Story - The Ritual

One of the authors whose stories I have loved reading for sometime is by the late Alex Birch who passed away a few years ago. He was a lovely man by all accounts and a great writer and you can still find some of his works on the web if you care to look. Here is an example of his writing for you all to enjoy and the ritual of a spanking is something I really enjoy.

As she entered the bedroom, her throat tightened and the trembling began. It had always been the same, would always be the same, and there was no point in fighting it. She stared into the full length mirror as always before slowly unfastening her dress, letting it drop slowly down around her ankles. She stepped out of it, her eyes never leaving the mirror as she performed the same operation with her slip and then her pantyhose. She looked at herself in the mirror once more contemplating her body as she stood like a statue in just her bra and knickers.

 

Swallowing hard she reached behind and unfastened the clasp of her brassiere, then slid it off and put it on the chair, all the time staring in the mirror at her large breasts with the pale pink nipples, breasts now heaving in time with her excited breathing. Slowly she pulled her knickers down and stepped out of them, kicking them to one side as she gazed almost critically through the mirror at the sparse covering of hair protecting her sex .

Five minutes he always gave her. Five minutes to get herself completely naked and in position before he walked through that bedroom door, cane in hand. If he walked in and found her unready, and it had only happened once, the punishment would be doubled. She had never wanted to repeat that experience. It was usually twelve strokes anyway.

Swallowing hard once more she turned and knelt up on the bed, her bottom towards the mirror, then pulled forward the two pillows over which she would lie, raising her bottom higher for punishment. Before taking up the position she reached into her bedside cabinet and took out a hand mirror which she placed beside her on the bed.

Imagining she could hear his footsteps on the stairs, she rested her stomach across the two pillows bringing her knees up as far as she could so that her bottom was fully elevated then she reached for the hand mirror beside her and looked at the reflection of her rear through the tall mirror behind her. As always she found the spectacle exciting and very lewd, bringing her knees just a little further up so that the angle widened her bottom cheeks. She gasped aloud as she gazed at the view that he must have seen every time he punished her and wondered if it had ever aroused him. Between the plump,stretched cheeks of her bottom, the tiny wrinkled button of her anus was offered up and, underneath, the tight salmon pink slit of her vagina seemed to almost demand attention. She felt her heart begin to beat even faster. She had taken about four minutes so far and there would normally be one minute for her to lie in this demeaning position as she contemplated her wickedness and her humiliation as every private place a modest girl possessed was graphically displayed. She put the small mirror away and lay forward, her head resting on her arms as he had always demanded.

She thought about what always happened next. He always walked into the room quietly without knocking and cast his gaze over her as she lay there with her bottom raised, trembling with fear and anticipation. Nothing was said unless he found fault with her posture or state of readiness and then it was one terse word... 'double!'. She would tense her buttocks as she felt the cold rattan laid against the cheeks of her backside and then, seconds later, she would try to suppress a scream as a line of burning fire raced across her bare bottom. He would pause then for maybe half a minute as she absorbed the full pain and terror of that first stroke before revisiting his target with the second. She never knew if he would lay the next over a the first weal or on a new patch of virgin skin which added to the fear and torment in her mind. As the caning continued and the pain began to mount it was all she could do to hug the soft coverlet, burying her head into her arms in order to suppress the wild scream that was striving to be released. Screaming was not permitted and usually led to additional strokes. Woe betide her too if her self discipline failed and she rolled over onto her side for then the punishment would begin again. She had trained herself to bite into her wrists and absorb the dreadful, sickening agony of the caning, almost crying with joy when she heard him sit down on the bedside chair having spoken just four words 'Five minutes crying time!' for now she knew it was over.

This meant she now had five minutes to lie, unmoving, in this degrading position as he sat and watched while the pain and humiliation of her beating sank in. Five minutes where she was allowed to open her heart and her lungs to cry out all her shame and her naughtiness as he watched in silence. It was five minutes which she always put to good use, weeping her heart out at the pain and indignity she had suffered and was suffering. Five minutes while she reflected on the misdeeds which had brought her to this state. Five minutes too where the violent agony of her caning began to diminish slightly, becoming a pervasive warmth which spread like a forest fire across her buttocks and into her loins where sudden, shameful and unexpected feelings began to vie with the dreadful pain and embarrassment. She would cry and blush in her shame and agony before he said tersely 'Get up!'

