Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“No, thank you,” I said again. My voice was smaller this time. The steadiness had cracked.
CHAPTER 5
Anne
Penelope took the tablet gently from my hands. She set it aside with a careful, deliberate motion, and when she looked at me again, the warmth in her expression had entirely vanished. Her eyes had grown cold, but I could also see resignation there—the look of a woman who had arrived at a destination she’d known was coming and wished she hadn’t.
“Anne,” she said, and sighed. The sigh was long and slow and carried the weight of genuine regret. “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
Penelope picked up the tablet again, and tapped through a few menus as I felt my heart begin to race and my forehead developed a deep crease. She handed the device back to me.
This time I saw a document I recognized—the employment contract I’d signed my first day, thick with clauses and sub-clauses in language I’d skimmed too quickly because Yolanda had told me it was all standard. Penelope had scrolled to a page near the end.
“Section fourteen, clause seven, subsection B,” she said quietly. “Read it.”
I looked down. The text swam for a moment before my eyes focused.
In the event that an Employee refuses a lawful assignment as designated by their direct supervisor or other authorized representative of the Corporation, the Employee may be subject to corrective disciplinary action, including but not limited to corporal punishment administered in accordance with Selecta Corporate Governance Policy 14.7, prior to the processing of any resignation or termination request. The Employee acknowledges that such disciplinary action is a condition of the employment agreement and consents to its administration as a prerequisite to separation from the Corporation.
I read it twice. The words didn’t change.
“You signed it,” Penelope said. There was no satisfaction in her voice. Her voice sounded measured, as if she were fascinated by the problem of my failure to comply. “I have to paddle you, Anne. Before I can process your resignation—if that’s what you decide—this has to happen. It’s policy, for a very good reason: it gives girls like you a chance to think hard about their choices.”
The tears came before I could stop them. They welled up hot and sudden and spilled down my cheeks, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound that came with them—not a sob, exactly, but something close. A whimper. The sound of a girl who had walked into a building eight weeks ago thinking she was going to answer phones and take notes and instead had ended up here, in this office, being told she was going to be paddled by her boss for refusing to model anal-access lingerie on a streaming platform.
I remembered how Yolanda had said that everyone knew about it, and heard stories about it. I remembered how that girl Trina in data entry had gotten paddled. I felt stupid, but I really hadn’t ever let myself believe it could happen to me.
“I know,” Penelope said gently. “I know. Come here. Let’s get this over with.”
She stood and moved around the desk, and I watched through blurred eyes as she cleared a space on its surface—moving the folder, the contract, a crystal paperweight—with the efficiency of someone who had done this before. The thought made me cry harder.
“Bend over the desk, Anne.”
I stood. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. I walked the three steps to the desk and leaned forward, placing my forearms on the cool wood surface, and the posture—the submission of it, the vulnerability—sent a shock through me that was equal parts terror and something else, something I refused to name.
“Raise your skirt.”
My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the fabric. I reached back and pulled the hem of my knee-length skirt up over my hips, bunching it at my waist. The air of the office touched the bare skin of my thighs above my stocking tops and I shivered.
“And your panties,” Penelope said. “Pull them down.”
A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear—the white cotton ones with the small blue polka dots that I’d put on that morning because they were cheerful and comfortable and because I’d had no idea, no conceivable idea, that anyone would see them today—and pushed them down. They slid over my hips, over the curve of my bottom, and came to rest at mid-thigh. The elastic caught slightly against my skin, and I felt the cool air touch everything—the heated skin of my bare bottom, the backs of my thighs, and the place between my legs where I knew, with a certainty that made me want to die, that I was visibly, unmistakably wet.
The silence behind me lasted two seconds. Three. Long enough for Penelope to see. Long enough for her to look.