Power-point

That moment stretched unbearably, a creeping tide of realization washing over Johanna as the room's silence took on a suffocating weight. She had been so focused on her upcoming presentation that the shift in the room had barely registered at first. The stiff expressions, the poorly concealed smirks, the darting eyes.

Then, the silence. A kind that didn't belong in a Monday morning briefing.

Her fingers tightened around the remote in her hand. A strange heat crawled up her spine. Why is everyone looking at me like that?

A flicker of unease. Was it her hair? Her lipstick? She glanced at her laptop, but it was showing the Powerpoint slide... had she not selected the correct option? She turned.

The projector screen loomed large, displaying not the quarterly sales figures, nor the carefully curated graphics she had prepared, but her.

Tied. Gagged. Lingerie-clad.

The image was unmistakable. She was sprawled on her own bed, the soft lighting of her bedroom betraying the intimacy of the moment. The ropes wrapped snugly around her limbs, immobilizing her in a way that, in another context, had been deliberate--private. The gag between her lips made her own expression one of muted surrender.

A heartbeat of sheer disbelief.... then it hit her like a freight train! Her stomach dropped, her mouth dried, her entire body seemed to shrink inward. The air felt thick, unbreathable. She could hear the shifts in posture, the barely-there exhalations of amusement or shock behind her. Someone coughed. Someone whispered something inaudible--but no doubt about her!

She forced herself to move, jerky and mechanical, slamming the laptop shut with a resounding clap--but it was too late. The image was burned into every retina in the room. A slow, creeping horror settled in as she turned back around. Now what?

The scrape of chairs and the shuffling of feet filled the room as people hesitated, some lingering, some retreating with barely concealed amusement or pity. A few exchanged glances, their lips pressed tight, caught between secondhand embarrassment and schadenfreude.

Johanna kept her eyes down. She couldn't face them. Couldn't risk seeing what was written across their expressions. Tom, however, remained standing beside her. His presence loomed close, radiating a tension she couldn't decipher. After a moment, he let out a breath--measured, careful--and gave her a few stiff pats on the back. The gesture was awkward, meant to be reassuring, but it felt more like a reflex, like something he did without knowing why.

"Alright, that's enough for today. Let's... let's all get back to work."

No one argued. No one asked questions. They simply fled! The door clicked shut behind the last escapees, leaving only the two of them in the oppressive silence. Johanna still couldn't look up. Her breathing felt uneven, shallow. Her fingers dug into the table's edge, gripping it like an anchor. Her ears burned, her skin felt too tight, and the weight of his gaze--hesitant, uncertain--was unbearable.

Tom shifted, exhaled again, then began, "Look, I...." He hesitated, rubbed the back of his neck. "I... uh...." Another pause. "Shit."

Johanna swallowed, but her throat felt like sandpaper. The air was thick with words neither of them knew how to say. And still, she couldn't meet his eyes.

Tom sighed softly, the kind that wasn't meant for her but slipped out anyway. He hesitated, then--gentler this time--patted her back once more. "Take the day off," he murmured. "You... probably need it."

Johanna's lips parted, but the answer barely escaped. "Yes...." A whisper, almost inaudible; the moment stretched.

She could feel him lingering. Not just standing there, but wanting to ask something: maybe who took that photo, maybe how it ended up there, maybe whether she was okay--a stupid, pointless question because she wasn't. But she didn't dare move. Didn't dare lift her head. Because if she did, if she looked up and saw concern or discomfort or anything in his expression, she might just break!

And worse--if she moved, she'd have to leave this small, suffocating room. She'd have to walk out there, into the open space where she knew the entire office would be watching, pretending not to stare, whispering behind their hands, side-eyeing as she gathered her things. The thought was unbearable!

