Under His Discipline - Love Under Lockdown

Chapter 1 - Charli

An electric current jolted from my core, fizzing my nerve endings.

How had I gotten so lucky?

Sure, some graduates got jobs at important companies right out of college, but this was almost silly. At nineteen, zipping right through the two-year journalism degree I’d started when I was seventeen, I had already landed a job with the editor and publisher of Here and Now, the country’s biggest current affairs magazine.

I pinched myself when I picked up the message just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. I had dreams like that a lot. The phrase “daydreams and aspirations” was literal in my case. Sometimes, it was like I could see the future through my dreams.

I didn’t understand what had made me stand out. I had done my best to get as far in the selection process as I could, but still, there must have been a million girls ready to throw puppies out of windows to have an opportunity like the one I’d been offered.

Pride and anxiety fought a pitched battle in my mind. Pride in myself that I had landed such an outstanding role and anxiety that I’d secured such an important job—neither side seemed to get the upper hand. Along with the I.T. Department, executive assistants were the ones who kept things going at the larger organizations.

CEOs were only human and therefore equipped with the standard-issue two hands and one brain (though the latter was debatable sometimes), so they needed help from paid underlings like me. Our job was to make them look good and to help justify their high salaries.

To be fair, the greatest among them must have some skill in terms of management. Even the finest trainer still couldn’t herd cats.

I felt a little twinge of worry when I thought about the particular CEO of the magazine I would be working for, who was known to be a player. I didn’t just mean in terms of always having a different girlfriend, but I also meant that he liked to have playthings—pets, as he called them. I had read an editorial he wrote in his own magazine in response to tabloid rumors alleging that he enjoyed BDSM.

“Yes, I do,” he had written. “And there is nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to that. People have different tastes and proclivities, and I have very particular needs. BDSM can help us explore the world within ourselves. Through pleasure. Through pain. Through play.”

There were some women who refused to even apply to work there thanks to that op-ed. But I couldn’t forget the words he had written because they excited me.

I thought about working for a man who could so openly own his sexuality, who was so different from me—I had never even had sex at all and barely knew my own sexual tastes—in that regard, and I thought it could only be a good thing. A way to broaden my own horizons and gain confidence.

What to wear for my first day left my stomach in knots. A small world of options lay across my mattress, and yet I stood paralyzed by choice. Should I go stuffy and professional or sexy and flirty?

Well, maybe not sexy and flirty, but showing my femininity couldn’t hurt. That way, if I screwed up, my boss might keep me around just to look at me. Anything was possible. I chose something in between.

I was plus-sized, and it was hard for me to find clothes that flattered my curvy frame without fitting too tightly or revealing too much. But I had managed to become pretty good at shopping for my body type and I had a small wardrobe I was proud of.

I put on a sleeveless blouse that did pleasant things for my boobs and a pleated skirt that came halfway down my thighs. I looked at my reflection in my full-length mirror, liking what I saw. Showy, but not sexy. Professional but not prudish.

The downside was the outfit demanded high heels. I had two pairs, but I hadn’t attempted to wear heels since prom.

Throughout college, I lived in sneakers or flip flops. I placed a hand on my stomach, trying to calm myself. Surely, walking in heels would come back soon enough.

I squeezed my feet into a black pair of three-inch pumps, took a deep breath, and wobbled toward my bedroom door.

Three steps were all it took until I damn near face-planted. The hardwood floor gave my knees a good bash, but it could have been worse.

I assessed the damage. Everything looked okay. Not even a bruise, which was surprising. Usually, bruises bloomed like flowers on my fair skin.

Compromise was always my strong suit. Rather than risking my knees or neck to wear heels while going for the bus, I changed into a comfy pair of sneakers for the trip. I would switch back to the stylish torture devices when I got to work.