« Spanking Stories

After his lesson from Alexandra, Damien returned to his office, carrying a white Fox Curtis shopping bag. It contained a new white shirt, hiding the cream cloth bag containing his cane. Leaving Virtue, he'd realized the unusual bag he carried would cause Rebecca undue interest. His shirt shopping had taken moments, providing an altogether more suitable shopping bag. He'd noticed her clock it and dismiss it.

He strode beside his window, reflecting on his odd situation. Sometimes he'd allowed his bedroom fantasies to contain Rebecca. Sometimes. He'd known it was inappropriate. Pleased he'd earned Alexandra's certification, his confidence stood high. This morning Clare had derided his imagination, demanding reality for her friend. Offered expert teaching, he'd grabbed the opportunity. He felt ready to deliver Rebecca's formal punishment. She deserved a devastating punishment befitting her seniority. Blind to Rebecca's interest in him, he still mustn't excuse her recent mistakes. She needed caning. Her best friend had argued for Rebecca to receive formal punishment. She'd known the suffering to which she was condemning her friend. Advocating for the cane, Clare hadn't held back.

Casting aside his usual responsibilities, he planned his conquest of Rebecca. After recommending he cane her friend, Clare had also requested he make his feelings known. He'd woken this morning denying his feelings, even to himself. He'd since caned a girl. Delivering an exquisite thrashing, Alexandra's expert approval bolstered his confidence. Tonight, he'd cane Rebecca. He'd make her suffer sincere pain for her subpar performance. Asking her out wasn't as easy.

He'd learned to flip the mood into hard punishment. He'd do it. Switching their situation into tenderness while her bottom stung fresh agony wasn't simple. He imagined clever lines, all woeful. Vague suggestions of dinner didn't befit a girl whose bottom burned in agony he'd delivered. Imagining her caned and humble, he wanted to hold her. Intense feelings flexed his arms in readiness. He decided her stinging clarity would demand absolute directness. His plan became simple. It couldn't fail unless it must. Bright sunshine this morning had forced off the roof of his purple Pagani. Inches above the ground, its ferocious roar had transported him into the office garage. A hellish exercise in complexity, replacing its roof, required he first reach home without getting soaked. His weather app showed rain. Scrolling, he booked a company town car.

Rebecca frowned at a confirmation email from their company car service. She checked Damien's calendar. He'd booked a company town car. His calendar offered her no insight. Scheduled to wait from 7pm, she guessed he was taking a lucky girl home. Shutting down her emotions, she closed her unhelpful thought.

He'd disappeared this afternoon for ninety minutes. His calendar showed 'Worthington'. She didn't know its meaning. Excluded from his inner thoughts by her supervision, she accepted her radical demotion. Her path to rehabilitation may take weeks, but she'd focus her fury on every trivial detail, blocking him from her thoughts. Clare would ensure it. Her desk phone flashed red. "Hi Damien."

"Rebecca, I'd like you to stay late tonight. I have a project I need completed."

"Yes, sir."

"Thanks."

The call ended. Firm, direct, and precise, he'd delivered his instruction. Required to obey, she sat taller in her black leather swivel chair. At least he still needed her.

Before 6pm, she'd corrected his calendar, processed all messages, and compiled her outstanding reports. He hadn't said how late he'd require her. She remained at her desk, correcting minor phrasing imperfections in a report he'd written. His glass door opened, framing his physique. She tuned out his perfection.

"Has everyone gone home?" he asked.

His deep baritone vibrated her core. "Yes," she said. She'd visited the restroom moments ago.

"Come."

She gathered her pad and pen.

"You won't need those," he said.

Surprised, she followed empty handed.

Settling into his comfortable twin cream leather recliner chairs by the window, he gestured towards the other. Smoothing her black jersey minidress dress beneath her, she sank into the soft cream leather. Askew towards the city view, she twisted her chair to face him.

"Rebecca, I want to talk about you."

His hard tone struck a mortal blow. She inhaled. He was letting her go. Dammit. Not tempting fate, she said, "Okay."

"Your performance has been below par on multiple occasions. You're an excellent personal assistant, but your recent failings aren't trivial. They're unacceptable."

On firmer ground, she said, "Yes, sir."

"You don't lack skill or foresight, making your mistakes more incongruent."

"Give me another chance, Damien. Please?"

"I intend to," he said.

Relieved, she missed his hardening tone.

"I expect humble honesty, Rebecca, and strict obedience."

"Okay," she said. Stretching her response, she weighed his unusual choice of familiar words.