Then she would climb painfully from the bed and dry her eyes for now she was expected to be back in control and attentive. She would stand facing him with her hands on her head, still completely naked, as he lectured her on her misdeeds and tell her that even worse would follow should she misbehave again. Then, the lecture over, she would get into her night clothes as he watched impassively and clamber into bed regardless of the time of day. She would stay in bed until the following morning with no meals. Tomorrow he would kiss and cuddle her with a tear in his eye but tonight, content with proceedings, he would rise from the chair and leave her room without a word.

She lay still as she contemplated his arrival. There would be about ten seconds now and she could almost hear his footsteps on the stairs ...nine, eight, seven... then brrrrrrrr!!! ...the doorbell rang!!

She nearly had a heart attack as she clambered from the bed and looked at her watch. 11am ..Oh God, they were early. She shouted down through the bedroom window and, flustered, began to climb back into her clothes. Through the open window she heard her son's cheerful reply and the lively giggling of her two young granddaughters. Her face lit up with delight for to see her son and daughter -in-law and the two beautiful girls brought warmth into her lonely life. How times had changed, she thought, for the two youngsters had grown into lovely children without experiencing even a punishing hand in their lives. Spanking to them was some word in history books from a bygone age. .

Before finishing her dressing she reached into the bedside cabinet once more and found the creased sepia photograph of a slim stern man with swept back hair and a neatly waxed moustache. She kissed it tenderly as she always did, a tear not far away, as she replaced the photograph of her father in the drawer. Still tense with excitement and before replacing her knickers, she explored betwen her legs and found as always after these re-enactments that despite her sixty eight years she was extremely moist. She reached for a tissue and dried herself before replacing her underwear. Moving now to her bedroom door, she allowed herself a guilty smile. Perhaps those wonderful little girls standing on her doorstep had everything going for them but they WERE missing something exciting in their lives which could never be explained logically.

Perhaps they would find out for themselves one day across the lap of a lover or husband but they sure as hell weren't going to find out from Grandma!

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Story - A Shoplifter Caned

Another of my favorite writers from way back is Mike from London and the story spot features one of his stories todat.  He mainly writes school scene spanking stories that fit in with the role play post of a few days ago, however he write the occasional adult based story to. If you would like to read some of his other stories they can be found a Laura Spanking Corner by following this link. 

Shoplifter Caned 

I own a small bookshop in Ilford and, as I am generally serving alone in the shop, there is quite a problem with shoplifting. To prevent this I have a system of mirrors so that I can see what is going on in the shop while I am in the backroom. 

About a fortnight ago a young lady about twenty years old came into the shop and started looking at the books. I asked her if she was looking for anything in particular but she said she was just browsing. As she was the only customer and I had to go through some orders I left her looking at the books and went through into the back. After a minute or two I glanced up and was surprised to see her slipping a hardback book into her bag. I came out and asked her if she had found anything she wanted, but she brazenly said she hadn't and started to walk out.

I stepped into her way and grabbed hold of her bag. I said 'Oh no you don't! You haven't paid for that book in there!' 

I opened the bag and took out the book. At first she said that she had brought it with her, but when it was opened it still had my shop's marker inside it. I told her that I was going to telephone the police as I always prosecuted shoplifters.

I was surprised at the response. I had expected the 'couldn't care less' attitude I had come across on most similar occasions but instead she was very distressed and obviously near tears (though I suppose she may have put this on to gain my sympathy).

I told her that what she had done was against the law and that she was a criminal and that the law must take its course. She begged me not to phone the police; she was training to be a solicitor and her parents had spent hundreds of pounds on her to get a degree and pass the Law Society Examinations. If I reported her it would all be wasted as she would not be allowed to qualify as a solicitor if she had just been convicted of shoplifting.

I said that was her fault and she should have thought of that first, but she kept on imploring me. She said that she knew that she had done wrong but that her whole life and future career would be ruined if she had to go to court, and that she would not be able to face her parents.

It was only then that I thought of the obvious. Several years ago when my son, Richard, had been a mischievous schoolboy I had occasionally used a few quick whacks from a regulation school cane on him when he was exceptionally naughty. I was almost sure it was still upstairs. Looking at this girl admitting she had done wrong and begging me not to go to the police reminded me irresistibly of Richard aged twelve begging me not to give him his first ever caning.

