Confessions of a Submissive

Confessions of a Submissive

Claire Thompson

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The year is 1961, the location is the private law office of the handsome but very exacting Mr. Stevenson. Innocent secretary Olivia, returning to the work force, finds herself both confused and aroused by Mr. Stevenson’s many rules and punishments for failure to follow those rules to the letter. Olivia is slowly but inexorably drawn into the erotic world of sensual submission at the hands of her boss, who will stop at nothing to claim her for his own.

 

 
PUBLISHED BY: Romance Unbound Publishing
ISBN: 9781439237403
PUBLICATION DATE: 2009
WORD COUNT: 55100
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 5 5 5 5 5
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotica, Romantic Fiction
KEYWORDS: bdsm, D/s, erotica, romance, submssion, Dom, sub, dominance
 

EBOOKS BY Romance Unbound Publishing

EBOOKS BY Claire Thompson

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Claire Thompson/2009

October 23, 1961
I’ve been tempted to take this journal home. Sometimes I write entries in my head, while I’m washing the dishes or doing laundry or whatever. Or later, when Frank and I are lying in bed, the kids finally asleep. I’ll be reading my novel as usual, with Frank beside me watching TV and I’ll get this ridiculous urge to confide in him. To tell him about the crazy things that are happening at work, and get his opinion!

Can you imagine! Frank would divorce me on the spot, or have me locked in the loony bin. Then he’d go threaten Mr. Stevenson with his stupid shotgun. I bet Mr. Stevenson never shot a deer. No, Mr. Stevenson is not the hunting type—at least not of animals.

I bite my tongue though. I don’t say a word, of course. Nothing about my jumble of confused feelings. Nothing about the peculiar arousal I feel when that ruler taps against my chair and I sense Mr. Stevenson’s strong, quiet presence behind me.

Mr. Stevenson’s right. It would be stupid to leave this journal lying around at home. Beyond stupid. Dangerous. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Stevenson knows what I’m writing in here. If he knows that I think he looks like Gregory Peck, and that I get all excited and squirmy when he smacks my bottom!

But he doesn’t read it. At least he hasn’t yet. Maybe I really do have the only key to my desk drawers. I know he hasn’t read it so far because I’ve been doing like they do in those detective novels. I put a strand of my hair very carefully across the cover of the journal.

You couldn’t really see it unless you were looking for it. And it hasn’t been moved. That makes me feel safer, I suppose. These words are just for me.

Well, Friday afternoon was amazing. I didn’t incur any additional infractions that day, except one. I think if the truth be told that Mr. Stevenson manufactured that particular infraction in order to increase my punishment. It was during dictation and I swear he said “confidant” but he said no, it was supposed to be “confidence”.

After lecturing me about being precise in legal documents he said, “Infraction number three.”

It was very hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t do much of anything at all from three-thirty to four o’clock, except check my face in my compact, reapply my lipstick and powder, adjust my stockings, go to the bathroom, fluff my hair. It was like I was going for an audition or on a blind date!

When four o’clock arrived, I wasn’t sure if I was just supposed to go in there and bend over or if he was going to come get me. I sat there for about a minute when I heard him call from his office,

“Olivia.” That’s it. Just…Olivia. The door was ajar so I walked in, feeling like I was heading into the principal’s office after being caught with cigarettes.

He was sitting at his desk, his pen poised over some document, acting busy. The rat kept looking at his papers, like they were too important to stop reading, even though he was the one who had called me in. I told myself he was just doing that to make me feel more ill at ease—more nervous. More compliant.

Well, it worked! I stood there, trying not to shift and shuffle like a little kid.

Finally, he looked up, as if only suddenly aware that I had entered the room. He looked me slowly up and down. I blushed. I know I did, because I could feel the heat in my face and neck. I tried to stand still—to act calm and collected, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. And Mr. Stevenson was every bit as handsome as Gregory Peck in that movie. So dashing!

I actually had a sudden fantasy of rushing over and kissing him, right on the mouth! Of course, I didn’t! He’d probably have fired me on the spot. I do not believe my crush on Mr. Stevenson is returned. At least not in a schoolboy kind of a way, all gushy and nervous like me. No, he is far too calm and collected for that sort of behavior.
Mr. Stevenson is into control.

He stood up and walked over to the leather couch on the far wall
from his desk. He sat down and took his ruler, that ever-present ruler, from the arm of the couch where he’d obviously placed it before, in anticipation of my “punishment”.

“Come here, Olivia. How many infractions today?” Like he didn’t know.

“Three, Sir,” I answered, knowing he would count the confidence/confidant dispute.

“That’s correct. For your convenience, I will reiterate the rules of punishment. First infraction—ten strikes—over the skirt or on the knuckles. Second infraction, it becomes twenty. Third infraction, you get to choose. Thirty strokes of the ruler over your skirt. Or you can choose to only get ten but because of the reduced number, those ten will be under the skirt. Over the panties, but under the skirt.”

Well! I pressed my lips together, pretending to weigh my options, but I’d already decided. If we were going to play this game, I thought, then let’s do it right! I’ll admit something here. I wanted to feel his hand on my bottom. Not my bare bottom! I’m not ready for that. Yet. But the idea of those long, tapered fingers touching my body in such an intimate way, such a dangerous and forbidden way, was somehow deeply exciting to me.

Trying to sound calm I responded, “Ten, under the skirt.”

He actually raised his eyebrows, as if he were surprised by my choice. “Very well. Take off the skirt. It’s too narrow to hike up.”

And I did it! Mrs. Old Married Woman unzipped her skirt and laid it carefully over a chair. I stood there in my girdle and underpants, feeling very self-conscious indeed! Though I feel kind of sorry for his wife—look what he’s doing behind her back—in a way knowing that he’s married makes me more comfortable. He’s obviously seen a woman in this state of undress many times before. Probably doesn’t even think twice about it. He looked me over while the heat crept up my cheeks as usual and he said, “I don’t like girdles. Why do slender women like you wear girdles?”

Well, I liked that he called me slender! But married or not, he obviously didn’t know much about women’s undergarments. “To hold up my stockings, of course,” I snapped, and then bit my lip, worried I had sounded “impertinent”.

He let it pass, answering, “There are much nicer ways to do that, Olivia. Next Monday on your lunch hour, you will go to Slone’s Dress Shop in the village and you will pick up a package that I will have them prepare for you. It will be in my name at the counter. You will not wear a girdle again in my presence, once you have the garters that will be waiting for you. Understood?”

The man was buying me underwear! Instead of slapping him in the face and quitting again, I nodded. Garters! I was going to dress like a common whore for this man who was my boss. I knew I was going to do it and I’ll admit here, the notion excited me! I would wear these sexy, harlot garter belts at work!

He drew me back to the matter at hand. “Come here and bend over my lap.” I did, feeling awkward and sort of ridiculous, a grown woman balancing over a man’s knee in her girdle and stockings!

But I did it.

Thwack! He smacked me really hard. Much harder than the little taps I’d been getting up until then. “Ouch!” I yelled involuntarily.

“Come now. This is nothing. Take it like a true submissive, Olivia. Silently.” Again he smacked me, and I managed not to yelp out loud though I did kind of grunt. I mean, it stung, even through the rubbery fabric of the girdle and my panties. Imagine it on bare skin! Eight more times, covering my entire bottom.

Here’s the really weird thing.

The secret thing.
 

 
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