Chapter 2: The Thorough Inspection

Warning - Explicit Content Ahead!

The next morning, the corridor leading to the inventor's office was unusually quiet. The silence was thick, oppressive even, as Morgan Proctor's heels clicked sharply against the pristine marble floors. She moved with purpose, her expression a perfect mask of control and calm. But beneath the surface, there was a simmering anticipation.

The room would be spotless. It had to be spotless. She had made that perfectly clear.

But Morgan knew better than to trust those who thrived on chaos. People like the inventor were incapable of true discipline, no matter how firm the instruction. They needed more than rules to be brought in line. They needed to feel the consequences of their actions. To have order imposed on them in ways that left a lasting impression. Morgan's lips twitched at the thought, her gloved fingers curling ever so slightly as she approached Office 320.

She paused outside the door, her hand hovering over the handle for just a moment, relishing the tension in the air. Control, she reminded herself. Discipline. That was what this was all about. Not just for the inventor, but for herself. She couldn't let the chaos infect her. She had to remain sharp, precise.

With a soft hiss, the door slid open, and Morgan stepped inside.

The office was… better. The papers had been neatly stacked, the tools gathered and arranged on a nearby shelf. The workbench was clear, save for the device that had caused all this trouble. But there were still small imperfections—dust on the windowsill, a blueprint slightly askew, the faint scent of oil lingering in the air.

Not good enough.

The inventor stood near her desk, wringing her hands nervously, her eyes darting between Morgan and the device like a child waiting to be scolded. Morgan took in the sight of her, noting the slight tremor in the woman's hands, the way her shoulders hunched, as if she were trying to make herself smaller.

It was pathetic, really.

"You've made some improvements," Morgan said, her voice sharp as a scalpel. "But this is far from acceptable."

The inventor blinked, her lips parting as though she were about to protest, but she quickly thought better of it. Instead, she offered a nervous nod. "I-I did my best, but—"

"Your best?" Morgan cut her off, stepping closer, her heels punctuating each word. "This is what you consider your best? You think this level of carelessness will suffice with the Bureaucracy?"

The inventor flinched, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides. "I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll—"

Morgan's gloved hand shot out, gripping the inventor's chin with surprising force, tilting her face upward so that their eyes met. The inventor gasped, her breath hitching in her throat as she stared up at Morgan, wide-eyed and trembling.

"No," Morgan said softly, her voice low and dangerous. "You'll do better now. I gave you clear instructions, and you failed to meet them."

The inventor whimpered, her breath shallow as Morgan's grip tightened ever so slightly, her thumb pressing into the soft flesh of her cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll fix it. I swear."

"Oh, you'll fix it," Morgan purred, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "But first, you need to understand what happens when you don't follow the rules. When you fail to meet expectations."

Her hand slid from the inventor's chin down to her shoulder, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her lab coat. She felt the tension beneath the woman's skin, the way her body tensed under the weight of Morgan's touch. It was a familiar response, one she had seen countless times before. Fear. Submission.

"You want to do better, don't you?" Morgan asked, her voice softening into something almost tender. "You want to be a good little worker, don't you?"

The inventor swallowed hard, nodding quickly, her eyes wide with panic. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Morgan's hand slipped lower, tracing the curve of the inventor's arm before resting on her waist. The touch was firm, possessive, and the inventor stiffened at the contact, her breath catching in her throat.

"Then you'll need to be taught," Morgan said, her voice a dangerous whisper as she leaned in close, her lips brushing against the inventor's ear. "You'll need to learn how to obey."

The inventor shuddered under her touch, her body rigid with fear and anticipation. Morgan could feel the tension radiating from her, the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way her pulse quickened beneath the layers of fabric.

She was ready to break.

Morgan's hand slid lower, over the inventor's hip and down to her thigh, gripping the soft flesh through the thin fabric of her trousers. The inventor let out a small, choked gasp, her hands trembling at her sides, unsure of where to place them, unsure of what to do.

"Do you understand what happens when you disobey me?" Morgan asked, her voice a low growl. "When you fail to meet my expectations?"

The inventor didn't respond. She couldn't. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, her chest rising and falling rapidly as Morgan's hand tightened its grip on her thigh, pulling her closer.

"Answer me," Morgan demanded, her tone sharp and uncompromising.

"Y-Yes," the inventor stammered, her voice barely a whisper. "I understand."