I said to the girl, 'Well, you admit that you attempted to steal the book which was a crime, so you must be punished. I will only agree not to go to the police if you agree to take your punishment from me.'

She asked hesitantly what I meant, but I think she guessed by then. I told her that I thought I still had a school punishment cane upstairs and that the choice was hers; so far as I was concerned I would phone the police that minute. She asked what her punishment would be if she agreed.

I said that there were two elements to a caning - pain and humiliation. If anyone deserved a sound caning she did and I would give her nine strokes on her clothed bottom and a final tenth stroke on her bared backside. I knew that this would add greatly to the punishment. Richard had always hated taking his trousers down and presenting his already wealed bottom to receive yet another stroke - and it would obviously be very much more humiliating for a twenty year old girl to have to show her naked caned bottom to a strange man.

When I explained my proposals to the girl she didn't speak for a while and then she started to cry. She said she couldn't make up her mind. She didn't want me to go to the police, but she couldn't stand the idea of taking her clothes off in front of a stranger. I said that my only interest was that she got the punishment that she deserved one way or another. I suggested that she go off and walk around a bit to make her mind up and come back at six o'clock in the evening. I would keep her handbag as a safeguard and I told her that if she wasn't back by then I would telephone the police.

I took a good look at her. She was an very attractive young lady, about twenty as I said, around 5'4" tall and slimly built. She had long, light blonde hair and was wearing a blue cotton top with the words from a Coca-Cola advert written across it. It was quite tight and showed off her breasts very well - she didn't seem to be wearing a bra. She also had on a figure-hugging pair of white trousers and a pair of chunky sandals. I could see that she wasn't wearing pantyhose as her toes were free.

The material in her trousers seemed quite thin and I was quite satisfied that she would really feel the effects of a caning if she decided that way. I told her not to change her clothes in any way or put on pantyhose or another pair of panties if she decided to be punished by me. If she did she would get the entire punishment on the bare.

After she left I checked in the handbag to get some information in the intervals between serving customers. I soon saw that she had been telling the truth about training to be a solicitor and she had an orange card saying Law Society Student's Card. I saw that her name was Michaela Peterson and also noted her address. The shop closed at 5.30 and I went upstairs to find the cane. It didn't take me long and I practised a few experimental whacks and left the cane lying on my bed.

I had suggested 6.00 as both shops next to me would be closed by then and no-one lived above them. Should Michaela elect for a caning there would be nobody to hear if she yelled out during the punishment.

Just before 6.00 the bell rang and I opened the door. Michaela was there with a determined look on her face. She said that she had decided that it would have to be the caning and that she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. I asked her if she wanted to go to the toilet but she said no. So I led her to my bedroom and then left her for a few minutes, telling her to wait. I did this as I knew that waiting would make the punishment worse. When I came back Michaela was holding the cane, obviously trying to imagine what its effect on her bottom would be. At last it was time for me to show her.

I told her to stand by the bed, about two feet away, and bend down, placing her hands on the bed. The tight white trousers stretched themselves over Michaela's lower curves, displaying her bottom cheeks to perfection. I could see the shape of her panties through the thin material. The broad feminine bottom was a real contrast to young Richard's schoolboy backside in his dark grey trousers! I swung the cane lightly on to her bottom and away again to check that I had enough room for a free swing. Then I said 'Right. This is your last chance - shall I phone the police?'

She said in a choked voice, obviously between gritted teeth: 'No!' So I said that as the idea was that no-one should know what she had done, or that she'd been caned it was up to her not to shout out as otherwise people might come in to ask what was going on. I told her I would give her an extra stroke for each time she cried out loudly. Actually, of course, there was no chance of anyone hearing but Michaela couldn't know that and it would not be a very satisfactory punishment if she yelled and shrieked and struggled at every stroke - after all she had, literally, asked for it.

I kept her waiting for the first stroke and swished the cane in the air a few times so as to take her by surprise, watching that pert bottom flinch expectantly each time. Then I lifted the cane as high as possible and brought it down with all the strength of my right arm, putting all my weight - 12 stone 4 pounds - behind it. It landed exactly half way up the target area and there was a very satisfactory Whack!

Michaela gave a convulsive leap upwards and her hands went to her bottom. She could not restrain a high-pitched note of pain, but cut it off short. I admired her courage as she immediately bent down again ready for the next stroke. I counted 'One!'.