He fixed her under his gaze. "We won't discuss your reasons yet. Focus on your litany of mistakes. Wrong phone calls. Yesterday's pay rise fiasco cost a quarter million. Your worst error."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"It's easy to say, but it can't continue, Rebecca."

"No, sir. It cannot."

"Agreed," he said, pleased by her strong assertion. It matched Clare's claims about her sense of duty. "We understand each other. Clare doesn't believe supervision will solve your issues."

Her eyebrows raised themselves. Clare hadn't revealed, she thought, supervising her ineffective.

He waited for her total attention to return. "I plan to punish you, Rebecca." He rose, grabbing his shopping bag.

She watched him. From within his stylish white shopping bag, he extracted a beige cloth bag. Discarding it, he turned, holding a straight golden rattan cane. Its formidable presence matched his stern demeanor. Gripping its ends, he flexed the cane. Its enthusiastic curve conveyed its willingness to flex hard into her soft skin. In his hands, it wrought hell on her unprepared stomach.

"I intend to cane you, Rebecca. I hope to impress on you my expectations. You deserve your punishment."

Her stomach wrenched into its tightest knot. His stern statements slammed into her conscience, ripping it apart.

He whipped his cane straight down beside his leg.

Its hiss fed her fear, boosting her resolve to meet his expectations. She rose, her eyes glued to his cane. Stepping away from her chair, she kicked off her black kitten heals. "I agree. I deserve it, sir."

Caught unprepared, he stared at her discarded shoes. Regaining control, he moved towards his cleared desk. She followed. Pointing the cane at her tight black mini dress, he said. "Raise your dress, Rebecca." Standing still, he knew the guts required of her in this instant. He sympathized, offering no support. Obeying him was her obligation. She must satisfy his simple instruction.

In slow motion, her fingers drifted to her dress hem. Sliding the tight jersey cotton, she revealed her bare thighs. Bunching her dress around her waist, she revealed her neat black string bikini panties.

Vulnerability coursed through her body, driving respect. Exposed, her soft panty strings electrified her bare hips. Stilled office air caressed her part-bare bottom.

"I mean this to hurt you very much," he said.

She nodded.

He pointed to his vacant desk. "Bend over, Rebecca."

Made to obey, she stepped towards his desk and bent from her hips. Profound humility washed over her. Resting her forearms on his dominant desk, she lowered her body, presenting her defenseless bottom.

"Well done, Rebecca. Yesterday's considerable catastrophe can't go unpunished. I've considered lenience, but I'm afraid you don't deserve it." He'd oscillated between six and eighteen strokes. Alexandra's upper suggestion had shocked him. Considering Rebecca's professional experience and her experience with punishment, he'd raised her sentence to twelve strokes. During his afternoon wait, he'd decided her first trip across his desk should leave a memorable mark. Determined she must respect his decision to cane her, he'd raised her sentence again.

She twisted her head. Waves of sincere submission cascaded over her, cracking her voice. "I understand, sir."

Her vocal agreement provided him conclusive proof of Clare's unusual advice. He strengthened his tone."Eighteen strokes, Rebecca."

She shivered. His manner had hinted at extraordinary severity. A quarter million reasons denied her permission to argue. Her narrow panties exposed her barish bottom to wide pain. She steeled herself, respecting his dominance. His natural authority was everything she'd ever imagined. The cane lay still across her cotton, its tip tormenting her right cheek, its presence honoring her submission. Lifting from her skin, it tore through the air, screaming its decisive hiss, and struck her bottom dead center. Shock drove her into silence. Savage sting rose from her smoking welt. Squeezing her lips, she forced air through her nose. He could cane. Damn, he could cane. Fierce proof cracked into her skin lower. Fire seethed along her fresh line, burying its heat deep. He built her agony, laying lines close enough to spread intense burn. She pushed her spirit into her pain, demanding courage. Higher on her bottom, her wider panties didn't reduce the rattan's ferocious fire. Lower, her skin crackled under its harsh message.

He blistered her obedient bottom. Precise, level strokes stung her burning cheeks. Unable to disguise her struggle, she panted, unwilling to pretend it didn't hurt. He should see her suffer. HR's flawed email response dominated her mind. Attention to detail was her literal job description. Her heart praised his stern judgement. In frightful agony, she held herself still over his desk, humbled by his consummate caning.

