Chapter 65 Brent

I search for the words. How can I tell her? How can I admit that Brent is the one who gives me the command to look at these sites while I am at work, that every morning he puts me over his lap, spanks me, slips his hands between my legs, fingers me until I’m right on the edge of an intense orgasm and then leaves me, panting and sweaty with my clit throbbing, and sends me off to work on trembling legs? That throughout the day I receive emails from him with links he orders me to look at – and that an order from my fiancé is an order I can’t refuse? That by the time I get home each night, I’m so frenzied that I’ll do anything – anything – he demands if he’ll just put me over his lap, spank me again, and finger me until I come, sobbing with pleasure? And that each night I do anything – anything – he orders me to, just to get him to do that? “It’s my fault,” I say. “I know it’s my fault.” “I see. Do you see yourself as the spanked or the spankee?” Her lips are curled with contempt, as if she already knows the answer. I know that she does: sometimes I feel like people can see it in my eyes. How could anyone look at me and not know what I want? My voice is shaking. “I’m . . . I’m submissive,” I blurt out, surprised to hear myself say the words. “That’s what I thought.” She glances over to the computer. “I see you like to be spanked by men,” she says. “But also women. Many of these are lesbian sites,” she says. “Girls punishing other girls.” I nod, my head spinning. “What’s your fiancé’s name?” “Brent,” I say. “Brent Martinsen. He’s an artist.” “Yes,” says Carrie brusquely. “I know all about Brent Martinsen’s filthy art. Is Brent your Master, or does he just spank you? Or do you just do everything he says?” “He’s – I–I do everything he says.” “So it’s just that he thinks women should be bossed around and disciplined by men, is that right?” “Um,” I say. “He . . . he thinks I should.” “But some women boss other women around, don’t they?” says Carrie icily. Perhaps she can see me shiver; maybe she sees the flicker in my eyes, the heat that pulses between my legs. “Yes,” I say. “Some women are . . . some women are bosses.” “And some women discipline other women, don’t they?” My head is swimming, my thoughts disordered. “Yes,” I say softly. “And what do you think about that?” I’m so turned on I can barely speak. I was already turned on from the porn sites, but being forced to confess my lifestyle to my boss is more than I can take. My nipples are very hard. They show right through my silk top. I have to push my thighs together to prevent myself from dripping on Carrie’s chair, especially since Brent doesn’t allow me to wear panties. “Yes,” I say. “Sometimes women punish other women.” Carrie looks satisfied. “I think what you did on company time certainly merits punishment, doesn’t it?” Her eyes narrow. “It warrants disciplinary action.” I look up at her, the humiliation washing over me. “Yes,” I tell her. She leans back in her chair. “Why don’t you lock the door.” My eyes are wide; this can’t be happening. I’ve only been here for three weeks. I get up and do it, locking the door to Carrie’s office and turning back to her, standing nervously on my high-heeled shoes. I’ve never gotten the hang of wearing the shoes that Brent insists on; I like the way I look, but I’m always stumbling and tripping like an idiot. Carrie makes a gesture with her hand. “Go ahead,” she says. “Take them off.” “I’m sorry?” I ask. “Your clothes,” she says. “All of them.” “I–I can’t do that,” I says. “He —” “Do you want me to call his cell phone?” asks Carrie. “And tell him you’re about to lose your job if you don’t take all your clothes off right now?” My heart pounds. I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like a dream; maybe that’s why I’m able to do it. I unbutton my shirt and slip it off, ashamed of the way my large breasts are peaked by hard nipples that show my arousal right through the transparent mesh bra. My nipples are dark circles, aching against the thin mesh. My hands hang limp at my sides. “All of them,” she says. I drape my blouse over the arm of the chair and unclasp my bra. My breasts feel sweaty, cooling in the breeze from the air conditioner. Again, I hesitate. “I said all of them,” growls Carrie. My hands shaking, I unzip my short skirt. I slide it down my legs and it pools on the floor around my ankles. I step out of it, tottering more uncomfortably than ever on my four-inch heels now that I’m otherwise naked. Carrie leans forward and peers at my body. “Come around,” she says, leaning back. My face goes red hot. She’s seen it. I am so humiliated I can barely walk. But I manage to come around the side of Carrie’s desk and stand there while she inspects me, her eyes focusing on the place just above my sex, where my pubic hair would be if I wasn’t shaved. “You lied to me,” she says sternly. “I – I know.” “He’s your Master, isn’t he?” I nod. “Yes.” “You should have told me straight off,” says Carrie. “Now that we’ve gone this far, you’re going to be in quite a bit of trouble if I spank you, aren’t you?” I take a deep breath. “I – I don’t know.” Carrie leans forward a bit more, her finger coming to rest on the tattoo just above my sex. She traces the single word there, in ornate script: SLAVE. “Well, that’s not my concern,” says Carrie. She leans back again, pushing the chair forward so that her legs, smooth with nude-colored stockings, brush against mine. “Get over my knee.” Fear strikes me. Brent would never allow me to be spanked by another woman – to play with another woman, it’s called euphemistically enough without his permission. I can’t let Carrie take me over her knee. I just can’t. “Please,” I blurt out, but Carrie snaps her fingers. “I have the power to fire you right now, Juliette,” she says. “Would you rather I do that?” I shake my head, then nervously drape myself over Carrie’s lap.