Office Discipline – Page 1

An up-and-coming young athlete turned businessman learns that at EQR Enterprises the price of corporate espionage is public humiliation. Another hot forced nudity story from Luther5! Art by Amalaric. Page 1.


Office Discipline – Page 1
by Luther5
Art by Amalaric

At only 23 years of age, Nathan “Nate” Dawson was one of EQR Enterprises newest and youngest rising stars.  Still maintaining his athletic build and demeanor from his recent years as a college football player, Nate turned quite a few heads–both female as well as male–as he appeared each day at work in the traditional corporate attire of dress pants, jacket, long-sleeved shirt, tie, and polished shoes, a wholesome example of athletic prowess packaged with intelligence and confidence.

I casually glanced up from my desk and looked at him as he sat in one of the waiting chairs across the carpeted office.  He reminded me of one of the many perfect athletic specimens from my own days at school, the kind of boy-man types who always seemed blissfully unaware of the effect they had on those around them.   Nate stood just under 6 feet tall with thick dark hair styled almost into what was once called a buzz cut, but perhaps just a bit longer than that.  He had a pleasant boyish quality in his facial features, features which were tempered by a strong jaw and cheekbones.  His pug nose, which some of the office females described as “cute,” seemed almost out of place on his otherwise very masculine face,  Gleaming white teeth appeared whenever he smiled, a fact which attested to his further attractiveness and vibrant health.  A thick neck tapered seamlessly into muscular shoulders and arms, a physical feature which verified to any onlooker that Nate continued regular workout sessions in the company’s private exercise and weight rooms.  A trim 32-inch waist and a well-developed pair of sturdy legs completed the athletic structure of the 23-year old sitting before me.

As Nate casually paged through one of the business periodicals on the reading table, I opened the file I had been asked to retrieve just a few hours earlier by Mr. Elliott Quentin Reynolds, CEO and founder of EQR Enterprises.  The thin file had the usual contents similar to a hundred others at the corporate headquarters:  academic transcripts, letters of recommendation, HR documents, supervisory evaluations, various certificates documenting in-service training sessions and other workshops attended, all the customary paperwork one would expect to find in files of this sort.  Having been a more-than-successful athlete during his four years of college, two of Nate’s three letters of recommendation had been written by coaches.  Phrases like “natural leader” and “focused work ethic” and “team player” peppered the paragraphs about Nate’s stellar performances as a football player.  His 3.6 cumulative GPA and the honor of “cum laude” on his diploma also attested to his academic prowess as a student, all of which made Nate a perfect fit at a company such as EQR.

Elliott Q. Reynolds, looking somehow a bit older than his 57 years, was a curious blend of old and new when it came to the kind of company he ran.  Diversity was a hallmark virtue at EQR:  financial investments, oil interests, a travel agency, as well as R&D into various technological software ventures, represented just some of the vast areas of interest which kept 600+ employees busy each working day….and many times working nights.

But Reynolds’ style, despite its visionary leaps into cutting-edge explorations, strangely echoed (almost channeled, according to some) the business titans that had long preceded him.  He admired the power and skill and prowess of a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt, or the quirky “Colonel” McCormick of Chicago-Tribune fame.  Reynolds emulated new and forward-thinking models, but he also surrounded himself with symbols of a by-gone age: a private staircase as well as elevator for his exclusive use, connecting directly from the 1st floor to the 10th without access to any of the other floors in between, concealed passages into various private rooms adjoining his office, an office exquisitely designed with carved paneling and bookcases, leaded glass windows, a stone fireplace which put Colorado ski lodges to shame, a massively-sized oak desk, brass lamps, plush carpeting, oil paintings (all originals), and various other bibelots more reminiscent of the late19th century rather than the early 21st.  Reynolds breathed power, and every object near him reflected that.

Nate had been chosen by Reynolds personally to oversee the travel agency branch of the company.  His natural enthusiasm, charm, and boyish good looks made him a natural fit at this task, his presence at corporate events and workshops a shining representation of EQR at its best.  And Reynolds liked that, perhaps thinking of Nate as the young executive he himself once used to be.  Under Nate’s more-than-adequate leadership, EQR Travel had seen dramatic growth in both domestic and international arenas.  A recently successful trip to Asia had resulted in a hefty bonus for both Nate and his entire department.