Once again I took my time over the next stroke, relishing the sight of Michaela's delectable rear. Then I whipped the cane down again, landing it slightly lower. It was as hard as the first one but she took it well, apart from some involuntary squirmings. I said 'Two!' and slashed down the next stroke almost simultaneously. It had the desired effect and took her by surprise; she yelled out blue murder. So I didn't count that one and gave her another in as near as possible the same place.

She jumped and I heard the gasp of her sharp intake of breath, but she restrained her yell. So the punishment was one third over so far as the over-trousers caning was concerned. I took stock of the situation. Michaela had begun to cry and she was breathing heavily, her breasts wobbling through her teeshirt, she was still in position but couldn't help moving all the time. Her long fair hair was all over the place and right over her eyes.

I released stroke four which landed just on the lower curves of her buttocks - again her hands went to her trousers and away. The next stroke landed in the same place and Michaela yelled loudly again. So I didn't count that one and whacked another one in, just as hard, in the same place.

Stroke six was an experiment. I aimed it just to the left buttock so that the tip of the cane dug in hard halfway across her trousers. She was by now sobbing continuously, but it did not evoke a yell. The remaining three strokes I aimed low, below the pantie-line. I hit as hard as I could, but although she certainly felt them, as she showed by jerking violently each time the cane collided with her drum- tight trousers, she didn't yell out. I was getting tired.

After the ninth stroke (actually, of course, the eleventh!) had reverberated round the room I stood there watching Michaela's trousered bottom and listening to her whimperings. Although I had counted nine she still remained in position.

I told her to get up and she did - slowly and unsteadily. She put her hands to her trousers, stretching out her long, delicate fingers to cover the whole devastated area and tenderly caress it. When she seemed in command of herself I told her to pull down her trousers.

At first she started to protest and refused, but when I insisted and told her it had been her choice she started to undo them. All resistance was gone. With her back to me she very carefully and slowly began to draw her trousers down. I didn't blame her for being slow about it. It clearly hurt like hell sliding those trousers over her swollen and wealed buttocks. She'd been wearing white panties which were almost transparent and the marks showed clearly through them as her trousers fell to her sandals.

Then I told her to drop the panties too and after a while she did. This was an even more careful operation and she was constantly squealing to herself. When they reached her ankles I told her to bend down again and she did so hesitantly, trying to keep her shaky legs as close together as she could.

I stood for almost a minute looking at the pattern of weals on her arse and then suddenly let loose with the hardest stroke I could muster, aiming it diagonally so as to cross the biggest, most raised weals. This time her yell was frighteningly loud even though I knew no-one could hear. So I said 'That's another one then!' and waited for her to position herself again. when she did so I just tapped her bottom lightly with the cane and said 'Ten!'. She didn't deserve any more, she'd been really brave.

I told her she could stand up now and as she did so I saw some blood seep out from that last punishing stroke - no wonder she'd screamed. I told Michaela to get dressed and said that it might be an idea for her to put her trousers back on without the panties, and this is what she did. I also suggested that she washed her face and tidied her hair and then come downstairs, where I would be waiting.

When she finally reappeared I said that she had taken her punishment well and that so far as I was concerned it was all forgotten. I offered her a cup of tea and suggested she stayed indoors for a while till the worst of the pain went and only then went back to her flat. Otherwise her flat-mates would probably guess more or less what had happened. Surprisingly enough she accepted and I quite enjoyed sitting down to my tea watching her drinking hers, standing up and still crying quietly.

Afterwards we went into the sitting room and I switched on the telly. We watched until after News at Ten and by then she had stopped crying and dried her tears. During the news she made an attempt to sit down. Very carefully she lowered herself onto a chair. But as soon as her trousers made contact with the seat she jumped up again with a stifled 'Owww!'. She hopped from one foot to the other and then turned to me and said with a tight smile 'I don't really feel like sitting down at the moment. I'd rather stand!'

After the news Michaela made up her face and managed to control her expression so that no-one would guess what she had been through. She still walked stiffly, though, and could not help an occasional grimace of pain. She told me that if her flat-mates noticed anything she would tell them that she had banged her leg and bruised it badly. I handed her back her handbag and she put her panties in it. Finally, just before 11.00, she left, and I wished her luck in her profession.

