Read an Excerpt
I came to consciousness slowly, my head swimming. Where was I? Dim red light, a narrow space, and the sense of walls going up high around me. I was lying naked, face down on a narrow convex black leather slab, unable to move my arms more than an inch, same with the legs. My arse was bare and felt squeezed up tight. Yes, broad leather belts were tied tightly below the cheeks, forcing them out. I felt thoroughly exposed, defenceless. But of course that was the whole idea.
I heard Michael, my CEO, going crisply through his summation of my failure to clinch the deal with the Chinese. I’d got too cocky, hadn’t done my research properly, had relied on my reputation as an infallible negotiator; in short, I needed to learn a little humility. “Humility” was Michael’s buzzword now. In the global recessionary climate we had to shed our rapacious image and come over all understanding, empathy, sensitivity, greenness, ethics – bah!
To that end I was sent on a company-sponsored “humility fostering” course. But this was no ordinary sitting round the campfire, yawning before the whiteboard type thing. It was an open secret that Michael was a sex fetishist, an inveterate lover of spanking. He’d helped design the course which was run at a secret location in the south of France. And it had been tough. I hated to be subjected to any circumstances I couldn’t control. But I’d braved it out, I’d submitted, endured everything thrown at me. Worst of all, though, was that I was beginning to enjoy the spanking, but we were closely monitored day and night, even in bed, and there was no opportunity to deal with the massive build-up of horniness accumulated in the last week. Though today was my last day – if indeed it was day; it was impossible to tell where I was on the clock.
I was getting hot. I pressed myself into the leather slab, but my bonds wouldn’t allow for any more movement. I had to stop thinking about sex. But it was impossible. I’d been surrounded by gorgeous men all week, sleek, muscled, handsome. The director, or “headmaster” of the “school” was the hottest of the lot. And what a shock he’d delivered at our first “interview”.
He was behind a clinical-looking desk, plying me with questions about my work, my past, my goals, my “attitude” – and Christ, how I hate that word. Suddenly the door had opened and a tall, unsmiling blonde, a member of “security”, had entered and stood behind my chair. This became increasingly irritating, especially as the Head was insisting on teasing out personal things from my past. So invasive that I was forced to invent. Suddenly the chair was whirled round and the guard was glaring at me.
‘That isn’t true. Liar!’
‘And how would you know, sergeant?’
Before I knew it my face was squashed against the Head’s desk, my arms forced up my back.
‘Liar! We don’t like liars here!’
Skirt and panties were pulled down with one hand while her foot spread my legs. The Head spoke.
‘Before we proceed I’m obliged to remind you that you’re free to leave the school at any moment. You understand?’
I understood. I’ll get you for this, Michael, I promised myself grimly. If I left the course I’d lose my position at the company. I couldn’t let that happen.