« Spanking Stories

Venture Capitalist Evan stepped from his town car at 4pm, his driver closing the door. Hair Air's fabulous office towered above him. Revolving doors revealed its high lobby. Shiny silver panels lined the walls and ceiling. Yesterday afternoon, his investment partners had shown suitable respect when he'd announced Hair Air's valuation of ninety-five billion. Stimulated by Ben's call, he'd spent yesterday morning alongside Hair Air's Chief Financial Officer, formalizing the company valuation.

Entering the elevator, he smiled. Ben's girlfriend Kate had played him twice, creating enormous value both times. Once a digital designer working on his website, she'd offered her bottom bent over his desk for a severe caning if her website words didn't beat his. Given her rudeness, he'd agreed, glad to lose as her website brought in deals. The second time she'd entered his office, her audacity had floored him. She'd offered her bent bottom for his cane if his investment in Hair Air, her boyfriend's company, didn't pay off. Her outrageous demand for fifty million looked peanuts beside Hair Air's ninety-five billion valuation today, fair compensation for never caning her gorgeous bottom.

Evan dropped into a plush, white leather chair, facing his favorite two co-founders across their high-gloss white boardroom table. It befitted a female oriented business. Leaving Kate to establish their office and crew had proved smart. He smiled. "Would a billion cover it?"

Incredulity tumbled down their faces, bringing him perfect pleasure. Kate had vowed epic returns. Ben's incredible product was the sensation he'd promised. His execution was flawless. He'd launched fanfares of dancers nationwide, driving demand for his phenomenal pouches. He'd shown incredible business flair.

"A b..b.. billion," Kate spluttered.

"It's two point five percent of your shareholding," Evan said.

Ben recognized Evan had outflanked him. He'd expected to have to persuade their wealthy investor to help them. His expression betrayed his thoughts.

Evan grinned. "Ben, you deserve proper rewards. You've created an extraordinary business. Selling some shares to an investor is simple, but I'd recommend keeping your holding and borrowing against its exceptional value. Your risk is negligible. It further decreases as your success continues. You're about to conquer Europe and Asia."

Kate said, "Screwing up, we'd lose our shares."

Evan laughed. "Imagine you halve the company value. Inconceivable, given your current sales. Repaying your loan would cost five percent of your shareholding. You wouldn't notice."

Ben glanced at Kate. During his early experiments, her salary had supported them. He owed her. He owed himself. "We'll do it."

"Banks will leap on you," Evan said. "It's an ultra low risk deal. I'd recommend Cohen Merchant Bank. We've used them before. I've brought Elias, their senior private banker. His team is waiting in your reception."

Ben said, "Show them in."

Evan showed Elias and two others into the boardroom. Gray suits defined them. Neat and soft-spoken, Elias outlined the basic deal terms. Kate liked the banker. He assumed nothing, explaining financial structures with simple examples, offering intelligent advice. She found him shrewd. Presumptuous or brilliant, his colleague had already opened accounts, presenting black bank cards printed in their names.

Kate signed her loan agreement. Three simple pages moved her disbelief into hard reality. She smiled. Next time she lunched with her mom, she'd pay.

Discussing real estate, vehicles, and ownership structures, Elias promised her an offshore company would sit ready to purchase an apartment within seven days. He connected her to experienced lawyers who'd represent her, arranging viewings without disclosing her identity.

Ben capitalized on Evan's presence, seeking his approval for substantial crew bonuses. Their brilliant crew had delivered unprecedented growth. Evan agreed on an entire year's salary. Unexpected generosity would lift their exhausted team sky high.

Almost unable to breathe, Kate thanked Elias, storing his number in her contacts. Her self-denied browser tab wasn't silly money. Not anymore.

Setting aside his island dream, Ben left their stunning meeting. He must deliver Jenna's performance review before today finished. Entering his office, he said, "Evening, Jenna." His marketing manager was already sitting on his leather couch. He preferred conducting performance reviews on his couches. The informal situation encouraged candor.

Jenna crossed her jeans-clad legs, advertising her choice of blue and violet soled comfortable sandals today. Their office dress code suited her style. Bright accent sandals and black jeans were her staple choice. She'd worried overnight about her performance review, poring over her mistakes to examine if any might earn her his cane. He'd thrashed self-respect into her backside, driving her to her full potential. It had only multiplied her respect for him. Raking over her recent months, she'd detected only one event worthy of discipline.

"Do you expect the cane today?" Ben asked. He adored Jenna. Challenging her had produced miraculous results.

She blushed. "I considered it." In fact, she'd masturbated hard last night, imagining him correcting her unsatisfactory performance. She'd pictured him taking her panties down and caning her bare.

Relishing her blush, he said, "Our sales are outstanding and costs are within budget. Can I help your performance?"

She wanted to say, 'Bend me over your desk, anyway.' His hard authority had permeated her dreams until she'd found Adrian to spank her. Her professional disciplinarian dealt with her most months. She craved her visits. In Adrian's office, high above the noisy street, she loved receiving her strict correction as the city continued its business below. "I'm happy, Ben. You changed me. Your caning hurt. I felt it for seven whole days. Afterwards, I was so proud of myself. Thanks to you, I realized I benefit from strong spankings. I found a professional disciplinarian. Most months, I visit him."

