Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

J oseph

I hadn't wanted to use the compliance wand on Ingrid Vogel so soon. I had no doubt that the wand would represent an important part of her training, of course. Her psychosexual profile identified her as a nearly perfect candidate both for the position as my unit's executive secretary and for the kind of erotic discipline that the device had brought to a new state of perfection. But my dominant instincts, shaped by millions of years of human evolution before technology got involved, urged me to do my utmost with older, more natural means.

The most recent directive from corporate about the compliance wand, however, left me with no choice, really: they wanted the training of new secretaries expedited, and they considered the wand the best solution.

The secretarial program has proven immensely popular and highly effective throughout the organization , the latest memo had read. The transition from the traditional work of data entry, calendaring, and correspondence allowed by the rapid growth of automation has become an opportunity for Selecta to grow our core business to an unexpected extent, with the help of a growing secretarial pool: young women who can assist in managing executives' increased portfolios and at the same time provide a needed boost in morale via their submissive sexuality.

To that end, we expect new secretaries' training to occur in as efficient a manner as possible. The recent update to the firmware of the compliance wand issued to senior executives last year has rendered it the most useful possible tool, and except in cases of unusual early demonstrations of obedience it should be employed not as a last resort but rather as soon as a new secretary has shown her reluctance to submit to the first stage of her sexual training.

I had already left it a little longer than I knew corporate would have liked. My own boss, CEO John Grappler, five floors above me, would almost certainly receive an email at the end of the week telling him that in onboarding Ingrid Vogel I had wasted several minutes in demanding her compliance the old-fashioned way. I knew my boss well, though, and I trusted him. If John called me on the carpet to answer the charge of inefficiency, I knew that my honest excuse—that I had simply been having too much fun giving Ingrid the dominant treatment she so badly needed—would get me off the hook with a sly wink from the CEO.

I surveyed her lovely little body for a moment before I reached for the paddle. The conservative skirt and blouse, the tight blonde ponytail slightly disheveled by her struggles against my restraining hands. Her shoulders trembled a little, suggesting the conflict I knew must have flared very high inside her; she wanted to turn her head to look at me, but my order prevented it, thanks to the wand's hold on her limbic system.

As I watched, a deep shudder went through her. I didn't have to see the readout from the fancy equipment I knew was already monitoring her, deep in the bowels of Selecta's psycho-biometric data facility: Ingrid Vogel had started to discover how embarrassingly good it felt to have her control over her body taken away and given to an older man.

I reached my left hand down to the surface of the desk to get the paddle. Ingrid's head shook a little. I knew her eyes had gone there, to watch; as long as she didn't turn her head and didn't look me in the eye, the wand's effect would allow her to use her gaze as she pleased.

"I'm going to pull your skirt back up now, sweetheart," I told her. "Now that you're obeying me, we can get this first part over with quickly, and then we'll get your clothes off."

Ingrid

The image of his hand, grasping the handle of the paddle and picking it up, lingered terrifyingly in my mind. I wanted to turn around and look at Mr. Alden, most of all, just so I could erase the picture of the horrible wooden blade with its oddly menacing holes. My body's complete refusal to obey that impulse—the way my head trembled on my neck, preventing me from even shaking my head no— made me so lightheaded I felt sure I would faint within the next few seconds.

Part of me hoped I would, fantasized that when I woke up I would be in my bed in my tiny apartment. Another part of me, awoken against my will by Mr. Alden's mystifying words about the suddenly terrifying silver thing he had touched to my skin, had a different idea. It didn't want to lose consciousness at all. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed hard, trying desperately to push back, press down, that new voice in my head.

Was it really new, though? I chewed on my lower lip as I felt Mr. Alden's right hand start to raise the hem of my skirt for the second time.

Yes, of course it's new. He's lying . That… that compliance wand thing… it makes a person do whatever he wants, obviously. It doesn't have anything to do with what I want.

I felt his fingertips, grasping the woolen fabric, brush against the backs of my upper thighs. A deep shudder traveled through my whole body. The hem rose higher. The air moved against my naked bottom cheeks.

A sob of abject humiliation wrenched itself from my chest as I felt myself clench inside my panties, my back arching and my backside pushing out.

As if I want it. As if I've always wanted it. Oh, no… no….

"Please…" I whispered.

"You may not speak until I've finished punishing you, Ingrid," Mr. Alden said, "except when I ask you a question. I think you'll find that helpful, actually."

I tried so hard to say but . My lips actually pursed themselves into the B shape. Air gathered in my mouth, ready to speak the word —the single word of protest, let alone any of the objections that I fully intended to follow it with.

No word came out of my mouth. When I understood that his command somehow had the force not just of law, as in, like, something being legal or illegal , but the force of natural law—like gravity—the dizzy, lightheaded feeling swept through me again.

I felt him rolling the skirt, tucking it up. My heart pounded in my chest and my forehead creased so hard it almost felt painful. My mouth kept trying to say but or maybe please. I could make a kind of whimpering hum in my throat, but I couldn't utter an actual syllable.

His left hand pressed down on my back. I could feel the strength in his fingers through the thin fabric of my blouse, but I could also sense that he didn't mean to press hard at all. He didn't have to. The sensation of complete restraint only seemed more overwhelming with his almost soothing palm there, as if Mr. Alden intended to convey to me that way how powerful his authority over me would be even without physical force. To my horror, the mere touch of his hand brought another humiliating clench between my legs, inside my all-too-visible lacy red panties as I understood that he must have shifted the paddle from his left hand to his right.

Then he touched me with the wood, the end of the flat blade poking lightly between my thighs.

"Spread these, sweetheart," his voice said from behind me. "A little more than shoulder width."

The mortifying hum of stifled protest came from my throat again. My knees trembled as the independent part of me tried for a moment to resist, and then I felt my feet shuffle apart as if they belonged to someone else. A whimper through my nose got past the wand's hold on me, and I understood with a hot blush that the noise didn't represent protest or defiance, but rather some dark, shameful part of me accepting that I must show the gusset of my naughty underwear to the man who had undertaken to discipline me.

A moment went by. Mr. Alden's hand on my back moved a little, rubbing gently. I had to bite my lip to keep a moan from pulling itself out of my chest.

"Are you wet, Ingrid Vogel?" he asked abruptly, his voice sharp and commanding.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, but only for an instant because the answer ripped its way out of me in a sob.

"Yes! Oh… oh, G—" The wand's power over me cut me off. I couldn't speak unless my words would answer a question from Mr. Alden.

"You will call me sir from now on, Ingrid. Do you understand?"

"Oh… oh…" I tried to say God , but I couldn't. It didn't answer. "Yes, sir," I gasped.

Then I felt his right hand thrust between my legs, with the paddle still in its grasp so that the flat wood came up against my backside, just where my bottom-cheeks met the tops of my thighs. I felt his fingers work their way inside the narrow fabric strip of the thong. I felt myself gush onto their probing strength. My hips jerked, my rear end pushing out as if I welcomed the awful man's rough exploration.

"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."