Tom shifted again, his weight transferring from one foot to the other. "I can... uh... I can get your stuff for you," he offered, voice measured, cautious. Like he knew he was stepping on fragile ground. She finally swallowed, forcing down the dryness in her throat. A tiny nod. He exhaled, more relieved than he probably meant to sound, and left the room. Johanna let out a slow, shaky breath. And for a long, long moment, she didn't move at all, and then Johanna buried her face in her hands. But there was no escape--not from the image still burned into her mind, not from the moment itself.

It wasn't just the picture. It was the night before. The slow, deliberate ritual of binding herself, feeling the pressure of the ropes, the silk of the lingerie against her skin, the anticipation. The way she had angled herself just right, letting the laptop's camera capture everything, a secret performance for no one but herself.

And this morning--waking up with a thrill still humming in her veins, opening the file to watch, reliving every second, lingering on every detail as her body responded all over again. She had been so lost in it, so caught up in the heat, that she barely noticed the time. Rushed to get dressed, stuffed her laptop into her bag, ran out the door--and she hadn't closed the video.

Somehow, she had mis-clicked--maybe during setup, maybe when sharing her screen, maybe just a single, stupid slip of the fingers--and instead of the neat, professional PowerPoint deck she had prepared, she had broadcast herself! Not in crisp business attire, not in control, not the confident woman she pretended to be in meetings. But tied up, gagged, exposed. Wanting.

The whole team had seen. A silent tremor ran through her. Shame, dread, horror--everything tangled too thickly to untangle. She clenched her fingers into her scalp, willing the image to disappear, willing time to undo itself. Of course, it didn't.

The office was still outside that door. Tom was still out there, gathering her things. And Johanna... Johanna didn't know how she was ever supposed to walk back in. Tom barely had time to step fully into the room before Johanna yanked her coat and bag from his hands. The movement was sharp, almost desperate, her fingers tightening around the straps as if holding onto them might somehow steady her. Her laptop disappeared into the bag with a practiced motion, her coat wrapped around her like armor.

"Thanks," she muttered--so fast, so breathless, it barely sounded like a word at all.

And then she was gone. Out the door, out of the suffocating room, into the hallway. The open space stretched before her like a battlefield. Most of the desks were empty... most... but the two that mattered weren't, the two she had to pass to reach the door. She felt their eyes before she saw them. The weight of their attention was heavy, pricking against her skin like needles.

Ethan didn't even pretend not to stare. His gaze flickered up from his monitor, his lips pressing together like he was holding something back. A smirk? A comment? He didn't speak, but his eyes lingered--too long, too knowing. And Tatiana--a woman she actually worked with, someone she talked to--was worse. And she wasn't smirking... no, her expression was something else entirely. Pity? Sympathy? Embarrassment for her? Johanna didn't know which was more damning.

She kept her head down, shoulders hunched, feet moving too fast but not fast enough. The door was still ahead, too far ahead, but she didn't stop. She didn't let herself hesitate. The only thing that mattered was leaving!...

... Returning home was a blur of movement and numb autopilot. She barely remembered the train ride, the walk from the station, the fumbling with her keys. It all passed like static, distant and unreal, until the moment she slammed the front door shut behind her. The sound echoed in the silence of her apartment. Too loud... finality. Her heart was still racing, pounding so fast it hurt. And she felt cold. So cold. Not from the February air outside, but from the aftermath--the hollow, shaking chill of humiliation, of adrenaline that had nowhere to go.

A shower! Maybe a shower would help. Scalding hot water, steam filling the room, washing away the filthiness of the day.... Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe standing there, naked under the spray, would only bring back the image--the picture, the moment, the memory of this morning in this very apartment, where she had been so carefree, so unaware of what was about to happen. No. A shower wasn't it.

Bed! Burying herself under the covers. Curling up in the dark, where no one could see her.

Johanna dropped her bag, peeled off her coat, and made for the bedroom, her fingers already pulling at the buttons of her blouse, loosening her high heels on the way. She needed to disappear.