The rattan rod tapped her behind, searching for flawless space. Her entire bottom blended into a single source of fiery torment. No space lay untouched. She realized his predicament. Twisting her head, she said, "Sir, I'm sorry. I know you must cane my thighs. I'll try to bear it with dignity."

Grateful for her unexpected invitation, it solved his dilemma. He slid the cane onto her virgin curves. Soft, flawless skin lay beneath his strict stick. Estimating her short dress's length, he slid his cane above where he imagined her hem rested. "You have six strokes remaining. I won't let you off, Rebecca."

She wanted nothing less than his tough sentence. She deserved it all. His cane marks may show during her walk home. If she must bear public shame for her disagreeable performance, it was her duty to respect his decision. Soaking in her stunning humility, she heard his stern voice.

"Count them aloud, Rebecca."

Reverence swamped her. He wasn't giving her an inch. Staring straight, she nodded her head. The ruthless rattan whipped into her soft thighs, slicing a sharp sting across her susceptible skin. Fierce respect fired into her heart. She cried out, "One, thank you, sir."

Expanding its vicious sting, his cane scorched her tender thighs. Rising from its lowest mark, precision punishment seared parallel lines on her legs, slicing pain right where she'd sit. Four more times, she delivered loud, clear and heartfelt gratitude.

In her stretched crease, the cane snuggled her bottom cheeks and her thighs. Measured movements advised its cruel intent. Anticipation didn't help. She knew it would deliver unspeakable woe. It withdrew. Snapping back into her defenseless crease, it wrought a desperate cry from deep within her. Broadcast throughout his quiet office, it proved her total capitulation. Curbing her anguish, she swallowed its humbling heat, accepting her need.

Bent over his desk, burning, she heard him replace the cane in his shopping bag. Humility swamped her. He'd caned her. Devastating discipline for her dreadful performance. She wanted to reach for him, fall into his arms, and thank him.

"Stand up, Rebecca."

She stood and turned, presenting her vulnerable sex to his powerful gaze. Her thin black cotton provided meagre modesty. Fierce fire held her in profound compliance. She stood tall before him, accepting her embarrassing state of undress. "Damien, thank you for caning me. I deserved it. I'm sorry I let you down. May I explain why?"

Her graceful acceptance of her severe thrashing stormed his heart. He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. Wrapping her soft form against him, his heart beat into her head. "I already know, Rebecca. Please forgive me, I've been blind. Clare told me. I have feelings for you. I didn't permit them, thinking it was impossible. Clare corrected that misconception, too."

She turned her face upward, closing her eyes. His fierce lips stole her soul, seizing her self control. Nestling half naked into his solid frame, their intense physical contact delivered vital messages. Locked to his lips, passion spread through her, meeting its painful rival. She melted. Only his firm grip held her up.

"Come home with me tonight," he whispered.

His husky voice guaranteed her response. "I'd love too." Her brain nudged her. The town car waiting downstairs. "You planned this."

"I hoped," he said.

"Can we be clear please, Damien? Are you asking me home just tonight?"

"Nooo," he said.

His utter dismay spoke volumes she needed to hear. She smiled.

"I'm asking for a relationship. I want you, Rebecca."

"You may need to cane me again."

"You'll get punished by your boss and your boyfriend."

She nuzzled into his solid chest, delight coursing through her. "Might my boyfriend also give me sexy discipline sometimes?"

"Guaranteed," he said. "Your obedience excites me."

She slid her hand between them, stroking his suit pants. His hardness proved his words. "Giving me a sound hiding shows you care."

He groaned, pressing against her soft palm. "I care. I'm going to care fuck loads if you keep this up."

She continued stroking his solid outline, his manhood pulsing beneath his suit, dampness storming her panties.

He placed his huge hand over hers. "You're playing with fire."

"I'm naughty sometimes."

Struggling to keep them from copulating on the office floor, he said, "Your boyfriend wouldn't let your workplace disobedience pass. He'd spank you over his knee."

She grinned. "He wouldn't go easy, despite my caned bottom."

"He'd give you a spanking you never forgot."

She shuddered. "I'm afraid he must." Promised perfection, she stood back, smoothing her dress down over her frantic sex. Stepping into her kitten heels, she roamed his solid chest. Having rested upon it, she'd certified its sheer perfection. He'd bent her over his desk, caned her hard, very hard. Held in his arms, he'd promised her another, more personal spanking at home. She said, "You'd better keep your word."

Capturing her hand in his, he led her from his office. "I'm making love to you tonight, Rebecca. However, I'm afraid you've got a sound spanking waiting for you at home."