He smiled. "I'll still thrash you if warranted."

"I respect that." Her sex clenched. The black cotton bikini panties he'd seen held a special place in her underwear drawer. She wore them whenever she relived her first caning. She'd presented herself to Adrian in them on her first visit. Enjoying them under her jeans on his couch, her sex lamented her excellent performance review.

"Will you accept the title of Chief Marketing Officer?"

She smiled. "With pleasure. I feel I've earned it."

"You have. Your salary is now two hundred fifty thousand."

"Thank you, Ben."

"You're welcome. I'm giving unscheduled bonuses equaling one hundred percent of your salary next month."

Her brain catching up with its calculations, she smiled. "That is generous."

"One matter deserves discussion," he said. "Elisha Abbie Moran."

Her sex seized upon his firm tone, clenching in approval. He'd hit her one fear. Her public failure. She nodded.

"You responded fast. I believe your speed saved our reputation. We seem to have survived the storm."

She'd disassociated them from the potent influencer two hours after Elisha issued a shocking rant on her multiple social media channels. The powerful influencer had slammed everything from religious groups to entire countries, decrying lawful opinions. Turning toxic, she'd decimated her hard-won audience. Jenna hadn't hesitated. Nothing about Hair Air aligned. Facing only damage, she'd issued a critical press release and social media posts splitting Hair Air from the outspoken woman.

"You signed her," Ben said. "You couldn't predict her future conduct, but you judged her suitable for our brand, and stable. Neither proved true."

She nodded. Her team had suggested they sponsor Elisha Abbie Moran. However, her signature rested on the contract. Her decision.

"Your performance pleases me, but this event needs marking."

She savored his firm tone. It needed marking on her bottom. Severe marks, applied by her stern boss. A formal punishment for her poor judgement.

"You must pay a price for your public mistake."

"Yes, sir."

Noting her sudden formality, he stood, heading towards the high lateral cupboard behind his desk. Taking the cane from its resting place, he turned.

Jenna stood. Approaching his desk didn't come easy. Despite deserving punishment, it still hurt. Crossing the short distance proved tough. The golden stick held by him encouraged her obedience.

"Jeans down, Jenna."

Unsnapping her tight, black skinny jeans, she pushed them to her knees. She'd replayed this moment a million times since she'd first obeyed him. Surrender spread down her bare thighs. She faced his desk, her bottom exposed in her sharp-cut black bikini panties, glad she'd chosen her reliable underwear.

He tapped his desk, the cane tip bouncing. "Bend over."

Placing her arms on his vast desk, her short black tee rose as she bent, emphasizing her meagre panty protection.

"Did you imagine your influencer turning toxic?"

"No, sir. I studied views, subscribers and reach. Her content was appropriate." The cane leveled across her panties, signifying his substantial criticism.

"Negative consequences should have occurred to you."

Light taps punctuated his admonishment. She hadn't imagined her sponsorship deal blowing up. Responsible for global awareness of Hair Air, she hadn't considered consequences. Now she was receiving them.

"Twelve strokes, Jenna."

She summoned her courage, spreading calm through her curves. She'd taken twelve before. They'd stung, but she'd acquitted herself well. The familiar warning whistle screamed through the air, exploding into a sharp crack across her cotton. Her brain registered the sudden impact. The cane's heavy landing dented her cheeks, meaning business. Pain soared into its ready-made indentation. Heat tore into her tender butt. She imprisoned her breath against the soaring hurt. It stung worse. Exhaling into hopeless agony, she softened. Pain stormed her single stripe.

She rode her rollercoaster of pain. Brutal agony twisted and turned, deepening her hurt. Minutes elapsed. The cane struck hard, an inch lower. She bit her lip. Damn, this was tough. Slow strokes left agonizing gaps for her pain to permeate. Determined to survive her agony, she wallowed in her mistake. She'd endangered the company. Measuring her misery, she commended his decision to punish her. She deserved this severity. Two cuts landed low, seconds apart, refusing her attempts to predict her pain. She howled. Clenching her teeth, she forced herself under control.

"Responsibility hurts," he said.

His statement summarized her pain, justifying it. She was Chief Marketing Officer of Hair Air. She'd helped build their enormous company. Responsibility hurt. It must. The unpredictable cane continued her painful lesson. She'd chosen a risky route to promote Hair Air. Their other influencers needed warning letters in case they hadn't noticed her invoke Elisha's morality clause.

"Will you swim soon?" he asked.

The bizarre question confused her. She didn't swim often. What? "No, sir." She'd swim next month. She had three beach-house weekends booked. The cane tapped her bare thighs. She understood.

"Your legs will embarrass you. You'll have to consider your wardrobe choices. Appreciate your embarrassment. It's intentional."