All seemed to be going more than well for Nate until the morning he had received the 6-word email from Mr. Reynolds:  “See me at 3 pm, 10th floor.”  A copy of the email had been cc’d to my computer which I then printed and inserted into Nate’s personnel file.  I couldn’t help but wonder, probably much like Nate himself, what the reason was behind the summons to the 10th floor office, especially the imperious nature of the email’s wording.  It definitely did not appear that Nate was in line for another bonus or award.


I secretly wondered if the “golden boy” sitting in my office were in for some kind of reprimand, as hard as that was to imagine.  Being called into the proverbial “woodshed” was not part of Nate Dawson’s profile, at least during his time at EQR.  Had some kind of dark deed been discovered?  As I glanced up once again at Nate’s image, I realized how little I knew about him.  I also realized how little his corporate attire did to hide his toned body.  Even sitting still the young man displayed an in-motion quality about him, a body that I inwardly desired to see in its natural state, minus the clothes that Nate had chosen to wear this particular day.  What would this man look like if I could magically begin to make his clothing disappear?  If I could click a magical “delete button” and click away his suitcoat, shirt, and tie, what would lie beneath?  Would the chest be hairless, the nipples pronounced?  If I clicked away the dress pants, what would he be wearing under them:  boxers?  briefs?  or perhaps nothing?  Little did I realize during these sensual daydreams how near I was to having these questions answered.

As Mr. Reynold’s private secretary, I often had access to the more delicate and confidential matters concerning the inner workings of his company.  Today’s events would prove this reality more than I ever imagined.

At exactly 3:02 pm, I received an intercom call from Mr. Reynolds to send Nate Dawson into the private office.  Smiling, I relayed the directive to Nate.  Placing his reading material on the table near him, he slowly stood, buttoned his suitcoat and straightened his tie, looking toward me in a kind of questioning way, as if to ask, “Do I look all right?”    Nate walked across the room toward the door I was opening into the office beyond.  “Good luck, kid,” I wanted to say” as he passed through the threshold into the private world of Elliot Quentin Reynolds.

I was surprised, a bit startled, really, to see my intercom button light up after only about 10-12 minutes into Nate’s meeting with Reynolds.  I was instructed to bring my pad with me for dictation of some sort.

Entering the cavernous office within, I discovered a standing Nate Dawson, not seated in one of the two plush wingback chairs in front of Mr. Reynold’s oak desk.  As I seated myself in a small chair next to the side of his desk, Reynolds instructed Nate to step forward and sign a single letter-sized sheet of paper, followed by further directions to initialize two additional sheets of similarly-sized paper.  After these quick tasks were completed, Mr. Reynolds handed the papers to me, instructing me to insert them in Nate’s personnel folder in my outer office.

Still standing, he appeared ashen and frozen as Reynolds began to speak.  My position next to Reynolds afforded me an unobstructed frontal view of the now visibly uncomfortable Nate Dawson.  In his official Rockefeller-Vanderbilt voice, Reynolds informed me that I was to transcribe all of his words to Dawson from that moment on, filling in the particulars of date, time, place, etc., after I had returned to my office.

“You have signed the documents, as requested, freely admitting your involvement in the illicit sharing of passwords with our rival company in Singapore during your recent Asian trip, a meeting kept clandestine until discovered by our own IT investigation.  Is this true?”

“Yes sir,” replied Nate, “that is correct.”

“And you have agreed, by signing said documents, to waive all legal counsels and instead subject yourself to our own personal, internal disciplinary action, at my discretion?”

Again, Nate answered with another, “Yes sir, that is correct.”

Nate Dawson looked straight ahead at the seated Elliott Reynolds as his personal fate with the company was being decided, not knowing exactly what was to happen next.  The air in the room had gone still despite the building’s more than adequate a/c systems.  Reynolds handed me the three signed and initialized documents as he folded the tips of the fingers together on both hands, almost as if he were ready to invoke a prayer of some kind.  But he did not begin a prayer.  Instead, looking up at Dawson, he began to speak words which were quite unexpected.

“Well, let’s get started,” Reynolds uttered as if returning his mind and body to the task before him.  “Please begin to remove all your clothes, except your shoes and stockings.  Everything else, including whatever underwear you may be wearing, place unto the chair next to you.”


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