Johanna's fingers stilled at the waistband of her suit pants as she entered her bedroom. Her breath caught. The room was exactly as she had left it. The big red ball-gag, resting on the nightstand where she had tossed it last night. The ropes, coiled in careless loops on the bed, still twisted from where she had struggled against them. Her delicate lingerie, soft and 'barely there', discarded on the sheets--the same sheets displayed in the video!

Her stomach clenched. She had been so sure she would come back home tonight, exhausted but satisfied with her presentation, maybe even celebrating a successful meeting and day. Instead, she stood there--half-undressed, shaking, ruined--staring at the remnants of her own undoing. Her knees almost buckled. It felt like a crime scene. A frozen moment in time. This was where it had started--where she had let herself sink into pleasure, abandon, recklessness... and hours later, the consequences had played out in front of the entire team. And now she was back here!

Johanna forced out a breath, harsh and uneven. She should clean up. Shove everything away, out of sight. But she couldn't move. Her eyes stayed locked on the gag. The ropes. The lingerie.

It wasn't just what they had seen--it was what they now knew about her.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, her pants half undone, her breathing shallow. She couldn't go back. Not after this. She had always been so careful, so private about this part of herself. It wasn't just a kink--it was hers! Something deeper, something she had never found the courage to share. She had tried, once or twice. Let boyfriends tie her wrists, let them play at dominance, but it had never been real. They saw it as just another game, something to spice up sex, a fleeting novelty.

But to her, it was everything! The surrender. The tension in the ropes, the feeling of helplessness, of being bound not for someone else's pleasure, but her own. The ball-gag, muffling her voice, forcing her into silence. The exhilaration of struggling, knowing she couldn't escape. That was why she did it alone. Because alone, it was real. Alone, it was hers.

And now--fourteen people had seen it. Not just ropes on her wrists. Not just a playful blindfold. Everything. The gag in her mouth, the lingerie, the hogtie, the sheer, unmistakable pleasure on her face. They hadn't just seen her naked body. They had seen her exposed!

Johanna pressed a trembling hand against her mouth, but it wasn't enough to stop the heat rising up her neck, the pure, blistering humiliation curling in her gut. How was she supposed to walk into that office again? How was she supposed to face them, knowing that every time they looked at her, they would be picturing this?

She wriggled out of her pants, her underwear and stockings, the bra. All she wanted to feel was the warm embrace of the blanket. She curled up tighter beneath its thickness, pressing her face into the pillow as sobs shook her.

It wasn't even about the event anymore. Not just the horror of what had happened, not just the humiliation of knowing that fourteen people had seen her like that. It was something deeper, something that had been simmering for years.

She had always been two people. At work, she had no trouble standing in front of a room, speaking with confidence, owning the space. She could lead, direct, handle pressure. But her personal life? That was different. There, she was shy. Sure, she could chat about her love for rats, about the hours she spent building Lego sets, but her real desires--her true desires--stayed locked away. She had tried sharing. But it was so hard expressing it properly.

It was so much more than just a game. And that was why she had started filming herself. Because she had no one else to see her the way she wanted to be seen. Because she wanted to capture that feeling, to relive it, to experience herself in a way no one else ever had. And that was what made it so bad.

It wasn't just her half-naked body on display. It was her secret self, the part of her she had never been brave enough to share since her adolescence. The part of her she had convinced herself no one would ever understand.

Now, though, fourteen people knew, all of them coworkers.

Johanna clenched her eyes shut, gripping the blanket like it could somehow hold her together. She had never felt more seen in her life. And she had never wanted to disappear more. For perhaps hours she lay there, pondering, reliving the mortifying moment. Unable to get past it, to think. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. Her arm shot out of the protective cocoon, found her discarded pants, then reached for her cell-phone and brought it back into the dark nest. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard... she wanted to ask for help, to throw this problem into the anonymous void of the internet and have some stranger tell her how to fix it. She wanted someone to say, It's not that bad. You can move past this. People forget things.

