Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
It’s the fact that everyone at the office who isn’t watching yet will be soon.
Because as I beg and m*an and come like a bad girl, I’m not just being punished.
I’m being trained.
Publisher’s Note: Trained at the Office is a stand-alone book in the Corporate Correction series. It includes spankings and sexual scenes. If such material offends you, please don’t buy this book
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Anne
I didn’t know how to feel. Standing in my tiny apartment that morning, buttoning the modest cream blouse Yolanda had called perfect, I’d tried to push down the tangle of feelings that had knotted themselves somewhere between my stomach and my throat ever since I’d signed the employment contract three days ago.
Selecta. Or, as they usually wrote it, SELECTA. The megacorp’s name alone carried weight, a gravity I could feel even from outside the gleaming tower downtown. Everyone knew what Selecta was. Everyone had heard the stories. My mother, before she’d stopped returning my calls entirely, had said only, “Well, Anne, I suppose you’ll learn,” in that flat voice that meant she’d already decided I was lost.
But my friend Yolanda… bright, laughing Yolanda, whom I’d known since freshman orientation and who had landed in Selecta’s marketing division six months before me… she’d waved it all away over drinks at our favorite wine bar the week before.
“Annie, stop,” she’d said, pressing her manicured fingers over mine. “I know what you’ve read. I know you’ve heard about the… you know… the paddling thing. Everyone’s heard about the paddling thing.”
She’d rolled her dark eyes with theatrical exasperation. “It’s like saying every Catholic school nun carries a ruler. Is there a paddle hanging on the wall in some room in human resources? Sure. Are there stories? Definitely. No one’s ever used one on me—and I can’t say I’m the most diligent girl in the office.”
She’d taken a long sip of her Pinot Grigio.
“You show up. You answer the phone. You get coffee. You set up meetings. Maybe you write a memo now and then. That’s it. That’s the whole job. The pay is incredible, the benefits are insane, and the worst thing that happens to you is some executive asks you to collate something and you have to Google what collate means.” She’d grinned. “Which I did, by the way. Week one.”
I’d laughed. The knot in my tummy had loosened, and I’d told myself Yolanda was right. She’d always been right about practical things.
Now, stepping out of the elevator on the thirty-second floor of Selecta HQ, I tried to hold onto that feeling.
The lobby featured pale marble and soft lighting, with the Selecta logo rendered in brushed steel in giant letters behind the curved reception desk. Everything smelled faintly of something floral I couldn’t name. The air itself felt expensive, filtered and temperature-controlled to a precise coolness that made my skin prickle under my blouse.
A woman at the reception desk looked up as I approached. She looked perhaps thirty, with dark hair pulled into a sleek chignon and a smile that seemed calibrated to be welcoming without being warm.
“Anne Chamberlain?” she said before I could speak.
“Yes. I’m… it’s my first day. I was told to report to—”
“You’ve been assigned to Penelope Gallagher.” The receptionist was already standing, smoothing her fitted charcoal skirt. “She’s expecting you. I’ll walk you back.”
I followed her through a set of frosted glass doors and down a corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly, the carpet so thick my low heels made no sound at all. Offices flanked us on both sides, their doors mostly closed, and through the ones that were open I caught glimpses of sleek desks, multiple monitors, women in tailored clothing typing or speaking into headsets.
Everything looked immaculate. Everything was quiet, but the quiet seemed to hum with… well, with power. I swallowed hard.
We stopped before an office at the far end of the corridor. The nameplate on the door read Penelope Gallagher, Director of New Modesty Program Integration in clean, formal-looking lettering, like in an old-fashioned newspaper.
The receptionist knocked twice and opened the door without waiting for a response.
The woman behind the desk rose immediately, and I understood at once why Yolanda had told me, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and your boss is going to make you feel like you’ve been dressing wrong your entire life. Don’t take it personally.”
Penelope Gallagher was the kind of woman who seemed born to wear a charcoal suit. She stood tall—taller than me, and I was five-seven—with chestnut hair swept back from a face that was beautiful without being pretty. She wore a blouse of ivory silk, open one button further than mine, and a single strand of pearls rested against her collarbone. She moved around the desk with the controlled grace of someone who had an awareness of every inch of space her body occupied.
“Anne,” she said, and her voice sounded genuinely warm, with a richness that made my name come across, oddly, like something particularly worth saying. She took both my hands in hers and held them for a moment, studying me with gray eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve needed someone in this role for weeks, and when I saw your application, I told HR not to let you slip away.”