"Yes, sir." She would consider her humiliation whenever she dressed. A fitting indignity. She straightened her legs, preparing them to receive purposeful punishment.

The cane sliced into her flesh. Agony cut across her tenderness. Fire ripped across both her thighs, refusing to abate. Flames buried heat deep into her soft skin. She stretched her legs, willing her suffering to spread. Sliding lower, the rattan whipped into her tender skin, scorching public evidence of her punishment. Being branded as a punished girl wrought deep sorrow from her. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Stand up, Jenna."

Struggling to her feet, she pulled up her jeans, their tight denim encasing her flaming thighs. "Thank you, sir."

"It was one incident, Jenna. You reacted with consummate professionalism. Your swift action saved the company. I'm proud of you. You won't forget your mistake."

She shook his hand. His generous strictness deserved gratitude. Inflamed from her legs to her heart, she appreciated his respect. He hadn't excused her mistake. He'd promoted her and caned her.

Riding the metro home, she stood. Glancing at potential customers, she embraced her punishment. Stood before customers she sought, her butt and legs stung. Her sex throbbed. He'd brought her into line. Enjoying her secret humiliation, she lowered her head in respect.

Her apartment welcomed her home. Stripping off her punishing jeans, she entered her bedroom. Two free standing mirrors occupied their familiar positions, offering enticing angles over her bed. Had she believed he would punish her today? Climbing onto her bed, she kneeled, admiring her black cotton bikini panties cutting distinct curves across her caned cheeks. Below, two stark red stripes dominated her thighs. Touching them, she flinched. More tender than those adorning her bottom, deep appreciation spread into her sex. He'd marked her with public shame. It befit her promotion. Her huge pay rise and important title demanded recognition of her shameful mistake.

She slid her panties to her thighs, arranging them below her bottom, above her significant stripes. Ten red weals lined her buttocks, a serious punishment. Her two thigh statements drove her finger onto her dutiful clit. Knees spread, she frigged herself hard. Peering between her legs, visual evidence filled her view.

He'd denied her bikinis, shorts, and miniskirts. Forced to consider her punishment whenever she encountered a clothing decision, she reveled in her shame. Delicious shudders rose, threatening instant orgasms. She backed off, glancing away.

Jumping from her bed, she rummaged in her drawer for her short, stretch cotton miniskirt, slipping it on. Navy, its shortness begged for attention-grabbing panties. Stepping from her black, she skimmed fresh white cotton up her thighs, snapping the stinging elastic into her fresh weals. A punished girl, she didn't deserve comfort. Groaning, she returned to kneel on her bed. Her mirrors showed her tight skirt. It hid her caned cheeks, emphasizing her thrashed thighs. Two red beacons beckoned eyes. Shopkeepers, passing pedestrians, park goers, everyone would see she'd received the cane. Her fingers plunged beneath her skirt waistband, landing in her white panties. Spreading her knees, she leaned forward, flashing her white panties at her mirrors. She resumed her celebration, pretending she was walking the city streets, a punished girl.

Deluged in shame, she basked in her abject humiliation. Everyone saw her marked thighs. They knew her bottom also hurt. They saw a professional young woman, her conspicuous punishment delivering suitable disgrace. Her excitement mounted. Public shame cascaded through her core. Maybe she'd attract a decent guy. He'd know to discipline her. Risky, her throbbing sex commended her idea.

"Beaten," she muttered, delaying her pleasure over endless minutes, commemorating the long, painful gaps between her severe strokes. Holding herself against an unstoppable tide, she failed, crashing onto her bed, lethal orgasms lunging through her.

Stinging on her bed, she tapped her phone, ordering herself the hugest mushroom-laden pizza, adding a tub of pistachio ice cream. Her promotion deserved some serious celebration. Still wearing her navy stretch miniskirt, she accepted delivery. Needing decent humiliation, she released her door, turning before it closed, giving the pizza guy a clear view of her caned thighs.

Her sex demanded she satisfy its urgent hunger. She refused it, luxuriating in her denial. At her kitchen table, she leafed through a glossy girl magazine, her thighs stinging against the chair seat, her sex screaming for satisfaction, her stomach receiving its well-deserved pizza. A multi-page spread supplied star sign readings for twelve months ahead. She read each month, paying assiduous care. Stars weren't perfect. Nor were they pointless. She had to believe her future lay within. The last month demanded incessant re-reading. She would face tough demands from a stranger before pride carried her into his arms.

Dropping her last slice, she slid her hand into her skirt waistband, teasing herself through her cotton panties. She imagined walking beside him; her caned thighs on public display. Shifting aside her panties, she didn't care about her public embarrassment. She wanted passers by to see he'd caned her and know her bottom hurt. His wondrous dominance thrust against her finger. Twelve months would fly by, his promised presence waiting in the wings to transport her. Her proud clit rammed against her nimble finger, loving her social shame. Orgasms burst free, littering her kitchen floor. Gazing at her pistachio ice cream, she slumped in her chair. Summoned from her magazine stars, he'd welcome her pride, carrying her into his arms. For her, pride always followed pain. Her stars must be true.