Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 60059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60059 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Melissa’s eyes lit up with something I hadn’t expected—genuine respect. “That’s… actually brilliant. It completely changes the power dynamic while maintaining the surface narrative.”
“And we could layer in anticipation,” I continued, surprised by my own enthusiasm. “Show her noticing she’s wet hours before the punishment, planning what underwear to wear knowing he’ll see it when he bares her bottom. Include her disappointment when a day passes without correction, like she’s been denied something essential.”
“The psychological transformation from the dynamic,” Melissa murmured, moving closer to where I still sat on the ottoman. “What our marketing calls the ‘Secret Garden moment.’ Yes, I see it. What else?”
My cheeks flushed as I realized how much I was revealing about my own psychology, but I couldn’t stop now. “We could also explore the aftermath differently. Not just the tears and the sore bottom, but the sense of… completion. Peace. Like something that was wound too tight inside has finally been released. Show her sleeping better after a punishment than on nights without one.”
Melissa was taking notes on her tablet now, her fingers flying across the screen. “And the sexual component?”
“Layer it throughout,” I said, my voice dropping slightly. “Don’t save it all for the end. Show micro-moments of arousal during the scolding, the lecture. The way her nipples harden when he says she’s been naughty. Then, when he uses her after the punishment…”
“It doesn’t feel at all forced,” Melissa finished, nodding. Her tablet chimed and she looked down. “Ah, shit, I have another meeting. Let’s pick this up tomorrow?”
CHAPTER 23
Grace
I managed to get the horrible belt back on and put myself more or less to rights before leaving Melissa’s office. I even got back to my cube without anyone, apparently, noticing just how distracted I was.
When my handheld buzzed with a message from Scott, though, all the composure I had tried so carefully to put back together melted away in an instant.
The readout from your meeting with Melissa was very promising. Well done, Grace.
The ‘readout.’ I swallowed hard, trying to make myself believe that it meant only that he had heard from Melissa that my ideas had struck her as useful. I knew, though, in my bones—and, to my dismay, below my waist as well—that it meant a good deal more than that.
My cheeks burned as I reread Scott’s message. Of course he knew. He knew everything that happened in this building, especially when it involved me. The thought that he’d watched Melissa use my face, that he’d seen me on my knees servicing another woman for the first time, made my stomach clench with an impossibly confusing mixture of humiliation and arousal.
I needed to focus on something productive, something that would keep my mind from spiraling about what Scott had seen. With trembling fingers, I opened the folder of Debbie’s raw footage on my workstation. The familiar interface of the editing software felt like a lifeline—something I could control, understand, manipulate.
The first clip showed Debbie in her New-Modesty-approved dress, standing in what looked like a study. Her suitor—Mark, according to the file notes—sat behind a desk, reviewing papers with a stern expression. I watched Debbie shift nervously, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.
A title came to me suddenly: Learning to Please. It captured both the educational aspect Melissa wanted and the deeper psychological truth—that women like Debbie, like me, were learning not just how to please our superiors, but learning that we needed to please them.
I created a new project file with that name and began pulling clips. But instead of starting with the punishment scene that opened the original edit, I searched for earlier footage. There—Debbie alone in her bedroom that morning, her hand drifting between her legs as she stared at a photo of Mark on her nightstand. Perfect.
I layered in a voiceover track, recording my own voice pitched slightly higher to approximate Debbie’s: “I knew I’d ironed his shirt wrong on purpose. Some part of me, the part I try to pretend doesn’t exist, wanted to see that look in his eyes. The disappointment that comes before the correction.”
The next sequence showed Debbie doing laundry, but I slowed it down, zooming in on her face as she deliberately creased a collar instead of smoothing it. I added another voiceover: “My hands shook as I ruined his favorite shirt. But between my legs, I was already getting wet.”
My fingers flew across the keyboard, completely absorbed now. I intercut the bedroom scene with the study scene, showing Debbie’s anticipation building throughout the day. When Mark finally called her in to confront her about the shirts, I split the screen—on one side, Debbie’s contrite expression; on the other, a close-up of her nipples visibly hard through her thin blouse.
“I’m very disappointed in you, Debbie,” Mark said in the original footage.