But no matter how she worded it, no matter how much she tried to disguise the details, every attempt at a post sounded like a confession. And what if someone from work saw it? The situation wasn't just some generic "I embarrassed myself at work." The specifics of the event--the PowerPoint, the projector, the team, the content--were instantly recognizable to any attendees. It wasn't the kind of story people read and forgot. It was the kind of thing that would stick.

And even if no one from work ever saw it, she would still know. She would know she had been stupid enough to let this happen. That she had been reckless, that her own need to relive that nighttime moment of pleasure had led to this disaster. Her stomach churned.

Quitting wasn't an option. She needed this job. She had worked too hard to get here, and throwing it all away because of this--because of her own mistake--would make it even worse. She had to find a way to move forward.

But how? How could she walk into that office knowing that when people looked at her, they wouldn't just see their coworker, the competent, professional Johanna--they would see her on that bed, gagged and helpless, writhing in pleasure? Her throat tightened.

There had to be a way. There had to be....

_____________

... That next morning, the soft click of Johanna's heels against the office floor was the only sound she allowed herself to focus on. Not the hushed conversations that seemed to pause as she passed. Not the quick, stolen glances from behind computer screens.

She kept her chin high, her posture straight, owning every step. The collar sat snugly against her throat--deliberate, unmistakable. A thin band of black leather, elegant but impossible to ignore. Not a choker, not a necklace, not something she could pass off as an accessory. No, it was a collar. And it was there on purpose.

If people were going to talk, then she would control the story. They could whisper, they could stare, they could wonder if she had always worn it, if it meant what they thought it did, if she was confirming what they had all seen, or instead just playing some bizarre game of office mind-fuckery. She could feel the weight of their gazes pressing in, but she didn't falter. Not even when she reached her desk.

Tom was there. She had expected that. He wasn't staring at the collar directly, but his eyes had flickered to it the second she walked in. Now, he was looking at her face, searching for something--uncertainty? An explanation? Permission to say something? Johanna simply smiled.

"Morning," she said smoothly, sliding into her chair and crossing one leg over the other.

Tom hesitated. Then, after a long beat, he nodded. "Morning."

He clicked his tongue, and left, leaving the door open. Leaving her be on her own. She had to catch up--a full day's worth of emails had stacked up, demanding her attention. Ignoring them would be easy, but isolating herself would be a mistake. She scanned through the important ones first, replying where necessary, flagging the rest for later. Then, with a steadying breath, she stretched out her leg, stood up, and reached for her mug.

The break room. There would be people there. Conversations she couldn't avoid forever. She walked with purpose, neither rushing nor hesitating. She wouldn't overplay it--no forced confidence, no exaggerated ease. But she would make it clear, that she knew what had happened yesterday. And she wasn't going to hide.

The break room was filled with the low hum of conversation, the clink of mugs against countertops, the quiet beeping of the microwave as someone reheated their breakfast. Johanna stepped inside, her heels clicking against the tiles, and immediately felt the shift. Not silence, exactly, but a hesitation. A slight lull in conversation as people registered her presence. A flicker of eyes toward her, then toward her collar, then away again--quickly, deliberately.

She didn't pause. She wouldn't pause. Johanna moved straight to the coffee machine, calm, composed, pouring herself a cup with the same quiet efficiency as any other day. She wasn't ignoring what had happened. She wasn't pretending it hadn't happened. But she also wasn't going to cower. Not anymore.

A few feet away, Lisa and Mark were standing by the counter. Lisa--always the office gossip--was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, dying to say something but not quite sure how. Mark, on the other hand, was pointedly focused on stirring his coffee, like he wanted to opt out of whatever was about to happen.

Johanna took a slow sip of hers, then turned slightly, her voice light, easy. "Something on your mind, Lisa?"

The other woman blinked. There it was, that split second of panic, realizing she had been called out. That if she had been planning to whisper about it later, Johanna had just taken that option away. Lisa hesitated--then forced a small, awkward laugh.

