I was lying.
I can admit it here, because nobody but me will ever see this.
This is my secret.
I did know what he meant. I don’t mean I could articulate it. I’m still not sure I can, but there’s something. God, it’s embarrassing even to write it here, where no one can see it, but I did know what he meant.
When Mr. Stevenson checks my work my heart starts pounding, and I wait on tenterhooks to see what he’ll do. Always that ruler, tap, tap, tapping against his thigh while he reads, carefully, looking—hoping?—for an error, a mistake, something out of place, something missing, so he can say, his voice serious, “Olivia, you’ve made an error. Come here, and I’ll show you.” Carefully he points it out, that perfectly manicured fingernail glinting against the misspelled word or an incorrect usage. Calmly, he’ll say, “Olivia, hold out your hand.”
Thwack!
Oh, it smarts when he hits my hand. I’ve tried it different ways, palm up, palm down. I think palm up is easier to take, but he must know this too because he’ll hit me harder when I offer my palm.
Okay, I’m getting to it. I’m just going to write this and maybe it will help me understand. Mr. Stevenson says sometimes you know a thing, even when you don’t know you know it. What he meant, and what I understood but couldn’t express, was that I liked what he did to me.
There, I wrote it here, and now I’m blushing, even though I’m sitting here all alone. It isn’t just his hand on my thigh or that lovely compelling voice or his good looks. It’s everything. The ruler, the stern expression, the exacting requirements that always keep me on my toes.
Mr. Stevenson went to lunch on the stroke of one, just like always. He goes home to lunch with Mrs. Stevenson, I suppose. I’ve never asked. I would never ask about his personal life and he never asks about mine.
And I’m still sitting here.
“You need discipline, Olivia,” he said, smiling a little. “I sensed that in you the moment we met. You’ve never been disciplined because you’re smart and you’re used to getting away with things because of that. But I can see through it. I know who you are—I know what you are. And I’m going to teach you to understand. Little by little, but trust me, you will learn. I’ve been very careful with you up until now, testing the waters, you might say.
“But you’ve forced my hand with this absurd resignation letter.” As he spoke, he tore it up. He actually tore it up into tiny pieces, letting them flutter to the ground. “I won’t let you go.” He stared at me for a moment, his stern expression softening. In an almost gentle tone, he said, “I need you, Olivia. Forgive my presumption, but you need me too. You need what I offer you.”
I stared back at him, not giving him a lick of help. But inside, my brain was in a jumble, my gut in a clench. I did need what he offered, whatever the hell it was he was offering.
Then he took my breath with his next remark. “You, Olivia, are going to become my submissive. You will belong to me so completely you will never again even contemplate the thought of leaving me. Ever. Do you understand?”
He actually said that. All of it. I remember what people say. Mr. Stevenson says it’s a useful quality, as I can recall exact words that were spoken when he has me sit in on some of his meetings, even without consulting my notes.
Submissive.
I looked it up later. It isn’t even a noun, but he uses it as if it were. To submit, “To yield oneself to the authority or will of another. To surrender. To permit oneself to be subjected to something.”
“I have come to value you,” he went on and then he told me he was giving me a twenty percent raise, right there on the spot, effective immediately. He said he wasn’t trying to buy me off, but that he wanted to demonstrate in some tangible way how much he valued me.
Well, I pretended that that was what swayed me and I don’t mind saying that Frank will be pretty happy about it. But in truth, it wasn’t the money. It was the way he said he valued me. The sincerity in his voice and how handsome he looked as he said it. And the way he tore up the letter, like some movie with Gregory Peck—he even looks a little like Gregory Peck. It was very dramatic.
Okay, okay, I’m not being totally honest. As usual. It was also the ruler and all that it implies. I like the ruler—the discipline and the thinly veiled sexual overtones. It makes me aroused. And the way he talked about me belonging to him. I’m not even sure what all he meant, but I got a deep little thrill, right down to my toes, when he said it.
I can’t believe I’m writing this. I must be crazy.
