Under Control: A BDSM Love Story

Author's Note: So sorry for the wait, everybody! I've been a bit distracted for the last couple of days out of sheer exhaustion and I needed to rest a bit. But I put in a lot of effort to make this chapter (my brain is pretty dead right now), so I hope you all like it! Thanks everyone for the reviews! I'm really glad people are reading this story. I'm hoping to have it finished sometime around Christmas (wouldn't that be a great present!), but don't count on it. When my classes start I procrastinate a LOT on my free-time projects so I never know if I'm going to finish a story I write. At worst I'd say it will probably take me a year to finish this, since I vowed to myself never to leave a good story hanging again like with Thicker Than Blood (which has taken me around 5 years and still no end in sight). But chances are if people continue to show interest in the story and keep leaving me nagging reviews I will finish it a lot faster because it gives me a feeling of having a deadline, which speeds up my creative process a lot.
Anyway, that's enough of me babbling on :P I really do hope you all like this chapter, as I certainly enjoyed writing it once I got around to it.

If you’re surprised to find that I went back the next day in spite of everything, then you don’t know the full depth of my cowardice. Not only did the idea of being unemployed scare me beyond all belief, but the idea of telling a man like Hector to his face that I no longer wanted to work for him made me want to curl up in a ball of weep. I don’t know what it was about him that turned me into a scared little kid. He could be so kind and caring at moments, and in the next he could have me trembling under his cold gaze. Also, I think some psychotic part of me wanted to prove to myself that I could thrive in such a domineering environment.

But I think the thing that scared me most of all about it was… I liked it. It was thrilling. I didn’t want to go back to my humdrum life in the cubicle, where day after day it was the same shit, as though the world was a skipping record. With Hector… everything was unpredictable. I could never tell how he was going to act or what he was going to do. I mean, there were the little habits he had that I could always count on, but for the most part, he was always shaking me up, testing my limits. Maybe deep down the real reason I was always coming back was because I wanted to see just how far my limit was.

And then there was the fact that I needed to pay the bills.



When I reached the office, I immediately set to work. There were still quite a few boxes that needed unpacking, which I took care of with a newfound fervor. I wanted to work hard. I wanted to prove to myself and Mr. Davis that I wasn’t a total fuck-up; that I was worth keeping around. In fact, I was working so hard that I didn’t notice him standing behind me.

“Good morning, Ms. Jones,” he said, holding a coffee mug in one hand and the other hand inside his pocket.

I struggled to stand up amid the piles of paper and other crap, and I smoothed back the strands of hair that had fallen in my face from my efforts. “Oh, good morning, sir.”

He looked around at all the stuff on the floor and nodded. “I see you’re finishing up with the unpacking.”

I looked around as well, silently cursing myself for making such a mess in my distraction. “Yes, sir. Just wanted to get it taken care of so that I can… be… more productive,” I floundered, wishing I could shut myself up already. “With my work. And other various tasks.”

“Excellent,” he said, and took a sip of his coffee. “May I speak with you in my office for a moment?”

I swallowed, hoping I hadn’t already gotten myself in trouble. “Of course.”

I followed him into the back room, and Mr. Davis shut the door behind himself. He looked over to me. I was standing in front of his desk as he had commanded the night before.

“This is off the record right now,” he said, taking a few slow, measured steps to the center of the room. “Which means right now I’m not speaking as your boss, but as a person.”

I nodded, listening intently.

He let out a sigh and looked down for a moment before continuing. “About yesterday….” He faltered for a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I murmured sheepishly. “I kept messing up. I deserved it.”

“No,” he said evenly, his hazel eyes burning into mine. “You did not deserve it.”

“But, you’re my boss,” I insisted, wringing my hands nervously. “It’s your job to tell me what to do.”

“Not the way I did it,” he said very quietly. “You weren’t ready for that.”

For some reason this statement rubbed me the wrong way, and I became indignant. “I’m ready for it,” I said, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew I shouldn’t have been talking this way but I couldn’t stop myself. “I took the job. I’m responsible to you now. I can handle the consequences of my actions.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t know if I should put you in that position again.”

“Please,” I begged. “I need this job. It’s the only thing I have.”

He studied me for a bit, his face remaining emotionless as his eyes continued boring into me. I knew he did that when he was contemplating something, but I remained steadfast -- or at least as well as I could under his unnerving gaze. Finally, he said, “Ms. Jones, I believe you left a mess in the front room. Would you kindly clean it up?”

I stifled a grin as I said, “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, Mr. Davis?”

He looked at me a second longer before saying, “No, that will be all.”



It was noon by the time I had reached the last box. The front room had come along nicely, with all the files stored alphabetically and Mr. Davis’s various other plaques and ambient paintings hanging on the walls. It really did finally look like a real practice.

Mr. Davis’s door opened and he stepped out, giving the room a once-over. “Well, you’ve done a hell of a job here, Ms. Jones.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, letting myself bask in his praise. “I’m practically done, I just need to get through the last box.”

He nodded and seemed to be thinking about something. “It’s lunch time.”

I looked up at the clock. “Oh, it is.” I stood up and adjusted my skirt. “Would you like me to go down the street and grab you something? It’s no trouble.”