"No, I just...." She cleared her throat. "I like your... uh... necklace."

Johanna let a slow, knowing smile curve her lips. "Oh?" she said, tilting her head slightly. "Do you?" Lisa turned red. Mark coughed into his coffee. Johanna took another sip of hers, utterly unfazed. "Thanks," she continued, her tone breezy. "I've always had a thing for leather." And then she turned away, grabbed a sugar packet, and went back to stirring her coffee--like nothing had happened. Johanna took a slow breath, willing herself to keep the easy, measured composure she had practiced. Don't overdo it. Don't shrink, she told herself. Just keep the balance.

Amanda, standing across from her with her arms loosely crossed, looked hesitant, like she wasn't sure if she was stepping over some invisible line. She exchanged the same casual "morning" routine with Johanna, and of course, the conversation slipped to yesterday's blunder.

"It's just...." Amanda bit her lip, glancing around before lowering her voice. "Nobody's really saying anything. And that's weird, isn't it?"

Johanna tilted her head slightly, stirring her coffee again, more for something to do than anything else. Weird? Yes. But also... not. "I'm guessing everyone has decided it's not a polite topic of conversation," Johanna said lightly, offering a small, knowing smile. "Or maybe they're too scared to be the first one to bring it up."

Amanda gave a short, breathy laugh--half amused, half uncertain. "I mean... yeah, maybe," she replied. Then, after a beat, more softly, "Are you okay, though?"

That part threw her. Johanna hadn't expected anyone to ask. Not really. For a second--just a second--the mask almost slipped. The calm, collected act she had been building wobbled, and something in her chest tightened. She could still see the scene, burned into her mind--the ropes, the gag, the way her body had twisted in the restraints, the way she had looked--helpless, exposed, euphoric. And they had all seen it.

She forced her shoulders to stay loose, forced her hand to keep stirring the coffee instead of clenching around the cup. "I'm fine," Johanna said smoothly. "It was... embarrassing, sure. But... you know." Another small smile, another casual shrug. "I survived."

Amanda studied her for a long second, her lips pressing together. "... Okay," she said at last, though she didn't sound entirely convinced.

Johanna held her gaze. Let her wonder. Let them all wonder. She was setting the terms now....

_____________

... Johanna kept typing, her fingers precise and quick, but her thoughts ran wild. Setting the terms. Yeah, right! Right? They all knew now, she told herself. Not just that she liked it, but how deeply. Would they look at her differently? Well, yes. Would they think she had always been this polished, this put-together, because of that secret life? Would they picture her sitting at her desk right now, stockings perfectly smooth, blouse crisply tucked in--and underneath, lace and silk instead of cotton and comfort? Would they imagine her bag, sleek and professional, filled not just with a laptop and documents but something else--a gag, a coil of rope, a reminder of what they had seen?

She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her face neutral. She had come in today to own it. To control the narrative before it controlled her. But control didn't come easily when her own mind seemed to be helping them picture it.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her legs. Did they notice that, too? She couldn't tell. But the way Amanda had looked at her--half curious, half hesitant--Johanna was certain of one thing: They were thinking something....

... Right before noon, as the office buzzed with the pre-lunch lull, Johanna heard the door to her office click shut. She looked up, already knowing who it was. Tom stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same unreadable expression he had worn yesterday when he dismissed the team. She smiled, a small, deliberate gesture--composed, confident. Office Johanna.

But he didn't smile back. Instead, he let out a quiet breath and said, "Is this collar all there is to be in the future? In the office?" There it was! What he had wanted to say earlier. What he had held back. Johanna reached up, fingers grazing the thin leather around her throat. It wasn't a heavy, obvious thing, but it was there, peeking from the wide collar of her blouse. A silent answer. She nodded. Tom studied her for a moment, then shifted his weight. "I'm not going to reprimand you," he said. "The embarrassment you faced was enough already."

