely. Could I quit right now? Yes, but I would still get whatever punishment Joseph wanted to mete out. I had looked that up soon after he had told me Selecta would find me a new job if I resigned.

In the human resources FAQ I had found the answer, taking some comfort in the fact that clearly I wasn't the only one with the need to know this particular detail.

If I resign after I've committed an infraction but before I've received the discipline determined by my superior, will I still be required to undergo that punishment?

Yes. Selecta's bylaws, with reference to the relevant clauses in the corporate laws, clearly state that employees who resign with punishments outstanding must receive those punishments, under restraint if necessary, before their resignations take effect and separation from Selecta occurs.

We reached his office, the door closing behind us with a soft, ominous click. Joseph walked over to his desk, his movements fluid and controlled, exuding power and authority. He didn't need to say anything; the silence itself was a force that pressed down on me, making it hard to breathe.

"Joseph… sir, I'm so sorry for what I said in the meeting," I blurted out, unable to contain myself any longer. "I know I deserve to be punished, but please, not the paddle? I'm really scared."

His expression softened ever so slightly, a flicker of something almost tender in those icy blue eyes. "Ingrid, I understand that you're struggling. Last night, I denied you release, and perhaps that frustration has carried over into today. But you should have known better than to lose control in a professional setting."

"Yes, sir," I whispered, my voice trembling. The air between us crackled with tension, thick and suffocating.

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't hesitate. I would punish you very severely," he continued, his tone unwavering. "But because of last night, this time, I think it's important to give you a choice. If you feel like you do in fact deserve to be punished, even in light of the state I left you in, the consequence of your outburst will be very severe. It will definitely involve the paddle—not in spite of the fact that it scares you, but because of it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." My breath hitched, terror and longing warring within me. The reality of his words settled over me like a heavy cloak, and I could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on my shoulders.

"Good. I'll let you know later today what your punishment will be, if you decide to accept it." His gaze locked onto mine, an unspoken promise of what was to come.

"Thank you, sir," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. I turned and left his office, my legs shaking with each step. The anticipation gnawed at me, a relentless beast that refused to be tamed. What would Joseph decide? And more important, how would I endure it—not just the punishment, but the terrible decision he meant to give me?