Here is the next installment to my Fourth Week Favorite!

If you didn’t read Y is for Yes, you’ll want to go back and read that first. If you don’t know what’s going on, check out my Theme Reveal for full details.

Also, please vote for your favorite of the first two continuations I posted in May! I will raffle off a free ebook of the novel to one person who fills out a Google Form. Enter now before it’s too late!

The stories were C is for Caged and L is for Lifeguard. Vote here for your favorite continuation!

Without further ado, here is the next chapter of Y is for Yes!

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“Hello,” a masculine voice called. “Is anyone here?”

I kept holding my breath, and I heard the door to my office creak open further. Shit, shit, shit.

“Yvonne, are you in here?”

He knew my name. Shit. Well, I supposed it wasn’t hard to figure out my name since it was written on the wall outside my door.

“Yvonne,” he called, elongating the middle of the word.

I didn’t like the way he was calling my name. It felt menacing. I let the air out of my lungs slowly, trying not to make a sound.

I heard his footsteps get closer and then the door close. The lock clicked. The adrenaline surged through my body, but I felt like my hands were glued to the floor.

He walked around my desk and stood over me, looking down. I looked up at him. His name was Derek, and he worked in a neighboring department. We had been pleasant in the break room and hallways, but we had never spoken outside the office.

“What are you doing down there?” he asked.

“I–I–” I stammered, “I dropped my coffee.” Well, it wasn’t a lie, but it didn’t explain why I hadn’t responded when he called my name. He narrowed his eyes at me, and I could feel power and domination emanating from him.

He stepped closer to me, and I sat back on my heels so I could see his face. “Oh look at you. You have coffee all over yourself.”

“Yes, Sir, I do,” I said automatically. Where the hell had that come from? Shit. Why had I said that? Why would I call him Sir?

I could see him falter when I spoke. “Here, let me help you up,” he said, and he offered me a hand.

I took it reluctantly and got to my feet. There was a small stack of napkins on my desk, and he picked one up and started blotting the front of my shirt.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I’m afraid your blouse may be ruined. Let’s take it off, and we’ll wash it in the sink.”

“T-take it off?”

“Yvonne, there is no one here except you and me.”

“B-but–”

“But nothing. It’s for the best. We can hopefully get your shirt clean if we’re quick.”

I nodded, fighting the urge to say, “Yes, Sir.”

He unbuttoned my top slowly, and despite my initial fear and adrenaline, I could feel heat growing at my core. “One more button and we’ll have you free of this stained shirt.” His comment was unnecessary, and I wondered if he was just trying to fill the silence. “Oh, Yvonne,” he groaned. His hand touched my silky skin just above my bra. “The coffee soaked right through your bra, too. I guess we’ll just have to take that off as well.”

My eyes went wide. “I c-can’t do that!” I protested.

“Of course you can, Yvonne,” Derek replied.

“B-but–”

“But nothing. We’ll wash your shirt and bra and have you situated in no time.”

“I-I can’t sit around naked,” I protested.

“Yvonne,” he said my voice in a tone that I associated with someone reprimanding a small child. I was not expecting it to turn me on. “Haven’t you learned yet that I know what’s best? Don’t worry my dear, I will take care of you.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I knew that I was supposed to hate it. I was supposed to push him away and call for help. I was supposed to somehow get to a phone and dial 911. I was supposed to tell him to keep his filthy hands off of me.

But the problem was his hands weren’t filthy. And in fact, I wanted to feel them pressed against my bare flesh. I had sudden visions of him taking me over his knee and spanking me for disagreeing with him. The mental image turned me on so much that I knew my arousal would be apparent in my panties.

I glanced down at my clothes. “Derek, Sir,” I whispered, “I think there’s some coffee on my skirt.”

“My, my, my, haven’t you been a messy girl,” he murmured back and I couldn’t suppress my grin.

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Winner! This post won for the second pairing in May. Check out the continuation here.

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