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)
The sun was setting now, painting the apartment in shades of gold and pink. I should eat something, I told myself. Take a shower. Do something, anything, to stop this endless cycle of need.
But when I stood to go to the kitchen, my legs were shaking. My panties were soaked through, the delicate lace clinging uncomfortably to my bare, wet pussy. I needed to change, at least. That would be acceptable, wouldn’t it? Simply changing into something dry?
I made my way to the bedroom, acutely aware of the cameras tracking my movement. The walk-in closet held my meager wardrobe, but when I opened the built-in dresser, I found it already stocked with new items. More lingerie, all in delicate pastels and black lace. Sleepwear that consisted of sheer baby dolls and tiny shorts. Thankfully whoever had prepared the apartment had put my own underwear in the drawer, along with the simple white nightgown that had featured in so many episodes of my own humiliating stream on NMB.
I pulled out the familiar white cotton panties with their tiny blue flowers—so innocent compared to the lace I currently wore. The simple nightgown felt like armor as I changed quickly, trying not to think about invisible eyes watching me undress. The cotton was soft against my skin, a relief after the day’s elaborate lingerie.
Back in the living room, I scrolled through the entertainment options on the large wall-mounted screen. A romantic comedy seemed safe—something light and distracting. I settled into the sofa as the opening credits rolled, but within minutes my mind began to wander.
What would Scott do if he walked through that door right now? The thought came unbidden, making my breath catch. He’d probably shake his head at my plain nightgown, tell me it was inappropriate for his intern. He’d make me change into one of those sheer baby dolls from the closet, the pink one perhaps, barely covering anything. He’d sit right here on this sofa and have me kneel between his legs, those strong hands tangling in my hair as he guided my mouth onto him…
A sharp, unfamiliar alarm pierced the air. I jumped, my handheld buzzing insistently on the coffee table. The screen displayed a red warning of a kind I hadn’t seen before:
Behavioral Alert: High arousal detected. Physical indicators suggest imminent violation of Personal Conduct Policy 3.7. Please review employee handbook immediately.
My face burned with mortification. They weren’t just watching—they were monitoring my body’s responses. Ugh. Of course. The perineal sensor. I hadn’t thought about the thing in months: installed between my thighs to ‘optimize my responsiveness’ with Jacob when they had put us on NMB.
“No, no, no,” I whispered, clutching the handheld. Sharon must know. She’d probably received an alert that I was sitting here getting wet just thinking about Scott. The humiliation was overwhelming, but worse, it only intensified the ache in my core.
I forced myself to focus on the romantic comedy, but the cheerful banter between the leads felt hollow. My body refused to calm down. Every shift against the sofa cushions reminded me of how sensitive I’d become, how desperately I needed release. The cotton panties, which should have felt safe and familiar, were already growing damp.
I had to do something, get control of the situation somehow. A wild thought came to me, and I started acting on it before I could chicken out.
I fumbled with my handheld, opening the app with shaking fingers. There had to be some way to handle this officially, some protocol. And there it was—a discreet icon labeled ‘Personal Request Form.’ My heart pounded as I tapped it.
The form that appeared was mortifyingly specific. ‘Request for Self-Pleasure Permission’ read the header, followed by fields for ‘Current Arousal Level (1–10),’ ‘Time Since Last Orgasm,’ and ‘Reason for Request.’ My face burned as I filled it out, selecting ‘9’ for arousal level, typing ‘three hours’ for the time field, and hesitating over the reason.
‘Unable to concentrate due to physical need,’ I finally typed, then hit submit before I could lose my nerve.
The response came almost immediately. My insides quivered as I read:
Ms. Whitcomb,
Effective immediately, Scott Yellen has assumed direct supervision of your probationary period. All personal requests should be directed to him, in particular when they concern your needy pussy.
Sharon Fagan
I stared at the message, my whole body going hot and cold at once. Scott was in charge of me now? In charge of… everything? The implication made my stomach clench with a mixture of dread and that shameful excitement I couldn’t suppress.
Did that mean I had to ask him? Ask Scott for permission to touch myself? The thought was so mortifying I wanted to sink through the floor. But the ache between my legs had become almost painful, a throbbing need that demanded attention.
Before I could decide what to do, my handheld chimed again. Scott’s name appeared on the screen, and my heart nearly stopped.