« Spanking Stories

Ben reclined, watching light reflect across the cylindrical gold bars of the decorative meeting room light unit. Intricate gold bars converged, creating hexagons over the fourteen-seat white high-gloss table. The patterns soothed his mechanical mind. Jenna, their marketing manager, switched slides on the sixty-inch TV built into the gray wall.

The TV showed Hair Air's billboard dominating a city skyline. 'Sensational Hair in Seconds' with a single green 'subscribe' button seized his attention. A model with amazing hair attitude held their vibrant pouch.

He highlighted the billboard cost line on his laptop screen. City costs varied, but billboards weren't their biggest expense. Jenna's three senior marketing team members smiled. Kate nodded. He remained inscrutable.

Street level billboards were also excellent. Their crisp message was clear.

Jenna flicked her slideshow, displaying various TV network logos. "Our PR agency will get us interviewed on prime-time shows on these networks."

He nodded. She switched slides, skipping ahead by mistake, flustered by his non-responses.

Online advertising followed. Sliding his highlight bar to the spreadsheet cost line, its multimillion dollar price tag accompanied Jenna's expansive explanations of targeted and branding campaigns. He could judge the marketing team member responsible for online advertising. She'd frozen as Jenna presented her strategy area.

Social media influencers and YouTube channels targeting makeup and female beauty made sense until he expanded the influencers' cost line, showing individual channel prices.

While Jenna expounded on the committed subscriber base of 'Sweet Sloane Makeup' on Instagram and YouTube, he divided the price by five cents. It cost twenty cents per pouch to operate the entire business, five cents to produce a single pouch.

A single influencer post cost ten thousand dollars to reach one million subscribers. Sweet Sloane's 'committed' subscriber base wouldn't all respond. Ten percent may notice the promotional post. A further ten percent might subscribe to Hair Air, delivering pouches into ten thousand girls' hands. A dollar per customer, if he was lucky.

His ten thousand dollars produced two hundred thousand pouches of Hair Air. Two hundred thousand opportunities to delight girls.

Jenna's next slide read 'National Retailers'. The sizzling customer statistics on the wide TV screen didn't match his laptop cost line. Retail chains would bargain, wasting time, costing money. Jenna proposed a dedicated sales team selling to retailers. He'd have approved the concept yesterday. Today, he expected retailers to beg him for truckloads of product.

Jenna's lengthy strategy presentation concluded.

"Thank you, Jenna. Your strategy is comprehensive. Your ads, billboards, images, and words will deliver business."

She smiled.

He didn't. "How we reach those customers causes me concern."

Jenna took a white swivel chair opposite. "Give me your concerns."

"Your strategy could represent any business. I've seen Hair Air pouches land in girl's palms. I've watched hesitance, risk analysis, imagination and fear of missing out travel across their faces. When they burst their bubbles, they're sold."

"This strategy reaches girls' palms," Jenna said.

"At ten million dollars." The base line figure didn't faze him, but it represented two hundred million pouches. "You're pushing our message towards girls. Invert the problem. Imagine you'd convinced ten girls Hair Air was perfect. Dream how to spread their happiness wider, multiply it, reaching ten more girls."

Closing Belle's glass office door, Jenna said, "He hated it."

She'd bonded with the HR chief sharing drinks several times. Certain of her strategy, Ben's curt dismissal had cut deep.

Belle reclined her office chair, uncertain how to help the embarrassed marketing manager. "I'm sure he didn't hate everything."

"He wants me to invert it, whatever that means."

Watching her crewmate implode, Belle realized her professional duty. "So, you blew it."

Jenna welled up. Desperate to avoid crying, she faced Belle's window. "I expect he'll fire me."

Belle didn't. Jenna's marketing strategy, circulated among senior staff, was professional. She imagined Jenna had missed Ben's thoughtful response amid her fear of failure. "Repeat his words."

Jenna did.

"So he endorsed your marketing messages. Stating they'd deliver business is a clear compliment."

Jenna nodded, flumping in an armchair. "He hated the high cost of disseminating our message."

"You headed along a predictable path. Ben is unstructured. He thinks whatever he pleases, opening ideas you'd never see. He wants you to open your mind."

"I've lost his trust."

"Maybe."

"Should I apologize?"

"Are you a proud girl?"

Jenna nodded.

"Would you respect a lame apology?"

Jenna shook her head.

"Apologize with outrageous pride, then ask for his help."

Jenna pursed her lips. Outrageous pride felt like her. She needed a power-girl move. "How?"

"I hope you're strong." Belle scrutinized the intelligent marketing manager. "This plan calls for tough dignity."

"Sounds like my sort of idea."

"Your marketing strategy could represent any business. You didn't dream big enough," Belle said.

Jenna nodded, accepting the harsh judgment leveled at her. She hadn't stretched herself.

"The pouch is dramatic, the colorful cloud sensational. Hair Air demands drama."

Guilt drilled into Jenna's heart. She hadn't sold emotion. Her own hair sparkled diamonds, thanks to Ben.

"You didn't try. Ask him to punish you. Show him you're sorry, and care. Ask him for twelve strokes of the cane, thrashed hard onto your bottom. It'll teach you a lesson. You deserve it."

Jenna stared at Belle. "You can't be serious. A spanking?"

"If you're a proud girl, you'll show him your pride. You deserve a punishment. He expected more of you."

Jenna imagined herself getting disciplined. Pride thrust into her chest, chasing her guilt, curbing her self-destructive mood. She hadn't opened her mind. She'd offered Ben nothing amazing. Kate had given her this powerful role based on her experience. All she'd returned were predictable solutions. "Won't he think I've lost all my marbles?"

"I promise you he won't. Wait until everyone's left tonight. I imagine you'd prefer to get punished in private."

Jenna studied Belle. She'd felt undervalued. Venting her frustration, she hadn't expected a meaningful action plan. Recognizing her weakness, her HR manager had made her feel guilty because she was. "It'll hurt."

Belle threw her a hard stare. "It should."

"Has he punished you?"

"No, but I'd agree if I deserved it. I'm a proud professional woman. Correction clears the air. Show him your pride. You deserve your strict lesson. Remember, your mistakes don't define you. How you correct them does."

Returning to her twelfth-floor office, Jenna let her team analyze their disaster. She had to seek their solution. Belle had made everything sound straightforward. She couldn't tell her she'd never experienced punishment. In her office chair, her tight black SuperDry jeans felt thinner than usual. Twisting her screen to ensure privacy, she searched, 'Does a caning hurt?'

Her stupid question produced abundant results. Of course it hurts. Detailed descriptions reported atrocious heat, plentiful pain, and serious struggles. She'd never even received a light smack, let alone vicious, fiery heat. Her sex roused as she imagined the struggles recounted. Quiet dignity accompanied detailed accounts. Guys and girls had commented. All respected the pain without regret while confirming it was pure agony.

Her focus fed her sex. Envisioning earnest obedience, her loss of respect dissolved behind her mature, dignified acceptance of proper professional punishment. Squirming on her chair, she read a schoolgirl's story of getting caned on her panties.

She imagined giving up her jeans. She'd worn black bikini panties this morning. If he caned her like girls described, she'd suffer substantial embarrassment, undressing. Crushed by growing guilt, she didn't fight her shame. Getting punished was an experience designed to feel shameful. An experience she needed.

She ordered her team to produce fresh concepts by tomorrow without giving guidance. They may surprise themselves. Focused on managing her relationships up the chain, she evaluated her management performance. Castigating her lack of imagination, she delivered a dire verdict.

Belle's odd proposal contained genuine logic. If Ben might respect her, she needed to try. At 6pm, she moved to the ninth floor kitchen. Clipped to the waistline of her black skinny jeans, she bumped her tiny black plastic crew id tab against the vending machine, producing a free chilled spring water bottle.

Between laps of the ninth floor, monitoring staff levels, she sipped her water, perched on a black leather kitchen stool, conscience of her bottom. Summoning courage after an empty lap, she crushed her empty bottle and approached Ben's office.

Knocking, she entered, giving herself no chance to bail. "Ben. I've screwed up. Nothing I showed you was exceptional, amazing, or dreamlike."

He smiled. His afternoon concern might have resolved itself.

"My marketing strategy is sound, but I didn't try. I lacked imagination. I've done everything in that plan before."

His gaze locked onto her. Married to her strategy, he hadn't expected a turnaround. He'd spent the afternoon struggling to reconcile his vision with her current position.

"I'm a senior exec, employed to imagine. My lackluster performance is a disgrace. I feel dreadful. I deserve a severe lesson in responsibility." She checked his expression. Almost a nod appeared. She doubled down on her bravery, commanding outrageous pride. "If you'd consider it, I'd feel better if you punished me. Twelve hard cane strokes would make me feel sorry. I realize it's an odd proposition, but I've failed to live up to my promise. Kate hired me, expecting a grand vision. I've delivered a mundane, predictable playbook. I'll hurt tonight. Tomorrow, I'll approach a fresh plan guilt free." She stopped. Her mind had carried her. She needed this.

He stood. Opening the horizontal cupboard behind his chair, he withdrew the three-foot straight rattan cane Kate had gifted him. He held Jenna's gaze. Her humble attitude was unexpected. Her courageous humility swept aside his afternoon concerns. "Has everyone left?"

She nodded. The rattan flexing in his hand sank silence over her. She ceased breathing as her reality fell upon her. Inner strength blossomed, applauding her guts. An adult woman, in her twenties, her CEO was subjecting her to formal discipline designed to hurt. Knowing she'd failed him, she welcomed her coming pain.

Walking around his desk, he said, "After I've caned you, I'll share my vision."

Her heart spun a hopeful web. She needed his help, but couldn't request it without paying for her mistake. "Thank you."

"You understand, I'll cane you hard. I intend to hurt you. You're a senior executive, not a schoolgirl."

"Yes, sir."

He admired her confident acceptance. "Face my desk. Drop your jeans."

Obeying, Jenna raised her tight black tee away from her waist, unbuttoning her tight, matching skinny jeans. Embarrassment ran down her revealed legs as she pushed her denim down her slender limbs. Forced to show her black bikini panties to her boss, shame shot down her curves. His profound authority forced her failure onto her.

"Bend over my desk," he ordered.

She appreciated his explicit commands. Descriptions had taught her the position she must assume, powerless to convey its sheer surrender. Placing her forearms on the solid surface, she raised her cotton covered bottom to prominence. Shame flooded her body, concentrating her mind on her marketing strategy. Lacking imagination was a generous summary. Boring closer to the truth. The cane tapped her left sandal.

"Feet further apart," he commanded.

She shifted her red and yellow chunky soles into a solid stance. Her trademark jazzy sandals stressed her failure. Bright accents were missing from her marketing strategy. Conscience of her bottom under his gaze, her submission swamped her soul in healthy humility, growing her strength.

"Twelve strokes is a tough punishment, Jenna. I expect brilliant imagination from you."

"Yes, sir." Her position, bent over his desk, warranted an obedient response.

The cane touched her panties. Light taps confirmed his intentions. She wished her mom had spanked her, preparing her for this ordeal. Carried across his desk by her personal guts, she exhaled.

Her ears exploded as a gunshot reverberated off his glass office walls. Wicked heat tore a tense stripe across her cheeks, burning fierce heat into her skin. She panted as its intensity roared, refusing to relent. Breathing hard, she forced her palms flat on his desk. Savage hurt ran rampant in her caned backside. Spreading pain from its narrow impact zone, her skin burned, penetrating deep. Intense sting joined a healthy cocktail of shame. He'd caned her, a sincere line of adult agony punishing her weak performance.

He let her appreciate his sincerity, giving her a full minute to accept her suffering. Knowing her pain was settling into its special soreness, he tapped her panties again.

She couldn't imagine another stroke. Self-respect stole her fears. She wasn't a schoolgirl. They'd taken six, it seemed. She strengthened her legs, preparing her bottom to receive its justified strokes. Vicious heat seared its brutal line below her last. She gasped, stunned she'd stayed silent so far.

"You didn't stretch yourself, Jenna."

Her brain sucked in his scolding, circulating it. He was right. She pushed her bottom towards his cane. The rattan snapped into her cheeks, scorching her skin, expanding her band of fiery pain. Her stylish cotton bikini panties narrowed, baring her bottom, a zone the cane entered. Cruel burn seared her flesh, sizzling her bare skin. He thrashed more hard strokes into her exposed cheeks.

Picking over her pedestrian marketing plan, she focused on sections as he layered ruby ribbons down her unimaginative backside. Soaring with her torment, she bore her strokes, worshiping their sincerity. He was demanding her best, prepared to beat it out of her.

"Jenna, you're taking your punishment well. Two more strokes."

Pride burst as his compliment. The cane tapped against the fragile crease where her bottom reached her thighs. Fear gripped her. She bit her lip, summoning courage.

"These strokes will sting for several days, powering you to greater heights. You're a senior executive. They should hurt. You deserve them."

She pressed her arms into his desk, praying for bravery. She needed this shocking punishment. The rattan slashed into her crease, scorching her delicate skin. Without delay, another band of blistering agony seared her tenderness. Emitting tiny cries, she panted into his desk, welcoming his mercy. Her last stroke delivered, she summoned everything she had to handle her hurt. Had he paused after one stroke on her delicate skin, she'd have risen, embarrassing herself. Caught in her struggle, she'd taken both agonizing strokes completing her crucial management lesson.

"Your punishment is over. Stand when you're ready."

His kind voice reached her ears, permeating his admiration. She rose, her attitude fresh, her bottom burning away her shame.

"Pull up your jeans," he said, replacing the cane.

Her bottom had swelled. Tight denim tormented her welted skin. Buttoning her jeans, fever pressed against her sex. Her punishment had turned her on. Desperate to slip away and study her bottom, she said, "Thank you, Ben. I needed that. I'm sorry."

He smiled. "You're forgiven. Fancy seeing what I have in mind?"

Desperate for his help, she felt she'd earned it. Her bottom begging for her soothing palms, she said, "Yes please, Ben."

"Your apology took enormous courage. Give yourself a chance to recover tonight." Grabbing a business card, he scribbled a downtown address. "Meet me here 10am tomorrow."