Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
The struggle against my body was no use. Almost of their own accord, my fingers found their way between my thighs even before the last drops fell. I bit my lip hard, tasting blood, as I began to stroke my swollen clit. The slickness I encountered lower down, when I ran my middle finger there, filled me with hot shame and, at the same time, desperate hunger.
I was no stranger to self-pleasure. In fact, I had long viewed masturbation as an act of defiance against societal norms, a way to claim ownership over my own body and desires. But this… this felt different. Never before had I felt such an overwhelming, all-consuming need.
My fingers moved faster, circling my clit with increasing urgency. In my mind’s eye, unbidden images flashed—Sharon’s stern face as she wielded the paddle, the feeling of being bent over and exposed, the eyes of my fellow recruits burning into my bare flesh.
A soft moan escaped my lips before I could stifle it. I froze for a moment, terrified someone might have heard, but the restroom remained silent save for the pounding of my own heart.
Giving in to the inevitable, I resumed my frantic ministrations. I raised myself up a little so that I could reach my other hand back and gingerly touch my punished bottom. The sting that radiated from even that light contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.
I was close now, unthinkably close given how long it usually took me, on languid Saturday mornings in bed with my little vibrator. Sure, I had been too busy to play with myself for a few days—and I had broken up with my last boyfriend three months before—but I had never felt this responsive even to my own touch.
My fingers moved over my heated flesh, alternating between teasing strokes and firm pressure. Each touch sent sparks of pleasure coursing through my body, to mingle with the lingering sting of the paddling and wind my need even more tightly. I found myself prolonging the exquisite sensations, drawing out my pleasure despite the risk of discovery.
I couldn’t believe I was doing this—masturbating in a bathroom stall at work, my bottom still throbbing from punishment. Yet I couldn’t stop. The taboo nature of the act only heightened my arousal.
As I gently squeezed my tender cheeks, my thoughts took an unexpected turn. Suddenly, I wasn’t reliving my own paddling, but imagining myself wielding the paddle. In my mind’s eye, it was Sharon bent over, her impeccable suit skirt hiked up to reveal her bare bottom.
“Pull your cheeks apart,” I commanded in my fantasy, my voice thick with authority. I pictured Sharon’s hands reaching back, spreading herself open in shameful obedience.
The image sent a fresh wave of heat through me. My fingers found their way to my own puckered opening, circling the sensitive flesh. I gasped at the intensity of the sensation, my other hand working furiously between my legs.
I hadn’t done that, ever. When a boyfriend’s finger strayed in that direction I always pulled his hand away. Unable to resist now, I pressed a finger inside, my body yielding easily to the intrusion, as if my paddling had rendered my bottom accessible in some shameful way. The forbidden dual stimulation pushed me over the edge in an instant. My orgasm crashed over me with startling speed and intensity, leaving me trembling and breathless.
As I emerged from the stall and put myself to rights in the mirror, I tried to push away the embarrassment that threatened to take hold, telling myself that to come that way represented the most defiant thing I could do, a giant fuck you to Sharon and to Selecta. The fact that it had happened because Sharon had paddled me in front of the whole orientation only made my act of self-pleasure more of a demonstration of bodily autonomy.
I. Don’t. Want. It.
I took a deep, shuddering breath and started back toward the conference room.
CHAPTER 4
Stuart
I had greatly enjoyed watching Melissa Mitropoulos masturbate in the bathroom, but I had to admit to looking forward even more to what awaited her back in the conference room. I followed the beautiful black-haired young woman, almost criminally stunning in her prim work clothes, as she walked back down the corridor, wincing visibly at each step.
The surveillance systems in Selecta Headquarters gave total coverage, of course. During Melissa’s paddling, to whose imminence Sharon had alerted me as soon as the willful junior executive-in-training had begun making her scene, I had been able to view both the miscreant’s face and her gorgeous, provocative posterior in vivid close-up.
I had watched the girl’s backside, despite its Mediterranean coloring, redden swiftly under Sharon’s expert use of the paddle. I had caught a thrilling glimpse of Melissa’s pussy lips, adorned with dark curls that I intended to remove, as her bottom had clenched and unclenched with the agony of her first old-fashioned lesson. Those sights had certainly stiffened my cock in my trousers, as I sat at my desk in my corner office.