Page 12 of His to Enjoy
I sank onto the sofa, my legs suddenly weak. Someone could be watching me right now. Sharon Fagan could be sitting in her office, pulling up my feed on her computer, observing me as I explored my new cage. The thought should have been terrifying.
Instead, I felt that too-familiar warmth beginning between my thighs.
I pressed my legs together, trying to ignore it, but the sensation only intensified. Every movement I made felt performative now, knowing unseen eyes might be tracking me. When I stood to get a glass of water, I was acutely aware of how my dress swayed,how the pink stockings whispered against each other. When I bent to look in the refrigerator—featuring a display screen I couldn’t figure out and already stocked with fresh produce as well as bottles of expensive sparkling water—I wondered if someone was admiring the view.
Stop it, I told myself firmly, but my body had already begun its betrayal. The delicate lace of my panties felt damp against my sensitive flesh, still swollen from Scott’s humiliating exploration in the screening room. My nipples had hardened beneath the sheer cups of my bra, making them visible through the thin fabric of my dress.
My handheld chimed with an incoming message. Sharon Fagan’s name appeared on the screen, and my stomach clenched with a mixture of dread and that terrible anticipation I couldn’t seem to control.
I trust you’re settling in comfortably. Please be aware that as part of your probationary period, certain behavioral standards must be maintained even in your private residence. The employee handbook has been uploaded to your device.
I opened the attachment with trembling fingers. The handbook was extensive—pages and pages of rules and expectations. But one section made my breath catch: ‘Personal Conduct in Company Housing.’
Female employees residing in Selecta housing are expected to maintain appropriate behavioral standards at all times. Masturbation without explicit permission from one’s direct supervisor is strictly prohibited and will result in disciplinary action.
I stared at the words, reading them three times to make sure I understood correctly. They were monitoring not just my safety, but my sexuality, my most intimate moments. They had made rules about what I could do with my own body.
The warmth below my belly had become an ache now, a pulsing need that seemed to mock the very rule I’d just read. It had been over two weeks since I’d had any release except for what Scott had given me—no, forced on me—in his office. Even with Jacob, as controlling as he’d been, I’d never been explicitly forbidden from touching myself. I’d simply chosen not to, trained by years of the New Modesty program to view my own pleasure as something dangerous.
But now, knowing I couldn’t, knowing someone might be watching to ensure I didn’t… the desire became almost unbearable.
I paced the apartment, trying to distract myself. I unpacked the few belongings I’d brought from my old life—some clothes, a few books, a photograph of my parents. Everything else had belonged to Jacob, or to the marriage that no longer existed.
But with each movement, I felt the shift of lace against my skin, the pull of the garter straps, the lingering soreness where Scott’s fingers had violated me. My body seemed determined to remind me of every humiliating moment from today, replaying them in vivid detail.
I tried to read, curling up on the sofa with a thriller everyone seemed to love, but the words swam before my eyes. All I could think about was Scott’s voice, low and commanding:You’re going to come with my fingers in your ass. The memory alone made me clench involuntarily, a fresh wave of arousal washing over me.
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:
