« Spanking Stories

Ben's worn wooden desk in his home office wasn't available for Kate to bend over. Twelve notebooks depicted every single combination of chemicals he'd tested in designing Hair Air. Bound in black, hand written entries specified exact dates, time and locations. Stacked invoices covered each lab he'd rented, creating Hair Air at his expense. Documented test failures piled high, testifying to his reasoning as he developed his female hair product. The entire desk contents proved he hadn't stolen his labor of love from KRT Cosmetics.

His previous employer had followed their cease and desist letter with a lawsuit claiming he'd stolen their intellectual property.

Fifty million dollars raised from investors, he must deploy his war chest to defend his creation. Meanwhile, he wouldn't cease or desist, he'd just delegate.

His girlfriend had quit her digital design job to join him. Kate's gutsy gamble had brought about Hair Air's massive investment. She'd stamped her vibrant design on his plain pouches, seven hundred samples of which remained in the box behind him. She'd tested Hair Air with her girlfriends, leading to Louise supplying his perfect pouch. Rubbing the biodegradable pouch for ten seconds exploded his special Hair Air mist into a cool, colorful cloud.

"Any suggestions?" he asked Evan. Calling his lead investor with unpleasant news exposed his weakness, but he wouldn't hide his problem.

"Slack, Leigh and Wilson are the city's finest intellectual property lawyers. They don't accept new business. Established names dominate their client list. I'll gather recommendations. Can you prove KRT is lying?"

Ben glanced across his desktop. "In spades."

Hanging up with Evan, he dialed Andrew. Mates since forever, he'd never traded on their friendship. Andrew was a junior corporate lawyer. With top grades, he'd joined Slack, Leigh and Wilson.

Explaining his nightmare to his friend, he said, "Can you persuade your firm to represent Hair Air? We're not short of funds. List our backers. It might help." He reeled off the five venture capital firms who'd invested in Hair Air.

"That gives me some ammunition," Andrew said. "I'll plow through internal politics."

"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it."

Parking his problem, he studied property websites, hunting for a small production facility outside the city limits. Manufacturing Hair Air's unique serum in a special facility would safeguard its extraordinary value. Distributing finished mixture to factories worldwide would scale production to satisfy demand.

Kate scanned the white-tiled ceiling. She would replace the recessed fluorescent lighting with warm spots matching each floor's reception area lighting. The vast office space occupying four floors in the prestigious skyscraper beat everything she'd seen this week. So did its price. Known by just its street number, 1160 was a renowned building.

Called by the pushy female real estate agent, while running through the central city park, she'd run two blocks downtown to view the famed building. Her black sports bra, Nike flared training pants and black sneakers weren't forming a helpful impression.

Her panties were a distinct disadvantage. Black cotton bikinis under her skin tight training pants, their visible panty lines crossed her butt cheeks advertising her underwear. In the park, pride had flushed away her shame. Running last week, she'd overlooked letting Ben know, then met a girlfriend for coffee, left her phone at home and returned hours later to a swift upending across his knee for the worry she'd caused.

He'd ripped down her training pants and spanked her bare cheeks, her customary black string offering clear access. His hard hand raining down on her vulnerable cheeks for fifteen solid minutes had produced an earnest apology and proud acceptance of his further punishment. He'd ordered her to wear bikini panties for her next outing to remind her of him and her spanking while she ran.

Avoiding another trip across his knee, she'd message Ben before this viewing. Spreading her palms on her hips, she stretched her neck, clearing her mind. Massive decisions weren't in her arena. She could create endless complications for consideration. At Patchwork Colors, she'd presented her website designs, worked with her team's words and sought approval from her clients.

Given responsibility for establishing Hair Air's office, she'd set about viewing possibilities. Ben had specified eighty to one hundred thousand square feet. Few contiguous spaces in the business district met his size demands. He'd tasked her with the entire decision, choosing, designing and opening Hair Air's office, handing over contact details for their Chief Financial Officer. Evan had insisted they have an experienced CFO.

Standing in eighty-seven thousand square feet, she visualized it buzzing with excited activity.

"Are you the ultimate decision maker?" the brash blonde asked, flashing her insincere smile.

Irritated, Kate said, "At ten percent less, I am."

Beginning an unintended negotiation avoided decision making. She needed to gird her loins, perhaps check her choice with Ben. She'd invite him to visit 1160 and approve the office space before she signed a lease.

Returning home late from her unexpected viewing, Kate remained in her training pants and sports bra. The four floors at 1160 swimming around her head, she prepared dinner, selecting sirloins from her large dark-gray fridge. She kept a consistent steak supply because Ben's mates dropped into their central city apartment with reliable regularity. Arrivals had slowed since Andrew had found Louise. Diane in Australia, Neil still visited often. She'd enjoyed adding his mean little oak paddle to Diane's care package, multiplying its love quotient. She hoped it was providing her friend punishing remote sting. Intending to call Diane, the sudden lawsuit had destabilized her. Ben had demanded secrecy. Public legal action wasn't how Hair Air should hit the market.

Unsure of herself, her spontaneous negotiation with the annoying real estate agent provided a chance to involve Ben. Pleasant decor, efficient services, and a prominent location commended 1160. She'd walked home in twenty minutes. With metro stations nearby and the central train terminal one block south, 1160 was an easy commute for anyone. Stymied by her enormous decision, she questioned her right to select their future. Her choice would last for years. Ben should decide.

Sizzling steak drew Ben from his home office. Serving their sirloins with green salad, she enquired about his progress.

"Andrew is trying to get Slack, Leigh and Wilson to handle our case. Evan says they're the top Intellectual Property litigators."

She felt hope. She trusted Andrew.

Between mouthfuls, he described his rapid manufacturing rethink. "I've hired a factory design consultant. He questioned all my plans for the specialist facility producing the core Hair Air serum. I was thinking too small. After his questioning, I discovered a thirty thousand square foot factory in Ridge Hill."

She nodded. About thirty minutes drive from the city, its location felt sensible.

"I've stored profiles on LinkedIn for various company roles. Have we leased an office yet?"

"I may have discovered somewhere. It's eighty-seven thousand square feet over four floors, one block north of the central train terminal."

"Has our CFO signed for it?"

"I didn't call him. I wasn't sure." She described the building, services, views, and space. The twelfth floor setback attracted him. Permitting a private roof terrace, rare in the business district, she'd imagined pretty girls, vibrant dresses, and perfect hair on summer evenings.

"You haven't mentioned a problem."

"It's huge."

"It's the size I requested."

"I mean, it's a massive decision," she said, her tone stressed. "You should view it."

He considered her fantastic indecision. Pitching Evan, she'd gained them access to fifty million dollars, handing him his career-changing meeting on a plate.

"I gave you authority to lease our office so I wouldn't waste time viewing office buildings. Instead, I've achieved plenty today."

"I wanted you to check my decision."

"Who checks mine?"

"Evan?"

"You imagine he runs around validating decisions made by every CEO. He expects excellent decisions. I gave you authority." Casting her a disappointed look, he said, "Stand up, Kate."

Obeying, she followed him. He slid their cane from the narrow gap above the fridge. Holding their golden rattan educator enhanced his message. "If someone else leases your space, you'll regret your procrastination."

"The lawsuit may block Hair Air's launch," she said.

"I'm dealing with our lawsuit. You're keeping forward progress. The operative word is forward."

Disappointment spread through her body. He was right. She'd earned her position as Hair Air co-founder. He'd given her authority, and she'd baulked at her first major test, begging him to check her homework.

"Get your pants down," he ordered.

Stretching the tight material over her slender hips, she pushed her training pants to her ankles. Their fall matched hers from grace. She'd failed to assume her mantle. Her personal courage warranted her responsible position. She hadn't believed in herself.

"Touch your toes, Kate," he commanded.

Splintered by her CEO's strict tone, she bent, dropping her fingertips to touch her tiny black sneaker socks, exposing her black panty clad backside to their living room.

Tapping her weak, gutless bottom, the flexible cane toughened her up. Scything through thin air, rattan cracked into her cotton, echoing off their walls. Her momentary pain vacuum saturated with fierce scorn. Ruthless fire bit into her skin, marking his disappointment across her bottom cheeks.

Pressing her toes to deal with her first punishing stroke, she accepted her professional obligation to receive it. Found wanting as a co-founder, she deserved her behavior-changing lesson.

"You have authority, Kate. I expect definitive decisions from you."

"Yes, sir," she said. Calling him 'sir' had always tasted delicious during punishments. Getting caned by her CEO for her co-founder failure, her mind demanded formality.

"Seventeen to go," he said.

Her head whirled. He'd never given her eighteen strokes.

"You're a leader, Kate. Leaders must pay heavy prices for decision-making failure."

Her black bikini panties presented plenty of bare cheek to his cane. Leveled across her cotton, the rattan sliced into her panties, blistering her bottom. After five seconds to tolerate her stroke, another seared her vulnerable flesh, multiplying her pending agony. Over twenty-five harrowing seconds, five swift cuts of the cane punished her.

"I expect better of you."

Eight soaring lines of pain proved his professional opinion. Her punishment pause calmed her escalating agony into a deep throb.

"Kate, I won't tolerate weakness in our senior ranks. This is a formal beating for failure."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said.

"I must make you sorry, Kate. Very sorry."

The cane rested against bare skin where her panties narrowed. Impacting her flesh with force, it roused her prior strokes. Over five furious seconds, it reached its ultimate heat, compelling her to bite her lip.

Touching her toes suited her colossal failure to take command of her decision. She respected his order to bend. Punctuating her thoughts, five-second launches of decisive, soaring agony seared her indecisive flesh. Enduring her agonizing co-founder lesson, her soulful attitude accepted her just pain.

"Your last two strokes, Kate. I'm not indecisive. I'm placing them right here."

His cane touched the crease between her legs and bottom. Guaranteed to launch vicious sting into her taut, delicate skin, such certainty defined her destiny. Her bottom burning from sixteen severe strokes, she admired his ruthless decision-making ability. He meant to punish her. It was his duty. He hadn't hesitated.

Wicked fire shot into both her legs. She cried out, smothering her spontaneous outburst into a co-founder's stoic dignity. Hissing, she held her position as pain punished her professionalism. Ten seconds suited the worse torture of rattan burning her sensitive skin. Her last stroke lashed beside its friend, stretching her humiliating line of well-positioned pain.

After an entire minute to swallow her dignified discipline, he ordered her to stand.

Holding her gaze, he said, "You've earned your place in our company. Assume it."

"Yes, sir." Her tone conveyed respect without shame. "Thank you for caning me. My punishment was worthy of a co-founder."

He smiled as she pulled up her tight black training pants. Nobody would compromise his dream. "It's crucial we create a clear distinction between formal punishment and games we play," he said. "You don't receive formal punishment very often, but I imagine with us working together and you striving to re-invent yourself, it may become more frequent."

She nodded. "Makes sense."

"Are you turned on?"

"Yes," she replied. Despite the extraordinary pain of her severe beating, receiving formal discipline from her strict CEO had delighted her sex.

"We'll deny ourselves sex for a clear hour, including masturbation. This tough rule applies to me too. I may not enjoy your punishment, either. You serve your hour-long sentence facing the wall, pondering your pain. I supervise you. Neither of us gets to enjoy our separation hour."

She grimaced. "I hate it, but we avoid eroding our relationship. I like it applying to you too. My body hates the idea."

He grinned. "That, I'm afraid, is the point."

Lust pervaded her body. Excruciating self-discipline, supported by his cooperative presence, calmed her need. Unable to rub her throbbing bottom, her grateful arms dangled. With hands on her head, ache would have dominated her hour. Instead, she pictured herself making multiple strategic decisions at her desk in 1160. Gratitude grew for his wisdom. She needed this official separation. Instant sex would have corrupted her punishment. She'd needed her formal beating for failure. Its painful lesson throbbing, she planted seeds of fresh confidence in her mind.

Her hour ended with his warm breath on her neck. "Only I know your beautiful bottom carries painful marks. You're a dutiful girl."

Turning into his arms, she said, "You were dead right. We must always serve our separation hour when you've had to give me a formal punishment."

Pulling her hand, he led her to their master bedroom. The ruby throw she'd first met when she'd moved in still decorated their white bed. Laying it aside, she striped off her running gear. Naked, she bent over their bed, keen to keep her sweat off their bedding.

His proud manhood teased her soaking sex as he gripped her slim waist. Spread onto his hardness in one solid stroke, her greediness consumed his powerful thrusts, gripping him with a force she'd imagined has dissipated during their separation hour. Taking him deep inside her urgent need, she darted between nipples, providing them with scandalous pleasure as he drove his love for her deep into her newfound certainty.

His stomach muscles spanked her punished cheeks, adding blissful pain to her bewildering pleasure. Paused on her mountainside, she peeped over the crest, pulled back and risen by him. Melded in their motivating motion, she loved their hour-long wait. Their delay had separated the serious marking of her bottom from the painful pleasure it poured into her sweet sex.

"I've had my bottom thrashed," she moaned, panting as he pounded her sex.

"Endure it. I had to punish you."

Panting with pride, pain and pleasure in a perfect cocktail, she rose over her peak. Flung down her smooth slope, his explosive pleasure shot her into sensational orgasms, tumbling through tumultuous tremors as sheer pleasure swarmed through her deserving sex.

His cell phone interrupted their passionate puzzle of arms, legs and wrapped comforter. Bursting from the bed, he answered Andrew's call.

"I needed this," he said, humbled by his friend's kindness. "9am, loaded with my evidence. Thank you. Andrew, I'm in your debt."

Confirming his obvious good news, his boosted spirit must have motivated her cell phone to ring. Naked, she marched across their bedroom, muttering agreements. She finished her call with a definite commitment. "My CFO will call you."

Meeting his naked admiration, she said, "We have our office, at ten percent below asking."