You had read in books about a stare that saw right through you, but you had always thought it a cheap metaphor. Now, as Adrienne Shaw trains her ice-blue eyes upon you, you feel the truth of it like a punch in the gut. You tighten your grip on the arms of the chair to keep from squirming under her gaze, feeling distinctly like a butterfly pinned to a board.
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“Let us understand one another,” she says in that cool patrician voice that speaks of exclusive finishing schools and unquestioned authority. “This is not The Devil Wears Prada. It is not Working Girl. It is not any of those absurd movies where a plucky girl from nowhere succeeds through a good idea and sheer homespun idealism.”
You watch, galvanized, as she runs a manicured fingernail lightly over her ear, pulling a stray lock of her dark hair back into place. You could not look away from her cold, flawless beauty if you tried. Your eyes fall to her full lips, done in a red that is somehow both tasteful and severe, as she continues, “The good ideas in this firm come from me, idealism has no business here, and pluck will get you thrown out a window.”
She stands up behind the desk, taller than you imagined, in a cream-colored silk blouse and a black pencil skirt that frames a figure honed by years of horseback riding. According to her profile on the firm’s website, she is an accomplished equestrienne – it actually says “equestrienne” – and as you waited for her arrival you stared at a framed photo of her, in jodhpurs and high black boots, smiling calmly beside a prize stallion, its reins and a trophy held in her gloved hands. It was all you could do not to touch the picture.
She picks up the resume over which you slaved for an hour, choosing every word, the paper, and even the clip so very carefully, and holds it up with a sneer of contempt. “This was a lovely piece of fiction. I’ve not seen this kind of padded and inflated sophomoric bullshit in years. You are grossly unqualified, barely experienced, and full of the kind of pie-in-the-sky self-delusion that makes me want to hire you for the sole purpose of firing you and watching security frog-march you out of the building.”
You can feel your cheeks growing hot and tears beginning to well as she speaks. It’s all you can do not to whimper as she tosses the resume onto the floor like something riddled with disease. Your lips part as you fight to find the words to express your shame and humiliation – you don’t know whether to apologize for wasting her time or beg her to stop.
“Shut your mouth,” she snaps, and your lips close tightly. She points at the useless scraps of high-grade paper on the carpet. “That is of no interest to me. This, however,” she picks up a thin sheaf of papers from the leather desk blotter. “This interested me very much.”
Your brow furrows slightly as you have no idea what the papers are. You hang onto the armrests for dear life, fighting the trembling that threatens to wrack your body from head to toe.
“You were asked to provide your Facebook password, which you did with amazing alacrity,” she trains that gaze upon you again, and you feel chills and heat coursing through you in waves. “It’s a patent violation of your privacy and if you had an inch of backbone you’d have refused, but you did it anyway. No doubt you felt that there was no harm in revealing the details of your perfectly ordinary life, and perfectly ordinary it is. Full of favorite TV shows and outings with children. Boring. Drearily pedestrian.
“The thing is that I pride myself in being a student of human nature, and in my experience the more ordinary one’s public face is, the more likely it is that there is a private persona that acts out all those darker impulses we keep inside.” Her gaze sharpens, like icicles. “I have an entire department full of homely men who live with their parents, whose job it is to pry people’s secrets from the wilds of cyberspace. I set them on the trail of your other activities on the Internet, and that’s where they found your alias. All in lower case. On a site with black pages and absolutely filthy advertisements. You, my dear, are quite the little pervert.”
If it were possible for you to spontaneously combust into a pile of ashes and shame, you would do so at this very moment.
She watches you as the tremors come, unbidden and unstoppable, and as the tears blur your vision you swear you can hear her purr low in her throat. “Quit your sniveling,” she says sharply as if her tone could command anything but. “Stand up.”
You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and look down at yourself. You’ve stood without realizing it. You begin to raise your eyes but get only as far as the knee-high boots with stiletto heels she is wearing as she comes around the desk. They stop before you, transfixing your gaze with their dark gleam, and you hear her voice again, soft but resounding through you like a thunderclap. “Were I confronted with a person of any ability or worth whatsoever, I would administer an aptitude test at this point. Since I am instead burdened with you, I’ll make it very simple. All you have to do is bend over the back of that chair, hold onto the armrests, and don’t let go.” She lifts your chin with a knuckle, penetrates you with her eyes. Her voice drips with condescension as she says, “Even a stupid little cunt like you can manage that, can’t you?”
