BDSM with my intern

First Day

The office emptied early. I waited until the last voice faded down the hall, then opened the door.

“Samyukta.”

She stood at once. Nineteen. Short black skirt, white blouse buttoned to the collar, hair pulled back in a simple tie that was already coming loose. Her bag was zipped and resting against her leg like she still believed she might leave at a normal hour.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside. I shut the door and turned the lock. The sound made her shoulders jump. She kept both hands on the bag strap, knuckles pale.

“Put it down,” I said.

She set the bag on the floor. The skirt shifted higher on her thighs. She smoothed it once, then stopped when she saw me watching.

“You’re nineteen,” I said. “First day. Most girls your age are still figuring out which elevator to take. You stayed exactly where I told you.”

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to leave.” Her voice was careful. “No one gave me anything else to do.”

“That’s because there isn’t anything else. You report to me. You sit at that desk. You don’t wander. You don’t take coffee invitations. You don’t make friends on the floor. If someone tries to pull you into a meeting or a group chat, you tell them you’re already assigned. Understand?”

“Yes.”

I moved closer. A strand of hair had slipped free and clung to the corner of her mouth. I reached out, pulled it loose, and tucked it behind her ear. My fingers stayed against her skin. She went still. Her breathing changed—shorter, quicker.

“Fix your hair,” I said. “Take it down. All the way.”

She hesitated, then reached up and pulled the tie free. Dark hair fell past her shoulders, a little messy. She tried to smooth it with both hands.

“Better,” I said. “Now the blouse. Top two buttons.”

Her hands froze at her collar. “I—”

“Top two. Slowly.”

She undid them. The fabric parted just enough to show the line of her collarbones and the edge of a plain bra. Color rose in her face. She kept her eyes on the floor.

“Look at me.”

She did. I took the phone out.

“Stay like that.”

The first picture caught her face—nineteen, hair down, blouse open at the throat, eyes wide. She flinched at the shutter. I took another. Then another, lower, framing the open buttons and the way the skirt sat high on her thighs. I circled her once, slow, taking more: the back of her neck where the hair had lifted, the tremble in her hands, the bare skin above her knees. Eight pictures. She stood exactly where I’d put her, breathing too fast, trying not to cover herself.

“Good,” I said, and put the phone away. “You can button one of them. Leave the other.”

She did it with shaking fingers. One button. The blouse still gaped.

I stepped in close again. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back. “Most nineteen-year-olds would’ve argued. You didn’t. That’s why you’re still here.”

A weak joke. She didn’t smile. Her pulse jumped in her throat. I let my hand rest on her shoulder, thumb brushing the open edge of the blouse. She trembled under it but didn’t pull away.

“You can go,” I said at last.

She grabbed the bag and moved fast. Halfway to the elevators she crossed her arms tight over her chest. The white fabric had gone sheer in a small dark patch between her breasts. Wet. She couldn’t hide it. She hit the button until the doors opened, then turned her back so I wouldn’t see her face as they closed.

Second Day

She was already at the outer desk when I arrived. Nineteen. Hair down the way I’d left it. Blouse buttoned higher than yesterday, but not all the way. Hands folded. No one had spoken to her. The rest of the floor had been told she was occupied.

“Inside.”

She followed. I pointed at the chair beside the desk.

“Sit. No work. You stay in that chair unless I move you.”

She sat. The skirt rode up. She pressed her knees together and kept her eyes on the edge of the desk.

“Yesterday you looked scared when I took the pictures,” I said. “Most girls do the first time. It’s normal at nineteen.”

She didn’t answer.

I worked in silence for a while. Every so often I glanced over. Her breathing would speed up for no clear reason, then she’d notice and try to slow it. It never stayed slow.

At noon I stood and dragged the second chair until the armrests touched.

“Here. Next to me.”

She looked at the narrow space, then at me. Her throat moved. She stood and sat where I’d pointed. Her knee brushed mine. She jerked, then froze. I rested my hand on her thigh, just above the knee. Light. She went rigid under it.

“Easy,” I said. “I’m going to show you something. Don’t look away.”

I turned the monitor. The video started without warning. Another girl. This office. On her knees. Crying. Voice cracking as she begged. The sound filled the quiet room. Samyukta made a small, choked noise and tried to stand.

My hand stayed on her thigh.

“Sit.”

She sat. Shaking. The video continued. Different girl. Same desk. Harder crying. Saying please over and over. Pain in it. Samyukta’s breathing had gone thin and rapid. Tears started. She tried to turn her face. I caught her chin with two fingers and turned it back.

“Watch.”

She watched. The video ended. She was trembling so hard the chair creaked. A fresh wet patch had darkened the center of her blouse.

“I want to leave,” she whispered.

“Not yet.”

She tried again. Stood. Made it two steps before her legs wobbled. She caught the desk, nineteen years old, crying quietly, hair still down the way I’d told her to wear it, blouse still open at the throat.

“Sit back down.”

She did. Slowly. Hands locked in her lap. Still shaking. Still trying not to look at the dark screen. Outside, phones rang and people laughed. Inside, she stayed exactly where I’d put her—isolated, no tasks, no one else allowed near her—with the sound of the last girl’s begging still hanging in the air and my hand resting on her thigh while she tried, and failed, to stop crying.