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!
