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)
“I’ve been to all those places,” Scott said, leaning back in his chair. “Multiple times, actually. Rome is extraordinary—the history, the art, the food. And Florence…” He smiled, a real smile that transformed his face. “The Uffizi Gallery alone is worth the trip. I’d love to show you the Botticellis there. The Birth of Venus in person is nothing like seeing it in books.”
My heart skipped at his casual assumption that he might take me there someday. “You would?”
“Of course. A mind like yours would appreciate the layers of meaning in Renaissance art. The way beauty and sensuality were celebrated even within religious contexts.” His eyes held mine. “And then there’s the food. In Rome, there’s a little osteria in Trastevere, just across the Tiber from the main tourist areas. They make the simplest, most delicious spaghetti cacio e pepe. I think you’d love it.”
I found myself leaning forward, caught up in his descriptions. For a moment, I could almost forget the belt between my legs, the constant ache of need. “It sounds wonderful.”
“It is. Perhaps after this project wraps up, we could arrange something. Selecta has offices in Rome—it wouldn’t be difficult to justify a business trip.”
The casual way he suggested it, as if taking me to Italy was perfectly normal, made my chest tight with an emotion I didn’t want to name. We continued eating, and he told me more about his travels—the Christmas markets in Vienna, the beaches of the Amalfi Coast, the museums of Madrid. I found myself relaxing despite everything, drawn into his stories.
When he brought out dessert—panna cotta with raspberry coulis—his expression changed again. I swallowed hard as I saw his dominance come into his eyes and knew myself to be its object.
“I want to discuss a new initiative with you,” he said, setting a perfect white dome in front of me. “Are you familiar with Melissa Mitropoulos?”
“The name sounds familiar,” I said. “She’s in Communications, maybe?”
I tried to keep my spoon steady as I took a small bite of the panna cotta, the creamy sweetness melting on my tongue.
“She was. She runs our alternative content division now,” Scott explained, watching me carefully. “Melissa has been developing something called Her Secret Garden—a different approach to the same footage we use for standard NMB programming. It’s meant to help submissive women understand and articulate their needs more clearly.”
My breath caught. “A different approach?”
“The same scenes, but reframed through the woman’s perspective. Emphasizing her pleasure in submission rather than just her training.” He paused, letting that sink in. “I’ve decided to assign you to work directly with Melissa on refining the concept. Your unique perspective—having lived through New Modesty yourself but also possessing analytical skills—makes you ideal for the project.”
The implications made my head spin. Working on content that celebrated female submission rather than just documenting it? “When would I start?”
“Tomorrow. But first, I want to show you what Melissa’s team has done with the footage you’ve been studying.” He stood, extending his hand. “Come. We’ll be more comfortable in the viewing room.”
I followed him on unsteady legs to a spacious area dominated by a massive screen and a leather sofa. I was about to sit, when I heard Scott’s voice behind me, his tone hard and authoritative.
“Take off your dress, Grace.”
I turned to look at him, my eyes widening. The command hung in the air between us. My fingers moved to the tie of the wrap dress before I could second-guess myself, pulling it loose. The silk fell away, pooling around me on the carpet. I stood there in just the belt and my black stockings, my skin prickling with goosebumps despite the apartment’s warmth.
Scott settled onto the leather sofa, his eyes dark with intention as he patted his thigh. “Stand here, inside my knees.”
I moved forward on trembling legs, hyperaware of my near-nakedness, of the way his gaze traveled over my body with possessive satisfaction. When I stood directly in front of him, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, he pulled out his phone.
“Time to remove this,” he murmured, and I heard the soft beep as the belt’s lock disengaged. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he unfastened the clasps, drawing the leather away from my flesh. The cool air against my soaked, swollen pussy made me gasp, my knees nearly buckling from the sensation after hours of confinement.
“Look at you,” Scott breathed, his fingers tracing along my inner thighs where my arousal had leaked past the belt’s edges, leaving my skin sticky and glistening. “Absolutely drenched. Turn around, and bend forward a little.”
I obeyed, my face burning as I presented my bottom to him. His hands spread my cheeks, examining me with that clinical thoroughness that somehow made everything more mortifying.
“Your pretty little asshole is clenching already,” he observed, running a finger over the sensitive pucker. “Your body knows what’s coming, doesn’t it? But not yet. Sit on my lap, facing the screen.”