This was the last I saw of Michaela until yesterday when she walked back into my shop again. This time she was wearing a printed summer frock. There were other customers, but when they had been served and had gone she walked over to the counter. I was rather surprised but pleased to see her. I asked her how she was.

She knew what I meant and said that she was still sore and bruised though she rubbed soothing cream in every night. She told me that it still hurt to sit down and that she had had to take two days off work. She said, though, that she knew that she'd deserved it and that she'd come back to say that she was very sorry and would not ever do anything like it again.

I told her that she was a brave girl but that she had probably needed a good spanking. She replied, 'Well, if so, I certainly got one!' and ruefully rubbed her bottom. She told me that she had not worn trousers or jeans all that fortnight as they rubbed so painfully but had worn loose skirts and dresses all the while.

In the end she got out her purse and gave me £4.95. She finally bought the book it had all been about! And then Michaela went out again and I watched her bottom wiggle through her frock and thought about the marks that I alone knew were on it.

So far no-one else has tried to shoplift but I think now that I'll offer anyone I catch the same choice. The cane has probably been a more effective punishment for Michaela than a fine would have been, and she didn't deserve to have her whole career ruined.

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Story - The Business at Hand

Yet another story from the alt.sex.spanking newsgroup from many moons ago. This time it is a work based story where a male boss gets to cane his female assistant and more. I hope you enjoy it although the it is not a female spanking male story that seem to get more views on the blog.

The Business at Hand

She closed the heavy wooden door, her palm almost cold on the brass knob. The muffled click of the latch seemed unbearably loud. She always felt vulnerable at this precise moment, as if every sound they made must give away what was happening behind the locked door of the executive office. She knew that it wasn't true, knew that no sound she could make short of screaming could escape into the offices beyond, but her fear always made her quiet anyway, always made her bury her face in her arms when she began to make sounds, rather than risk giving herself away.

She turned toward him, not quite able to meet his eyes.

"Clear the top of the desk," he said, his own voice low, not because he was afraid of being heard, but because he liked to make her listen carefully to hear him.

She looked up into his face now, the first order making her ready to plead. "Please. I'm sorry."

There was no anger in his face, but there was also no hint of sympathy for her mounting distress. He nodded toward the large oak desk, and she made herself walk over to it, moving telephone, framed photograph and paperweight off to a nearby window sill.

"Careful with those papers," he said more sternly, as she picked up the proposal from Delaney & Associates. "And as for being sorry -- I'm sure you *are* sorry, my dear. But I'm afraid you are going to be a good deal sorrier. It's not as if I haven't had to correct you before about your unprofessional conduct, is it?"

"No, sir," she whispered. No. Not a week passed when she did not find herself with him behind this locked door, her heart beating out the same erratic pattern of apprehension and disbelief at her predicament. Sometimes he hauled her across his lap and spanked her with a hardwood ruler as she kicked and cried and promised that she would dress and act appropriately from now on. Sometimes he bent her over the back of a chair, doubling his stiff leather trouser belt in his hand and whipping it across her bottom and thighs until she was reddened and tearful.

And sometimes, like today, he made her bend over the desk and wait, heart pounding, as he dispassionately tapped her bared bottom with the thin rattan cane, then raised his arm to give her six or twelve or even more cuts that made her press her face hard into the desk to stifle the cries she couldn't help but make.

The cane was meant to communicate serious disapproval for especially egregious breaches of conduct. "Delaney and Associates are offering us access to a whole new revenue stream." His voice continued quiet as she added her heavy silk blouse to the pile on the window sill, and took her place at the side of the desk. "That is the business at hand today, and they will be here in less than an hour. Not the best of times for you to play the slut with me, is it?"

She hated to answer, but knew better than to make him repeat the question. "No, sir. I was wrong to...to be asking you to..." She stumbled over her words.

"Asking me? Telling me, I think. Yes, dear, you were wrong to tell me to fuck you. You're not in position yet." He had dropped his voice another notch, and she hastily bent over the desk, her arms stretched in front of her, the back of her legs tight, her bottom almost aching already from mingled anticipation and dread.

She heard him move behind her and so did not flinch too strongly when she felt his hands on her skirt. Her face burned as he pushed the skirt slowly to her waist. "No panties. Garter belt and stockings with a skirt that barely comes to your knees. What do you deserve for dressing this way on the day of an important meeting?"

