Beginnings: Chapter 3 - Model Answers - Sex Stories

Beginnings: Chapter 3 - Model Answers

I arrived home utterly exhausted after my first full day at Berman Bruce. I went straight to my bedroom and closed the door. I popped open the side button of my skirt, lowered the zip, cautiously eased the tight material over my bottom and allowed it to fall to the floor. The cheeks of my bottom were still smarting fiercely; a burning reminder of my disobedience. I positioned myself in front of the full length mirror and turned around. I caught my breath sharply as I saw the livid marks which Veronica’s hand had left on the cheeks of my bottom. My fingers moved down and then tentatively onto the tender flesh, releasing another sudden, exhilarating, searing pain which caused me to bite my bottom lip hard. It was clear to me that Veronica had intended to leave a painful and lasting reminder of her words, and her authority, and she had. Something inside of me had begun to change, I knew, and I could no longer ignore it. Wild waves of unfamiliar feelings and emotions were building and drawing my body and its desires into uncharted waters. My first instinct upon seeing the smarting marks on my bottom were that I ought to be feeling ashamed. I began to realize, however, that I had lived all of my life to that point, in the overbearing shadow of an unseen mistress called guilt, and that she was now endeavoring to call me to obedience once more. She was all I had ever known. But where, I began to ask myself, had my faceless mistress ever taken me? The answer, of course, was ...

... nowhere that I felt I belonged. That fact, however, I knew would not prevent her trying unless and until I could finally exert the kind of control over her that I had felt Veronica exercise over me. I needed to change, but where to begin? When I entered the reception at Berman Bruce the following morning, Helen Swan was busy trying to impose her presence. Dressed in a navy blue trouser suit and black heels, her sleek black hair was held obediently in an officious-looking chignon, and she was moving around the reception area like some kind of supercilious queen bee. She was one of those people whose face seemed to evade every attempt to place an accurate age on it, but I suspected that she was probably around thirty years old. It was clear from the thinly-veiled looks on the faces of the staff in the reception area that Helen Swan’s self-important and smug manner was tolerated for the sole reason that she occupied a door with a plate which included the words ‘Office Administrator’. From behind the reception desk, our eyes met and I immediately sensed a frosty hostility. As I walked past her, I continued to observe her discreetly as she began to berate the receptionist for how untidy her work area was, in an unnecessarily superior tone. Out of nowhere the word ‘bitch’ entered my head. Just as I pressed the button for the lift, the doors slid open and Veronica stepped out, looking immaculately presented in a light, white skirt suit with an exquisitely scalloped jacket. My heart rate ...