Chapter 2
“Oh my god,” Tess breathed, stunned at what she’d been reading. She set down the diary and gazed absently at the sampler Nana had cross-stitched that had hung over the sink in Nana’s kitchen for as long as Tess could remember—“Blessed Are Those Who Clean Up.” Now that was the Nana Tess knew. Funny, homey, down-to-earth. Not a sexual bone in her body. Who the hell was this other woman, this secretary who had a boss with a ruler? A handsome Gregory Peck boss with very “exacting” standards.
And it had happened way back in 1961. People didn’t do stuff like that back then, did they? There was no internet, no postings on personals sites—Stern boss seeks submissive secretary. Must take dictation and spankings.
And yet… And yet, if Tess were honest, as honest as her grandmother was in her diary, were the feelings expressed there really so foreign? Tess, like her grandmother, had as yet unexplored submissive feelings of her own. Her secret fantasies of being held down and “taken” by her lover had remained just that—secret. But they were there.
The idea of working for some guy who was into control… While Tess rejected the idea on the surface, her body was responding otherwise. As bizarre as it was, what she was reading turned her on, even if it was her old Nana who had written the words.
Again she marveled, shaking her head. Her grandmother having submissive thoughts and feelings, all those years ago. It didn’t seem possible. Yet, here were these journals, written in Nana’s neat, precise hand, the blue ink faded on paper yellowed with time.
This Mr. Stevenson… Tess had half a mind to call him back and demand an explanation. And yet, she was the one reading someone else’s most secret thoughts and dreams. This wasn’t any of Tess’s business. She thought of herself as free and liberated, sexually and otherwise. Why should she expect a different set of behaviors for her grandmother, just because she was older and of another generation?
Don’t judge her, Tess warned herself. That was something Nana had often said. “Don’t judge someone just because they don’t think exactly like you do. Until you’ve walked in their shoes, you just have no idea.” Well, she was obviously speaking from experience, wasn’t she?
Tea forgotten, Tess picked up the journal and continued to read.
~*~
October 19, 1961
Frank was tickled pink about the raise. He’s never admitted it, but he didn’t think I had what it took to be a secretary. He use to say the secretarial school I attended after high school was just a front while I went after my “MRS” degree. He never thought I was cut out for much more than changing diapers and making cookies. But money talks, as Frank is fond of saying, and money is telling him now I’m worth something.
Since we had that little talk, Mr. Stevenson has said straight out he’s going to “train” me to behave in a way proper to my station—he actually used those words. The man is something out of a Dickens’ novel.
Things have been moving pretty fast. Maybe a little too fast for me.
Yesterday, when I brought in his coffee, I spilled a little when I set it down. The saucer slipped and the coffee slopped over the edge so that a little got on his precious walnut desktop. I had to go back to the kitchenette to get a dishtowel, and when I returned, he was standing behind his chair, holding that ruler. I felt a twinge in my belly.
“Olivia,” he intoned. “Have you any idea what this desk is worth? It’s been in my family for generations. I can’t have
it being ruined by some careless secretary, now can I?”
“No, sir,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat. He looked so handsome, so stern, standing there, tapping the ruler against the top of his chair.
“You’ve been here long enough to know the rules. But perhaps they need to be spelled out more clearly for you, since you continue to behave in such a cavalier fashion when it comes to precious antiques.”
It was just a drop of coffee, not some federal offense, for heaven’s sake. I actually blurted that out to him, and his whole countenance darkened.
“First rule, Olivia, is that you don’t offer your opinions, unless I ask for them. I am the boss here. You are not. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, looking down as heat seared my cheeks. This was crazy. I knew it, and yet it wasn’t crazy either. Something about it felt so right—so exciting.
Again the tap, tap, tap of that ruler. “Second rule. From now on, first infraction is ten strokes with the ruler. Either on your knuckles or on your bottom. I should warn you that I won’t be using it so lightly anymore. Now that you’re in formal training, your punishments will be real. Repeated infractions will receive escalated punishment. Do I make myself clear?”
“Um…” I hesitated.
“Speak plainly, Olivia. Do not say ‘um.’ You are not a schoolgirl. Do I make myself clear?”
