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)
But I needed this. I needed something beyond being someone’s discarded wife, beyond the humiliation of Jacob leaving me for his secretary. I knocked.
“Come in.”
The voice was deep, assured, and something about it made my pulse quicken even before I opened the door.
Scott Yellen was nothing like what I’d expected. Where Sharon had been severe and businesslike, he possessed an almost relaxed confidence, leaning back in his leather chair with the easy grace of someone who never doubted his own authority. He was handsome in a way that brought butterflies to my belly—mid-forties, I guessed, with silver just beginning to touch his temples and eyes that seemed to take in everything about me in a single sweeping glance.
“Grace,” he said, and the way he said my name—like he already knew everything about me, like he’d been expecting me specifically—made my knees feel weak. “Sharon speaks very highly of your potential.”
I stood just inside the doorway, unsure whether to sit or wait for permission. The office was larger than Sharon’s, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a spectacular view of the city below. Everything about the space radiated power and control.
“Thank you, Mr. Yellen,” I managed, hating how breathless I sounded.
“Scott,” he corrected, standing with fluid grace. “We’re not that formal here, despite what Sharon might have led you to believe.” He moved closer, and I caught a hint of expensive cologne—something subtle and masculine that made my head swim slightly. “Though I understand she’s already introduced you to some of our corporate standards.”
My face flamed as his eyes traveled over me, and I knew with horrible certainty that he was aware of exactly what I wore beneath my dress. Worse, that I wore the lacy panties over a bottom that Sharon had had to paddle to correct my hesitancy. “Yes, sir. I mean… she did.”
Scott smiled, and something about that smile made my breath catch. It wasn’t cruel like Sharon’s clinical assessment, but there was a knowing quality to it that suggested he understood exactly how difficult this was for me.
“Good,” he said simply. “I have something I’d like to show you. A new series we’re developing for NMB.”
My stomach dropped. Of course this would involve NMB. Everything in my life seemed to circle back to those cameras, to the streaming service that had broadcast my most intimate moments to paying subscribers.
“Follow me,” Scott said, moving toward a door I hadn’t noticed before, set into the wood paneling of his office wall.
I followed on unsteady legs, intensely aware of how the stockings whispered against each other with each step, how the heels changed my gait. The door opened into a small screening room with a large monitor and two leather chairs. The space felt intimate, almost uncomfortably so.
“Sit,” Scott instructed, gesturing to one of the chairs.
I lowered myself carefully, trying to keep my dress from riding up, though I knew the effort was pointless. Scott would see whatever he wanted to see before this interview was over.
He picked up a remote and the screen flickered to life. “This is Annabelle’s Story,” he said, settling into the chair beside me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Our newest premium series. I’d like your professional opinion.”
The image on screen showed a young woman, perhaps twenty-two, with long auburn hair and wide green eyes. She knelt on a plush carpet in what looked like an upscale living room, completely naked except for what I immediately recognized as her training underwear—the thick, clinging waist-to-knees panties and the matching halter. The camera angle was intimate but not crude, artistic in a way that made it somehow more shocking.
“This is Annabelle,” Scott explained as the scene continued. “She’s been with her foster family for six months now. Her foster father Kevin is preparing her for courtship.”
On screen, a man entered the frame—handsome, authoritative, perhaps forty. He wore work jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The way Annabelle’s eyes followed his movement, the mixture of fear and anticipation in her expression, made my chest tighten with recognition.
“Open,” Kevin commanded on screen, and Annabelle’s mouth fell open obediently.
I shifted in my chair, pressing my thighs together as Kevin positioned himself in front of the kneeling girl. Behind him, a woman appeared—blonde, matronly… and holding a riding crop.
“That’s Lara, Annabelle’s foster mother,” Scott said conversationally, as if we were discussing a nature documentary rather than what was about to happen. “As you probably know from your own experience with your New Modesty fosters, she assists with the training.”
I watched, transfixed and horrified, as Kevin unfastened his pants. The camera cut back and forth between Annabelle’s wide eyes and the enormous, rigid penis that her foster father withdrew from his fly. Annabelle’s cheeks had gone red, but I thought my own could give them serious competition.