Chapter 4

By: EtherealNarrator

The door slid shut with a soft hiss, leaving the inventor alone in the cold, sterile silence of her office. Her body still trembled, a ghostly echo of Morgan's touch lingering on her skin. She could feel the tension in her muscles, the dull ache in her thighs, the warmth that still spread between her legs.

For a long moment, she remained slumped over the workbench, her breath coming in slow, uneven bursts. Her fingers, still gripping the edges of the table, trembled as she fought to regain control of her body, of her mind. But control felt like a distant, unreachable concept now.

She had tried to follow the rules, to do as Morgan had asked, and yet… there was something in her that wanted to be back under the weight of Morgan's discipline. That brief reward, that fleeting moment of pleasure, had only left her wanting more. More control, more dominance, more of the cold, unyielding touch that had pushed her so effortlessly to the brink.

A shudder ran down her spine as she stood up, her legs unsteady beneath her. She could still feel the dampness between her thighs, the heat that hadn't dissipated, the way her body had responded so instinctively to Morgan's commands. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her racing heart, but it was no use. Every thought was clouded by the memory of Morgan's fingers, the sound of her voice, the way she had whispered those words—dirty, dirty girl—with such cold authority.

The inventor swallowed hard, her throat tight with shame and desire, as she slowly made her way to the small, dingy corner of her office that served as her private space. It was little more than a cot and a few personal items shoved into a cramped alcove, hidden from view by a thin curtain. But it was enough. Enough to give her a moment of solitude, of reprieve from the relentless weight of the Bureaucracy.

She sat on the edge of the cot, her fingers trembling as she reached down to unbutton her trousers, her mind racing with the conflicting emotions that swirled inside her. She knew she shouldn't. She shouldn't be thinking about Morgan like this. She shouldn't let the discipline, the rules, the consequences, blur into something so intensely intimate. But she couldn't stop herself. The desire had taken root, deep in her mind, twisting her thoughts, making her crave the very thing that had once filled her with fear.

Her trousers slipped down her thighs, the cool air hitting her skin as she leaned back against the cot, her breath hitching in her throat. Her hand, trembling with a mixture of shame and anticipation, slid between her legs, her fingers finding the damp heat that still lingered there. She let out a soft, choked gasp as her fingers pressed against herself, her mind filled with the memory of Morgan's touch, the way she had commanded her so effortlessly.

Her other hand clutched at the edge of the cot, her knuckles white as she bit her lip, trying to stifle the soft moans that threatened to escape her throat. Her fingers moved slowly at first, hesitant, as though she were afraid of what this meant, of what she was admitting to herself by giving in to this desire.

But the more she thought about Morgan—about her sharp, commanding voice, the cold amusement in her eyes, the way her gloved fingers had slid over her skin with such deliberate precision—the more her movements quickened, the more her body responded. She pressed her fingers harder against herself, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she surrendered to the overwhelming need that consumed her.

The room seemed to blur around her, fading into the background as the heat in her body built, spreading through her like wildfire. Every inch of her skin felt alive, tingling with the memory of Morgan's discipline, the way she had made her feel controlled, shaped. The way she had rewarded her.

The inventor's body arched off the cot, her fingers moving faster now, more insistent, chasing that same intensity, that same release that had been so carefully given to her by Morgan. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her heart racing as the pleasure built, pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

Her mind spun with thoughts of Morgan—of the way she had looked at her, so cold, so calculating, as though she knew every secret, every desire that the inventor had tried so desperately to hide. And it was that, more than anything else, that sent her over the edge.

With a sharp, breathless moan, the inventor's body tensed, her hips bucking as she came, her fingers working frantically against herself as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the desperate sounds that escaped her throat, her entire body trembling as she rode out the intensity of her release.

For a long moment, she lay there, her chest heaving, her mind spinning with the aftershocks of what she had just done. Her fingers were slick, her thighs trembling, and yet… all she could think about was how Morgan would react if she knew. How she would punish her for this. Or worse—how she would reward her.

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of fear and anticipation that made her skin tingle. She knew it was wrong—so wrong—but the pull was undeniable. She wanted more. Needed more. And she knew, deep down, that Morgan could give it to her.

Slowly, the inventor sat up, her fingers still trembling as she wiped them on the edge of her cot, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges of her thoughts, but it was overshadowed by something darker. Something more powerful.

She stood up, pulling her trousers back into place, her movements sluggish and heavy with the weight of her own realization. There was no escaping it now. She was caught in Morgan's web, and no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't break free.

Her heart raced as she thought about the next inspection, the next time Morgan would step into her office, those sharp, cold eyes taking in every inch of her. Would she notice? Would she know what the inventor had done, what she had become?

The inventor swallowed hard, her throat tight with the thought. She didn't know what scared her more—being found out, or the possibility that Morgan already knew and was waiting, watching, ready to give her exactly what she craved.

Two days had passed since the last inspection, but the inventor still couldn't shake the lingering effects of that moment. Morgan's voice, her touch, the way she had taken control—it was all still so vivid in her mind. 

But tonight, she wasn't alone. The Bureaucracy had called for a mandatory event—an annual gala, meant to celebrate the achievements of those who followed the rules, who contributed to the smooth, efficient running of society. It was a formality, of course, and the inventor had attended these events many times before, always blending into the background, always just another face in the crowd.