Your mouth opens, soundless with shock, both at her words and the sudden flood of heat and moisture between your legs. It only takes a moment of searching her eyes to realize her deadly seriousness, and then you are fumbling like a marionette with strings cut to navigate around to the back of the chair. You lean forward, your hands gripping the arms of the chair so that your head is down and your ass elevated, and you try to remember how to breathe.
“Obedience. Good,” she murmurs. You hear a desk drawer open and close, and then you can sense her circling slowly, like a predator. “But with more hesitation than I’d like.” Suddenly there is a swish of cut air and a sharp thud and the backs of your thighs are burning. You cry out in startled pain. Whatever she’s just used to hit you, the trousers of your pantsuit were little proof against it. You clench your teeth and hold on tightly to the chair arms.
“You see, what I value most in a subordinate, and what I need in an assistant, are competence and blind obedience. I should only have to give an instruction once and expect it to be followed to the letter. Usually I hire my assistants for their abilities, and usually, they’ll do for a relatively short time before the thought occurs to them that they somehow deserve better than this job.” You feel her hand moving slowly over your raised ass and a fresh wave of wetness rushes into your panties. “But that’s not likely to be a problem with you, is it?”
Swish thud and a second line of agony scorch across the globes of your bottom. You whimper, your hips pressing hard against the back of the chair. “No, Ma’am,” you gasp.
“This is a place of business, girl. My name,” she snaps, laying another burning stripe across your ass, “is ‘Miss Shaw.’ Try again.”
“No,” you breathe raggedly, “Miss Shaw.” Your knuckles are white as the grip the chair arms.
“Better.” You feel her slender hand sliding over your left hip and around to the front, and your breath catches in your throat as her fingers work the fastener of your pants. “I should have been combing that website of yours for years. The moment I read your profile and your sick list of fetishes, I knew that you were just what I needed: a submissive lesbian who craves humiliation and pain, someone who not only will do exactly what I need to be done under the threat of my displeasure, but who will allow me to express that displeasure physically.” She yanks your pants down hard and they fall in a black puddle around your ankles. The cold air from the wall vents wafts across your naked legs, raising goosebumps. You’ve never felt so exposed, inside or out, in your life.
You feel the caress of braided leather up the back of your thigh and you realize what she’s holding – a riding crop, probably the same one tucked under her arm in her photo. You shudder, your hair sweeping the seat of the chair as your head hangs between your arms. The thought of letting go, standing up, saying “no” is as far from your mind as another galaxy.
“Understand this,” and she calls you by your alias, her voice only with contempt, “I am not a lesbian. I am not a fetishist or a ‘kinkster.’ And while I’ve been called a sadist behind my back, this is not how I get my gratification. But you wish I was all those things, don’t you, you twisted little bitch?”
This time the crop lands with a sharp crack of leather on flesh, and you scream as the searing on your thighs sends fireworks exploding behind your eyes. “Yes, Miss Shaw!” you sob. “God, yes!”
Suddenly you feel her hand clamp hard between your legs, pressing against the soaking crotch of your panties. “Pathetic,” she murmurs and peels your underwear away and down until they’re a rolled, sopping bunch around your knees. Your ass and drenched pussy are exposed to the air and your hips roll involuntarily, aching to be touched and used. “Weak.”
And then the crop is a storm, lashing across your ass and thighs again and again furiously, her whole body behind each blow as it lands, stripping skin, scorching flesh, a symphony of pain that you match with your screams. Your hands and arms ache from holding on as your backside becomes a wildfire from your ass to your knees.
And then just as abruptly it stops. You collapse over the back of the chair, unable to feel your fingers on the armrests, gasping for breath as your bottom and legs throb. Behind you she is breathing hard as well from her exertions. She steps back, surveying the mass of welts crisscrossing your flesh, and tosses the crop onto the desk. Then she is moving, back behind her desk. You raise your head slowly, blinking through your tears and peering through the ragged, sweat-drenched curtain of your hair to see her standing before her bay window with its magnificent view of the city. She is composed and cool and, as she turns her head slightly to reveal her profile, achingly beautiful.
“I arrive at the office promptly at 9 in the morning,” she says. “I take my coffee black and expect it on my desk when I sit down.”
You pick yourself up slowly, every movement pure agony, and begin pulling up your panties.
“Yes, Miss Shaw.”
Last Updated on 1 year by pseudonymous