“Actually,” he said, taking a few steps toward me, “I was thinking we could go to the diner a few blocks down. Get a salad, talk about business, maybe get dessert.”

I smiled. “That sounds great, Mr. Davis.”

“And once we set foot out the door, it’s Hector.”



“Why don’t you just put some ads in the newspaper or something?” I asked, taking a bite of my Caesar salad. “I mean, plenty of people do it that way and you’d be surprised just how much business they reel in from that.”

“That’s one possibility,” he said, taking a sip of water. “But the problem with that is it costs money, which is something I don’t have a lot of. Especially since I took you on the payroll.”

That made me feel bad, but I continued rummaging my brain for ideas. “How about Craigslist? That’s free advertising right there.”

“There are so many illegitimate ‘businesses’ on there it’s not even funny. For someone browsing around on there the word psychology would be an instant red flag.”

“Hmm,” I said, furrowing my brow in thought. And suddenly it came to me. “I have it!”

“By all means, tell me.”

“You know how you basically stole me away from Dr. Martin?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say stole,” he reasoned. “More like I won you over fair and square.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s not what’s important.” And here I leaned in conspiratorially. “What if you ‘won over’ some more clients from him and other quacks like him?”

He seemed to mull this over for a second before a sly grin came to his face. “Wow, Delilah. I never knew you were capable of something so evil.”

“It’s not evil,” I said with mock indignity. “It’s good business sense. And,” I added, stirring my drink with my straw, “I think I know someone who would be perfect as your first customer.”

“Second,” he corrected, with a significant look.

“Okay,” I said, with a warm smile. “Your second customer.”



“Ms. Jones,” said Mr. Davis the moment we stepped back into the office, “if you would start up the computer? I have a few letters I would like you to re-type and prepare for mailing. You should find them in the top left drawer of the desk.”

“Right away, sir,” I said, falling immediately back into the business mind frame. “Will there be anything else?”

“Make it quick,” he added with a significant look, and then shut himself in the back room.

I set into my task right away, determined to get it done in record time. I knew I would have no problem since I had more experience with typing than necessary for the position, but what happened the previous night still loomed over me, making me feel nervous. I sat down at my desk -- and it did feel so good to know I had a whole room to myself, rather than just a little cubicle -- started up the computer, and reached over to the top left drawer to pull it open.

But rather than finding a small stack of papers, I found something that was rather odd. I sat there a moment, trying to wrap my mind around what I was looking at, but no matter how I tried to piece things together, I just couldn’t understand what it would be doing there. In spite of myself, I reached in slowly and grabbed it, bringing it out gingerly. It was a moderately sized riding crop. Even just inspecting it I began to feel weird, and I wanted to get it away from me as fast as possible. I dropped it back in the drawer, my skin crawling. I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because of the setting, or maybe I just hadn’t gotten enough sleep. There was something weird about how a fucking riding crop was in the desk. I thought back to the other day, when I had organized all the desk materials, and I knew I would have definitely seen that if it was there before.

I shook my head and closed the drawer, deciding to forget the whole thing. After all, I couldn’t let myself get distracted from the task at hand.

But out of all the things to find sitting in a desk, I thought. I moved on to other drawers in search of the papers until I found them. I cleared my throat and set to work.



I knocked nervously on Mr. Davis’s door, biting my lip as I waited for a response. After a moment he said, “Come in.”

I opened the door and stepped into the room, taken aback when I saw that he was lying on the couch. “Oh… um, I’m finished with the letters, sir.”

He sat up slowly and let out a sigh. “And here I was starting to think that we’d be here all night.”

I gaped at him. “I-- I did this as fast as possible, sir.”

“Not fast enough,” he said, his eyes throwing daggers.

I could feel my stomach tying itself into knots as I dared to press the matter. “There were a lot of letters in that pile….”

He narrowed his eyes angrily. “Did I ask you how many there were?”

I swallowed before saying, “No, sir.”

“Then you were talking back to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, hanging my head. “It’s just that, I tried my best….”

“That’s not good enough,” he said, standing up. “If you want to work for me, you have to be better than that.” He stepped closer to me. “You know what must be done now, don’t you?”

I looked up, startled. “N-no, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

He moved in even closer, almost towering over me now. “Go into the next room, grab the chair, and place it in the corner.”

In spite of my shock, I couldn’t argue. I knew any words of protest would go punished one way or another, and I didn’t want the punishment to be him firing me. With tears stinging my eyes, I murmured, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“What do you think?” he shot back, his voice low and even.

I took that as my signal that he wanted me to get it done quickly, so I turned on my heel and hurried into the front room, grabbing the same metal folding chair and bringing it into the back office. Hesitantly I crossed the room and unfolded the dreaded chair, placing it so that it faced the corner.

“The other way,” Mr. Davis said, and I looked at him, confused.

“Sir?”

His eyes met mine, and he added, “Do it.”

I grabbed the chair uncertainly and turned it around so that its back was to the corner. I looked at Mr. Davis again and he began walking over to me slowly. I didn’t know what he was up to, and I could only stand there and wait. He stood in front of the chair for a moment, looking down at it with a strange interest. After a bit, he sat down in the chair.