She stood at the edge of the ballroom now, a glass of champagne in hand, her eyes scanning the sea of bureaucrats, each one clad in their identical uniforms, each one adhering to the same rigid standards. The room buzzed with polite conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional hollow laugh. It was as sterile and controlled as everything else in the Bureaucracy.

She hadn't expected to come tonight, not after the past few days. Her mind was still too cluttered with thoughts of Morgan, her body still reacting to the memory of her touch. But duty was duty, and she had no choice. So here she was, standing in the corner of the grand ballroom, trying to remain invisible.

And then she saw her.

Morgan Proctor.

The inventor's heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto the familiar figure on the far side of the room. Morgan was standing with a small group of high-ranking bureaucrats, her posture immaculate, her expression cold and composed. She wore the same pristine uniform, her gold-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on her nose, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her.

The inventor hadn't expected to see her here. Morgan never attended these kinds of events—at least, not the ones the inventor had been to. She was too high-ranking, too important, too… distant. But there she was, perfectly poised, her presence commanding the attention of everyone around her.

The inventor felt a shiver run down her spine, her fingers tightening around the stem of her champagne glass. Seeing Morgan here, outside the confines of her office, felt strange. Wrong, almost. As if Morgan had somehow stepped out of the carefully controlled world of inspections and discipline and into the inventor's personal life. It was unsettling, and yet… there was something else. A thrill, a jolt of adrenaline that shot through the inventor's veins at the sight of her.

She couldn't take her eyes off Morgan. Couldn't stop watching as she spoke with the other bureaucrats, her voice calm and measured, her movements precise and deliberate. It was as if Morgan belonged to every corner of her world now, slowly infiltrating parts of her life the inventor had thought were safe, untouched by that cold, unyielding gaze.

The inventor took a shaky breath, her chest tightening as she realized what was happening. Morgan wasn't just in her office. She wasn't just a figure of discipline and control. She was everywhere. She was watching, always watching, and the inventor couldn't escape her, no matter how hard she tried.

As if sensing her gaze, Morgan's eyes flickered across the room, her gaze landing directly on the inventor. For a moment, time seemed to stop. The noise of the ballroom faded into the background, the clinking glasses and soft murmurs of conversation dulling to a distant hum. Morgan's eyes locked onto hers, sharp and calculating, as if she were assessing every inch of the inventor, reading her thoughts, her desires, her weaknesses.

Morgan's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, and with a slight nod, she turned back to her conversation, leaving the inventor standing there, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind spinning with the weight of that brief, silent exchange.

Would Morgan come greet her?

Would she reprimand her here?

She glanced down at her uniform, panic seeping into her thoughts. Was there something wrong with her appearance? Her uniform wasn't nearly as creased as it could've been. She'd tried to iron it, to smooth every wrinkle, but had she missed something? The thought gnawed at her. Surely, there must have been a hair out of place on her head. Perhaps her collar was slightly crooked, or maybe her shoes weren't polished to the level of perfection Morgan demanded.

Her hands trembled as she set the glass down on a nearby table, her eyes darting back to Morgan. What if she was punished here, in front of everyone? What if Morgan decided to call her out for some tiny infraction—her uniform, her posture, something as small as the way she was standing?

Her breath hitched as she caught another glimpse of Morgan's gaze cutting across the room again. For the briefest moment, their eyes met once more, and a thrill shot through the inventor's body. It was subtle—so subtle that no one else would have noticed—but the look in Morgan's eyes was unmistakable.

It was a promise. A warning.

Our writers' group regularly creates both fanfiction and original works, posting across various platforms on a consistent schedule. Writers receive no profit, with any revenue going toward producing audiobooks and making fanworks more accessible to people with disabilities. As a bonus, we release chapters a day early for free, along with their free audio versions, on our blog (currently written and posted up to chapter 7) – you can check it out here: https://fictioneers.thinkific.com/pages/blog.

Don't worry, though – we'll continue posting here every week as well!

Next chapter preview:

When she was finished, Morgan stood naked only in her gloves, her posture immaculate, her expression unchanged. She looked down at the inventor, her eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "Now," she said softly, her voice like a razor's edge, "return to your knees."

The inventor's breath hitched as she obeyed, her legs shaking as she sank back down in front of Morgan, her knees pressing against the cold, hard floor. Her hands hovered in the air, unsure of what to do next, her body trembling with both fear and desire.

Morgan's lips curled into a faint smirk as she looked down at her, the power dynamic between them clearer than ever. "Spread my thighs," Morgan commanded, her voice smooth and controlled. "Slowly."

The inventor's fingers twitched, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she reached up, her hands carefully parting Morgan's thighs, exposing the soft, pale skin beneath. Her touch was hesitant, almost reverent, as though she were afraid of doing something wrong, of displeasing the woman who stood over her.

Morgan's gaze was cold and calculating as she looked down at the inventor, her posture stiff, her hands resting lightly at her sides. "Good," she murmured softly. "Now, listen very carefully."

The inventor's body tensed, her breath hitching as she waited, her entire being focused on Morgan's next command.

"I want you to use your tongue," Morgan said, her voice low but commanding. "Start at my clit. Be slow. Be precise. And don't stop until I tell you."