His first hard slap on her behind drowned out the automatic, "I'm sorry..." of her reply. She gasped a little, then gasped louder at the second slap, two balanced centers of pain burning now on each side of her bottom.

The rub of his hand on her stinging bottom made her relax again, as if she didn't know what was coming next. "You deserve a caning, don't you?" He didn't wait for her answer. "Twelve strokes, Jo. But first..."

But first he would spank her with his hand until she was hot and sore and sorry. A warm-up he called it, though it always hurt enough that she was ready to promise to be good well before he was finished. Spankings hurt. It _hurts_, she would cry, sooner or later.

It's supposed to hurt, he would tell her. And spank her harder.

His hand came down again on the curve of her bottom. She moaned and shifted her position slightly. His left hand rested on the small of her back, keeping her from shifting far. The spanks came hard and steady now, moving from side to side, stinging her from hip to thigh. Was each spank really slightly harder than the last? Or was the growing heat and soreness in her bottom just making each spank harder to take?

She lifted one foot, then the other. The next slaps were definitely harder, and she ran one high-heeled toe helplessly down the back of her left leg. The next spanks fell so harshly on the top of her thighs that tears welled up in her eyes.

"Feet stay on the floor, correct?"

"I'm sorry!" She pressed both feet to the floor, but the harshness did not abate. Her skin burned as the spanks fell, fast and hard, everywhere at once.

Please. It hurts.

It's supposed to hurt.

Thirty spanks, forty, fifty. He finally stopped and stepped back away from her. She lay there crying, feeling small, punished, sorry, knowing the worst was still to come -- though not the worst she had feared. Not today.

The knowledge was small comfort as she heard him move to the traditional barrister's bookcase in the corner. Her stomach suddenly fluttered with fear. What would he do when he opened the door and found...

"No cane? Where's the cane, Jo?"

His voice was as soft as a lover's. Suddenly she wished she had not tried this. She kept her own voice as steady as possible when she said, "Last night, I -- I waited until everyone had left. And I took it home."

"Without my permission?"

She began to cry. "Please, I just couldn't bear to be caned. Not today. It's too much." She held her hands together on the desk, wishing she could stop the trembling. The silence beat down on her harder than the spanking that had just paused. No, she reminded herself, not ended. Just paused. Her voice was low and tearful as she promised, "I'll bring it back."

"Yes. Tomorrow." He didn't say anything else for a moment, and a small wave of relief moved through her. He would cane her even longer next time, she supposed, but _not_ today. Today he would have to fall back on belt or ruler or hand, and she could take those far more easily. She turned her head a little, feeling an unaccustomed, but not unwelcome, moment of triumph in his company.

A moment only. He was standing near the window, his hands disconnecting the blind rod from its holders. She forgot everything and stood. "What are you _doing_?" Stupid question, part of her observed. It was very clear what he was doing as the slim clear plastic rod came free in his hands. "No. No, you _can't_."

He tapped the rod in his hand. "Anyone would think you had never been taught the first lesson in obedience, my dear." His voice was casual, conversational. "So this lesson will have to be a more painful one. Back in position."

She couldn't move at first, each detail of the tableau sharp to her frozen body: her black crepe skirt bunched around her waist, her bare arms and midriff shivering, though not from cold, her heated bottom throbbing with pain, helpless with lust, his own lust plain through his trousers, and the silent menace of the rod, tapping in his hand.

"Now."

The sudden harshness of his voice unlocked her movements. She bent back over the desk and stretched out her arms, moaning as he rested the rod across her behind. Her first faint hope, that he wouldn't give her the full twelve strokes with _this_, died as he said, "Twenty-five strokes, Jo."

Her second, fainter hope, that it wouldn't hurt as much as she feared died as he raised the rod and brought it down, full across her bottom. She cried out loud, too pained to keep quiet. She cried louder at the second blow across her thighs. She felt his restraining hand in the small of her back as her own hands scrabbled frantically at the top of the desk and as the rod fell again and again. She began to sob, the pain unbearable, her lust unendurable.

Pain and lust grew together until finally he could tell her, "Only three strokes more." She wondered what she looked like. What he saw as he stood behind her that made his own breath so thick. What she would see when she locked herself into a bathroom later to take a shy look in the mirror at her own marked bottom.

This stripe surely, that crossed three earlier strokes at the top of her bottom. And this blow to her thighs that made her weep and writhe. And this final, awful stroke, in the crease of her bottom and thighs, where several strokes had already left her bruised and pained.