“Ms. Jones,” he said, his posture stiff, “you will come here and you will position yourself so that you are lying face-down across my lap.”

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was so shocked by this that I didn’t know what to do. What was the meaning of this?

I didn’t have a chance to contemplate much longer. “Ms. Jones,” he raised his voice, giving me a threatening look.

I jumped a bit, and I realized that I had no choice. I knew he wouldn’t tolerate my questioning of him much longer. I stepped over to him and slowly, awkwardly, I began to bend over so that my upper body was stretched across his lap. I was rigid, unwilling to put my full weight onto him. After a moment his patience seemed to run dry. He pulled me the rest of the way down so that my full weight was on his legs. In fact, he pulled me down so far that my upper body was hanging low over one side of his lap, making my rear stick high up. I bit my lip, stifling a cry of confusion and humiliation. I was positioned like this for a few moments, and I had a feeling it was because he knew it was embarrassing me beyond all belief.

“Would you like to know what happens when you make me wait, Ms. Jones?” he murmured, and I let out a loud gasp when I felt his hand lightly touching my backside.

“Sir, I don’t understand,” I protested quietly.

“You will,” he said, sliding his hand slowly up and down over my buttocks. “I’ll make you understand.”

I felt him lift his hand up, and for a moment I thought that the punishment was simply to have me over his knees in an uncomfortable position. But in the next instant I felt his body jerk, and then heard a loud crack. Pain shot through the area, and I let out a quiet groan. Tears sprang to my eyes instantly. I wasn’t even the pain that caused it, but the humiliation. My boss, Hector Davis, had just spanked me. Hard. I couldn’t even react with words, nor did I move a muscle. I was in far too much disbelief.

He didn’t move a muscle either for a time; I suppose it was for dramatic effect. The stinging pain on my skin slowly subsided into a dull warmth, which gave me some relief amid the flood of confusion in my brain. It didn’t last too long. The next thing I knew, the hand came down on me again, this time on the opposite cheek. I let out a short yelp, and I began to struggle in his lap.

“Don’t move,” he said, bringing his hand down on my rump again in a warning slap. “You will take your punishment and learn your lesson.”

“Hector, why are you do--”

My words were cut off mid-sentence as I felt a particularly rough swat on my behind. “Do not call me by my first name.”

“But--”

Another smack.

“What did I tell you about talking back?” he demanded.

I took a few deep breaths, doing my best to hold back the tears. “I-- I’m sorry.”

“‘I’m sorry,’ what?” He laid a loud slap on my behind with the last word

“I’m sorry, sir,” I groaned, the tears finally slipping from my eyes. “Please….”

Mr. Davis continued the spanking for a while with firm, even strokes. I knew it had only gone on for a minute but it seemed like hours. I could have died from the mortification of it. Finally, with one last earsplitting smack, the punishment was over.

I lay there limply in his lap, shuddering as the tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t know why I was crying… it hadn’t hurt that badly. Maybe it was more from shock than anything. I chanced a look up at Mr. Davis, who was curled over me, breathing heavily. His hand, which had been assaulting my bottom only seconds before, laid gently on me, smoothing back and forth over my skirt. I didn’t know what to make of this, so I said nothing. Through the loud pounding of my pulse in my ears I could hear the sound of our panting, as though we had just run a marathon. I began to realize I was shaking from more than just the tears. I was giddy and disoriented, and I gasped as I felt the gentle slide of Mr. Davis’s hand from my rear, up the small of my back, to my shoulders and neck, and finally up to my head. He ran his fingers through my hair, smoothing it back from my face. Softly he nudged my head with his hand, urging me to look up at him. His eyes drilled into mine, the hazel in them glowing fiercely. He held my chin up with his fingers, but even if he had not, I still wouldn’t be able to turn away. The intensity of him was far too strong. He ran his thumb over my cheek, gently wiping away my tears.

“You don’t mean it,” he murmured quietly. “Those tears. They’re not real, you know.” I remained silent and he continued. “You’re stronger than that. I know you are.”

I wanted to say something in response but I just couldn’t find my voice. Instead I did my best to hold back my tears. When they finally subsided, Mr. Davis released my chin, straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

“I believe you have learned your lesson now, Ms. Jones. You may return to your desk.”

I was struck by his sudden change of tone, but not all too surprised. I was beginning to get used to it. Slowly I lifted myself up and slid from his lap, in somewhat of a daze. Hector stood up as well and made his way over to the couch, where he sat down once more. “If you would be so good as to take the chair with you on the way out….” he trailed off. I looked down at the metal folding chair dispassionately, feeling as though it would attack me. I reached for it anyway and lifted it up, carrying it with me out the door.



I sat at my desk dazedly, still not fully coming to grips with what had happened. Had my boss really just bent me over his knee like that, or was I just imagining things? The soreness on my bottom said all I needed to know.

But somehow I couldn’t accept it. I kept thinking, Why would he do something like that? I wasn’t sure if he even knew why. It was just so strange. For the rest of the work day I went through the motions, trying to do anything besides think.

Then six o’clock came around.