She nodded again, this time quicker, unsure if relief or something else was tightening in her chest. Johanna felt her cheeks heat up as she lowered her gaze. She knew Tom wasn't scolding her like a child, but it felt like it. The firm tone. The quiet authority. The way he stood there, hands in his pockets, giving her a rule to follow! Her fingers twitched against her skirt. No more using anything office-related for anything bondage. He had said it so plainly, so matter-of-factly.

Her breath caught. Did he even realize how that sounded? Did he hear the unintentional implication in his own words? Was he imagining her tied to her office chair? Bound with printer cable? A gag between her lips, muffling her moans while she sat right here, in this very office?

She swallowed. She had been so determined to own this, to control the moment. And yet, here she was, nodding quickly, meekly, like a guilty girl caught red-handed. And it aroused her. Of course it did. It had to.

She shifted slightly in her seat, willing herself to push the thought away, to stay Office Johanna. But the way Tom exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn't quite sure what else to say--but that he wasn't unaffected either--sent a shiver down her spine.

"Good," he finally said, voice a little softer. "Then... let's move on."

She nodded again, lips pressed together. But "moving on" wasn't going to be easy....

... Johanna had spent the morning balancing between the mask of 'Office Johanna' and the raw, screaming mess of her inner self. She had answered emails, taken calls, even participated in a meeting without a single slip. But beneath the surface, she was keenly aware of every glance, every second of silence too long to be normal. Then came lunch.

She didn't hesitate--she couldn't hesitate. Isolating herself would only make things worse. So she grabbed her coat, her purse, and walked with purpose to join Amanda, Mark, Andrew, and Tatiana, the usual lunchtime group.

The air outside was crisp, the kind that bit at the skin but refreshed the mind. Conversation had been light, almost forced in that 'let's pretend nothing happened' way. And then Mark, grinning like he always did when he was about to say something stupid, glanced at her and smirked. "Hey, Jo. Taking it to the world too?"

The words hit her like a slap. Her breath caught. It took her a second to realize what he meant. Then her hand flew up--instinctively, protectively--touching the thin leather collar around her neck. The one she had chosen so deliberately this morning.

Amanda chuckled, but it was nervous. Tatiana was blushing furiously. Andrew, ever the diplomat, was suddenly checking his phone as if his life depended on it. Johanna swallowed, fingers resting against the smooth leather.

Shit! She had known this would happen. She had prepared for it. But somehow, standing here, facing it, was so much harder. Her fingers moved, unclasping the buckle with smooth efficiency. She slid the collar off, holding it loosely in one hand. Mark's smirk hadn't faded. He was waiting, seeing if she'd stammer, if she'd run. No. Not happening.

Johanna inhaled, forced a slow smile, and tilted her head. "What, you think I should keep it on?" she asked, her voice carrying that same cool confidence she used in meetings. "Maybe you want one too? We could all match."

That got them. Amanda actually laughed, a genuine, startled sound. Tatiana let out a small "Oh my god!" under her breath. And Mark? Mark looked completely caught off-guard. He barked out a laugh, shaking his head.

"Oh, hell no," he said, holding up his hands. "That's all you."

Johanna shrugged, stuffing the collar into her purse with a casualness she didn't entirely feel. "Shame," she mused. "I think you'd rock the look."

The tension cracked, just slightly. The weight of everything wasn't gone, but it was lighter now. As they continued toward their usual restaurant, the conversation drifted back into safer waters. The awkwardness would linger, sure. Moving on wasn't going to be easy. But something had shifted. A strange, unexpected clarity settled in--the kind that came not from resolution, but from inevitability. If she had to frame it in corporate terms, she could call it a 'merger'. Two Johannas becoming one. The polished, poised professional and the private self she had always kept locked away.

It felt absurd. Out of place. And yet, it was happening!

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

© 2025 by Eawyne

Edited by Danysuling