She lay there weeping, too spent and aching and longing to even try to move from position or to evade -- as if she wanted to -- the hand he ran so lightly now over her bottom, his fingers straying between her legs. He'd want to be sure she was wet enough, and she always was, her cunt lips as slick as her tear- stained face sliding across her own arm.

Her sob turned to a groan that rose from her center as he sank into her from behind, no foreplay, no warning, no need for either. She pushed her burning ass against him, not finding coolness there, but not needing it either. Not needing his sympathy, not needing his soothing, not yet, no, just needing him, as deep inside her as she could hold.

The tears ran freely down her face as he wound one hand in her hair, as if to steady himself as he moved inside her, fast and hard, the rhythm of the spanking replaying now in this urgent fuck. She could feel herself rising, rising, rising, pressing her hips in frantic circles that matched the desperate rubbing of her fingers between her legs.

And as she came close to her release, he used his free hand to spank her again. Again. Again. The sharp little pains only fueled her urgency now, and she rubbed harder, harder, clenching around his cock until her coming ripped through and through her.

It hurts. It feels too good.

It's supposed to.

Everything dissolved now into a wet writhe, her slowing fingers, his grinding cock where her cunt was most needy and aching.

"Please. Let me feel you come now, too," she begged, and finally it was the moment for his surrender, too, as he cried out hoarsely and shuddered inside her. This was the triumph to which she was accustomed, the exultation she knew and loved. He held her hair, pressed himself against the ass he had spanked and marked and punished, stood almost completely dressed behind her half-naked body, but it was she who felt all her own power in a rush now, even though his own heated wetness made the aftershocks of her orgasm almost painful as her coming spun out for another minute, another eternity.

She felt swallowed up in passion. She ran her fingers back between her legs, then brought them to her lips, lightly, lightly tasting. When he finally helped her up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and licked his face, too, wanting every salted wetness she could find. He kissed her back, pulling against her bottom to hold her close against him and she melted into his embrace, every need finally met.

Afterward, the parting rituals. Glasses of icy water from the pitcher. Small towels -- some dry, some damp -- from the adjoining bathroom. Cleaning, cooling each other. Clothes back in place: pants zipped, blouse buttoned, belt buckled. Her slip and skirt pulled gingerly over her sore bottom. Tender words, but not too many. Not with Delaney and Associates on their way, almost here.

"Now," he said, resuming authority. "Straighten up that desk. Unless you want more punishment."

"Yes, sir," she murmured, deliberately ambiguous. Yes, I'll straighten the desk. But I always, always want more.

She replaced the papers and tools and knickknacks. She slipped her jacket off the door hook and slipped it on. She reached to unlatch the door when the telephone on the desk buzzed. She looked at him, still obedient, and he nodded curtly toward the phone. She blushed as she returned to the desk, leaned over and punched the appropriate button.

"Yes?"

"Susan Delaney from Delaney and Associates is here for a 2:00 meeting."

"Thank you." He had already opened the door, his head partially obscuring the trim plaque reading "J. Haynes, CFO."

"And thank you," she said softly, walking to the door. "Especially today."

He held her gaze one moment more, and she flushed. He smiled knowingly and said, "We have more to discuss about proper office behavior, my dear. At five."

She looked meekly down one more time, then he slipped out into the hall. With affection, she watched him walk away.

"Jo?"

She turned and extended her hand to the sleek blonde woman dressed in an equally sleek navy suit. "Susan, I'm delighted you brought your proposal to us first."

"Anything for an old college buddy, right? Seriously, I'm glad you think we might be able to work on this together."

Jo nodded. "Come on in and we'll talk."

"Done babysitting interns for the day?" Susan made a wry gesture at the man who had stopped to talk with the marketing director. "Sorry, that's outrageous of me, but honestly, don't you get tired of these little MBA hopefuls with their abundance of theories and shortage of experience?"

Jo laughed, gesturing Susan toward a chair and using the pretence of looking once more at the Delaney and Associates proposal as an excuse to lower herself very slowly, very carefully into her own chair. "Oh, I don't know," she said, her smile also slow and careful. "Some of them seem to know just what they're doing. Downright masterful, some of them."

She gave one more grateful thought to the way he had cleared away, again, all her angst and stress and confusion. Then she turned her full attention to the business at hand.

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