I swallowed. “Well, Mr. Stevenson, not entirely. I mean, are you saying that you plan to, um, use that ruler on my bottom?” I blushed saying this out loud. But he had said it first. I kept going since he just looked at me, his arms folded over that nice broad chest of his. “Is that over the skirt? Is this legal? And if you hit my hand too hard, what if it marks me somehow? My husband might wonder.”
“Your husband is not my concern, Olivia. How you handle yourself at home is entirely your affair. While you are here at the office, you belong to me. If you are concerned that some easily visible possible bruising or mark might be questioned, I would suggest you avail yourself of the second method, that is, your bottom. And yes, first infraction will be over the skirt. After that, we shall see. As to legalities, you and I have not entered into any sort of legal contract. I consider what happens here between us to be on both a professional and personal level. That is, I expect you to behave professionally at all times, but our arrangement, by its nature, is personal. Legality doesn’t enter into it.”
He stood there for a moment, waiting. Maybe he expected me to tell him to go to hell. Maybe he was waiting to see if I would run out of there screaming.
I didn’t do either.
I just stood there staring at him like a tongue-tied idiot. Inside I was almost sick with the adrenaline rush I was feeling. My gut was churning like I was on a roller coaster and I felt giddy with anticipation, though not really sure of what. I suppose he took my silence for acquiescence, and I guess it was.
He went on, with a slight nod, as if I had spoken, as if I had given him permission. “Now, you have spilled coffee on my desk. That is infraction number one. Then you protested and argued that it was ‘just a drop coffee,’ which clearly indicates to me that you don’t value my property in a way that befits your station. That is infraction number two. I shall teach you the value of my things.”
He cleared his throat. “At the end of each day we shall tally your infractions, and I will decide upon a punishment. You will accept the punishment with grace. Failure to comply immediately with my dictate will incur another infraction. Am I clear, Olivia?”
My mouth felt dry. Part of me was furious with this arrogant man. How dare he talk to me like I was some kind of servant or slave from medieval times, and he the lord and master of the realm! But most of me was thunderstruck. Yes, that’s the word. It’s like he was speaking some secret language to me. Some language I didn’t know I understood. Something that bypassed my brain and went right to my nerve endings.
I responded in that secret language, I guess. Some kind of weird sense of peace seemed to fall over me as I bowed my head and answered, “Yes, sir. You are clear, sir. I apologize about the coffee. I’ll be more careful.”
“Good,” he nodded, looking pleased. “Now get your pad and take a letter. Punishment will be at 4:00 p.m. Sharp.”
~*~
A secret language. Tess sat still, staring at the neat writing, the ink pale and fine as insect legs on the page. It was as if she were there in the room with Mr. Stevenson, taking Olivia’s place, as thunderstruck—and as thrilled—as her grandmother had been.
Tess had started reading these journals with a sort of superior skepticism. Her sweet, innocent Nana—young Livvie from another era—subjected to the strange perversions of an overstepping boss. At the very least, it was just another hackneyed affair between a man and his secretary.
Yet, Tess found herself getting caught up in the drama of what she was reading. This talk of secret languages and punishments. Her nipples tingled, her pussy gently throbbing, stirred by the words on the page. She squirmed in her chair, pressing her legs together as she read on.
~*~
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 hunting shotgun.
Of course, 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 actually think Mr. Stevenson manufactured one of the infractions 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 sat on tenterhooks, waiting for his one-word command.
“Olivia.”
I got to my feet, trying to keep my jangling nerves under control. 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, head bowed. 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 did no such thing. 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.
(Why did I just capitalize Sir? I don’t know, but somehow it just seems…right.)
“That’s correct. I’m going to give you a choice of punishment. You can take thirty over the skirt or”—he paused, his eyes boring into mine—“ten underneath.”
Sweat prickled under my arms and my nipples pressed hard against my bra. I pursed my lips, 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, mind you. I’m not ready for that.
Yet.
Oh my God, did I just write that?
The idea of those long, tapered fingers touching my body in such an intimate way, such a dangerous and forbidden way, gets me all hot and bothered.
Trying to sound calm, I responded, “Ten, under the skirt.”
The Master & the Secretary (Finding Master Right Book 2) Page 2