Morgan's grip tightened further, her fingers digging into the flesh beneath her gloves. "Good," she whispered, her lips brushing against the inventor's ear once more. "Then let's begin."

With one swift motion, Morgan spun the inventor around, pressing her face-first against the cold, steel surface of the workbench. The inventor let out a soft gasp, her hands splaying out against the surface as Morgan positioned herself behind her, her body a rigid line of control and authority.

"You need to learn," Morgan whispered, her voice a dangerous purr. "You need to feel what it means to be disciplined."

Her hand slid up the inventor's back, tracing the curve of her spine before resting at the nape of her neck, holding her in place with a firm, unyielding grip.

The inventor's breath came in short, ragged gasps as Morgan held her firmly against the workbench, her gloved hand a vice-like grip on the back of her neck. Morgan could feel the tension in her body, the way the inventor's muscles tensed beneath her touch, the way her pulse quickened with every passing second.

This was the moment of control—when the unruly were finally brought to heel, when the chaos of their disobedience was quelled under the weight of authority. Morgan relished it, the power she wielded over this messy, disorganized woman. The inventor's trembling only fueled her desire to assert dominance, to show her what it truly meant to follow the rules.

"You've been very careless," Morgan whispered, her breath warm against the inventor's ear. "But that's going to change. From now on, you'll learn to do exactly as I say."

The inventor whimpered softly, her fingers gripping the edges of the workbench as she tried to steady herself. She was powerless in Morgan's grasp, completely at the mercy of the bureaucrat's discipline.

Morgan's free hand slid down the inventor's back, her touch firm and unyielding, until it reached her waist. She felt the inventor's body stiffen at the contact, a shudder running through her as Morgan's gloved fingers curled into the fabric of her trousers, tugging them down just enough to expose her skin to the cold air of the office.

"You need to learn what it feels like to be punished," Morgan murmured, her voice dark and authoritative. "To understand that disobedience comes with consequences."

With deliberate slowness, Morgan raised her hand, letting it hover for a moment before bringing it down with a sharp, calculated smack against the inventor's exposed flesh. The sound echoed in the small room, sharp and sudden, followed by a small gasp from the inventor, her body jerking involuntarily at the impact.

"That's what happens when you break the rules," Morgan said, her voice calm and measured, as though she were giving a lecture. "Do you understand?"

The inventor's breath hitched in her throat, her fingers digging into the surface of the workbench as she nodded quickly, her voice barely a whisper. "Y-Yes, I understand."

Morgan smiled, satisfied with the response, but she wasn't finished yet. Discipline wasn't a one-time action. It was a process, a gradual shaping of behavior until compliance became second nature.

"Good," Morgan said, her voice soft but authoritative. "Then we'll continue until you've learned your lesson."

She raised her hand again, delivering another sharp smack to the inventor's bare skin. The inventor gasped, her body trembling under Morgan's touch, but she didn't pull away. She couldn't. Morgan's grip on the back of her neck kept her firmly in place, her body held down by the sheer weight of Morgan's control.

Again and again, Morgan's hand came down, each strike measured and precise, each one serving as a reminder of the consequences of disobedience. The inventor's breathing grew ragged, her body tense with anticipation as she waited for the next blow, knowing it would come, knowing she couldn't avoid it.

Morgan watched her closely, studying her reactions, the way her body shuddered with each strike, the way her breath hitched in her throat, the way her fingers clutched desperately at the workbench. This was what control felt like—absolute, unyielding control over another person, shaping them, molding them, bending them to her will.

"You're learning," Morgan whispered, her hand resting lightly on the inventor's hip now, her voice low and soothing. "You're learning what it means to obey. To follow the rules."

The inventor's breath came in short, shallow gasps, her body trembling under Morgan's touch. She nodded quickly, her voice barely audible as she whispered, "Yes… I understand…"

Morgan's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good girl."

With that, she released her grip on the inventor's neck, stepping back slightly to admire her work. The inventor remained bent over the workbench, her body still trembling, her skin flushed where Morgan's hand had left its mark. She was broken, in the way that all chaotic elements eventually broke under the weight of order.

But Morgan wasn't done.

Her gaze traveled down the inventor's trembling form, lingering on the way her chest heaved with each ragged breath, the way her hands clutched at the edges of the workbench as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. There was more to inspect. More to confirm. Morgan's mind was a careful balance of structure and discipline, but there was always a part of her that thrived in these moments—a part that relished seeing how her lessons took root, how deep the effects went.

Her gloved fingers trailed down the inventor's back again, this time with a softer touch. The inventor flinched but didn't move away, her breath hitching as Morgan's hand traced the curve of her spine. Slowly, methodically, Morgan reached the waistband of her trousers once more and tugged them down farther, exposing the inventor's thighs, and just a bit more than before.

Morgan's eyes narrowed as her fingers grazed the inside of the inventor's thigh, her movements deliberate, almost clinical. The inventor let out a soft, involuntary whimper, her entire body tensing under Morgan's careful exploration. It didn't take long for Morgan to find what she was looking for—a telltale dampness, a wet heat that spread across the inventor's skin, undeniable evidence of just how deeply the lesson had affected her.

Morgan paused for a moment, her fingers pressing lightly against the wetness between the inventor's legs, feeling the warmth, the slickness that had formed as a result of her discipline. The inventor let out a sharp gasp, her body shuddering at the contact, but she made no effort to move, to stop Morgan from continuing her inspection.

Exactly as it should be.

A slow, satisfied smile crept across Morgan's lips as she withdrew her hand, turning her gaze to the trembling woman before her. Her gloved fingers glistened faintly in the dim light of the office, the evidence of the inventor's arousal plain to see.

Morgan leaned in close, her breath warm against the inventor's ear as she whispered, her voice low and dripping with condescension. "Dirty, dirty girl."

The inventor whimpered softly, her body still trembling, her breath coming in shallow gasps as Morgan's words washed over her like a physical weight.

"You've made a mess," Morgan continued, her tone laced with cold amusement. She raised her hand, allowing the inventor to see the faint shimmer of moisture on her fingers. "Look at yourself. Pathetic. You can't even control your own body."

The inventor's face flushed crimson with shame, her eyes flickering between Morgan's hand and the floor, too embarrassed to meet her gaze. But Morgan didn't need her to. She knew exactly what effect her words were having. She could see it in the way the inventor's body quaked, the way her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, the way her hands clenched and unclenched around the edge of the workbench.

Morgan glanced at her gloved fingers, still glistening with the evidence of the inventor's arousal. Her lips curled into a slow, deliberate smirk as she brought her hand up, her eyes never leaving the trembling form in front of her. The inventor's breath hitched as Morgan's fingers hovered near her lips, and without breaking eye contact, Morgan parted her lips slightly, slipping her fingers into her mouth with a soft, slow movement.

Her tongue flicked over the leather, tasting the faint saltiness that clung to the surface. She let the moment linger, savoring both the taste and the power she held over the inventor, before withdrawing her fingers with an audible, almost exaggerated pop.

The inventor let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the sight, her body trembling even more now, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Morgan's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she licked her lips, her gaze cold and predatory.

"You know what I do to dirty, dirty girls, don't you?" Morgan asked, her voice a dangerous whisper as she stepped closer, her presence looming over the inventor like a shadow.

The inventor didn't respond, her throat too tight with fear, her mind too clouded by shame and arousal to form words. But Morgan didn't need her to speak. The trembling of her body, the way her eyes darted nervously to the floor—those were answer enough.

Morgan's hand shot out once more, this time gripping the inventor's chin, forcing her to look up into her eyes. "I make them clean," she purred, her voice low and menacing. "I make them follow the rules."

The inventor whimpered again, her hands shaking as she clung to the edge of the workbench, helpless in Morgan's grasp.

"You will follow the rules," Morgan continued, her voice a razor-sharp blade of authority. "Or I'll make sure you understand just how dirty you are. And believe me, you don't want that."

Her eyes bore into the inventor's, daring her to defy her, daring her to resist. But the inventor simply nodded, her body trembling as she whispered, "Yes… I'll follow the rules…"

Morgan's smirk deepened, her grip tightening on the inventor's chin. "Good girl," she whispered. "Now let's see if you can stay that way."

She released the inventor's chin with a sharp flick of her wrist, stepping back to once again admire the sight of the trembling woman before her, bent and broken under the weight of discipline.

Morgan turned toward the door, pausing for just a moment to deliver her final instruction.

"And don't forget," she said, her voice dripping with condescension as she opened the door, "I'm always watching."

With that, she strode out of the office, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss, leaving the inventor alone in the cold, sterile room.

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