Story from Februs 22 by Darren Young
Paul Bartlett stopped typing to glance at his watch. Another ten minutes until his five o’clock appointment, time for a couple more paragraphs. No sooner had he resumed work at the PC when the silence was broken by the sound of a door bell. Again he halted but rather than irritation at this break in concentration he felt elated.
An early bird eh, mused Paul leaving his favourite chair in the book-lined study to walk across the tiled lobby. Opening the front door he was momentarily confused to find an elegant woman — his eyes made a rapid assessment — in her mid-thirties.
‘Mrs Burton?’ Paul asked politely.
‘That’s right,’ she responded. ‘You look surprised, had you expected someone else?’
‘I’m sorry… how rude of me, do come in,’ Paul replied, rapidly recovering his composure and waving her into the pleasant Edwardian redbrick with a welcoming smile. ‘The people your company sends are usually, er… rather different,’ he added in partial explanation. ‘Please, go on through to the study on the right.’
As she did so Paul continued his unspoken appraisal: a delicately-boned, attractive face, around five foot six tall, fashionably cut shoulder-length auburn hair, dark suit — stylish rather than trendy, high-heeled court shoes; all par for the middle-management course.
Yet again he was puzzled, surely the company had specified female junior ranks only in the contract? Still, no matter, he’d still an agreeable task to fulfil.
Once in the study he directed his guest to a upright chair by the window then resumed his former position at the desk. Mrs Burton sat straight, sedate and self-possessed, in marked contrast to the nervous, round-shouldered squirming displayed by previous occupiers of that particular seat.
Reprising his earlier smile of greeting Paul commenced a familiar rhetoric.
‘You have a letter for me I believe?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied reaching into her bag to hand him a sealed envelope marked “confidential”.
Opening it with measured deliberation he drew out a page of neat A4 headed with the Mitsuno International Corporation logo. Below were concise details of the bearer: Mrs Sonia Burton, 41, Deputy Human Resources Director.
Goodness, so much for his powers of perception. A year older than he was. She’d certainly taken good care of herself, that trim figure must have taken some hard effort in the gym. He read on, ah, this was what he’d been seeking.
‘As part of the contractually binding procedure signed and agreed by the employee, Mrs Burton — having made serious errors of judgement and demonstrated a poor attitude to her superiors — is to receive medium grade corporal punishment from the Disciplinary Officer.’
He looked up, deliberately making eye contact which she returned unblinking. ‘You know why you’re here?’
‘And you know what’s going to happen?’
‘I work in personnel, I know what the contract says,’ she replied unflustered. A brief, tense pause followed, then Mrs Burton spoke again, this time her voice held a hint of amusement: ‘I’m not what you envisioned am I?’ So unexpected and forthright was the query Paul found himself answering before he’d time to think.
‘Indeed,’ he admitted, ‘most people Mitsuno send tend to be Miss, or more likely, Ms. Usually junior admin grades and, I don’t wish to offend, average age about twenty-one.’
‘Which I’m far from being,’ agreed Mrs Burton evenly. ‘But then you’re not what I’d imagined either; how on earth do you come to be doing this?’
This time Paul was better prepared. ‘I realise that you’re accustomed to being in charge, asking questions and expecting answers.’ He stood up pausing to let her digest this concise evaluation. ‘However,’ he continued, in a firmer tone, ‘here, that’s my job.’
Mrs Burton glanced down at the polished boards for a moment. ‘Fair enough, I’ll try not to forget the purpose of this visit,’ her tone was ironic. ‘But,’ she added, looking up again, eyes twinkling, ‘I’m still curious: professional habits die hard I’m afraid.’
Inwardly Paul struggled to suppress a grin. She was incorrigible. Usually he was lucky to get more than a few inarticulate mumblings from apprehensive filing-clerks, red-faced and fidgeting, anxious to avoid eye contact; get it over with and get out. Mrs Burton was proving altogether quite different; sophisticated, intelligent, personable, in different social circumstances just the type of woman…
Pulling himself out of this pleasant reverie Paul was careful to keep his expression neutral and voice measured. ‘If you’re skating on thin ice you might as well dance I suppose,’ he sighed in resigned recognition of her persistence.
Mrs Burton’s eyes followed him around the room as he spoke. She too was practiced at making personal assessments. Paul Bartlett looked to be around five-ten with the strong, slender build of a regular squash player.
Thankfully not some wimpish “new man”, instead authoritative without being overbearing; educated but not arrogant. Brown eyes, unusual in someone with blond hair, and about the same age as herself. His clothes, like the slightly eclectic furnishings of the room, demonstrated an unshowy good taste. In her experienced judgement an altogether very pleasing package. ‘Since you ask,’ he continued bringing her sharply back to the present, ‘I was a hack on the street of shame, pretty damn successful too, but a change in personal circumstances (a polite way to describe redundancy and my former wife running off with the boss) brought me here. New start, away from the maddening crowd, that sort of thing.’
‘I was doing quite nicely as a freelance writer of erotic fiction for those various paperback imprints that have become popular in the past few years. Middle class pornography really, all text, no pics, supposedly written for women but usually bought by men.’
‘A couple of years ago Mitsuno decided to base its European HQ in the town, you don’t need me to tell you they’re by the far the biggest and most generous employer. A section of their massive publishing empire turned out to be the imprint I worked for — apparently acquired as part of an earlier takeover deal — I don’t think they realised they owned it at first.’
‘One day, out of the blue, two very serious little oriental men asked for a meeting. They’d looked at my stuff, which tends to involve a lot of S&M and CP scenarios — that’s what the market buys — and wondered if I knew anyone that could help enforce their unique code of employment.’
‘It’s worked wonders for company performance in Japan apparently but since it was untried in the UK they felt it prudent to subcontract the hands-on end, if you’ll pardon the pun. As a former cynical hack I couldn’t believe they were serious at first but on hearing how much the firm was prepared to pay I volunteered.’
‘Here I am, here you are and that’s quite enough chit chat. Stand up please.’
Surprised by the sudden change of tone, just as Paul had intended, Mrs Burton was on her feet before she realised it. He continued to walk slowly around the room.
‘A medium disciplinary punishment,’ he intoned solemnly, ‘unusual for a first offence, involves a spanking and a caning in that order. Understood?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Burton’s gaze remained unwavering, her voice steady but something in the way she ran her tongue across her lips betrayed the nervousness she’d thus far done so well to conceal. Consequences time, she thought. Too late to stop now. A nervous thrill, part fear, part anticipation coursed through her.
‘Usually, Mrs Burton,’ he continued, ‘Mitsuno miscreants go across my knee for preliminary hand-spanking but since it hardly seems right to treat you like a recalcitrant 18-year-old typist we’ll do things a little differently today.
‘If you would please hand me your jacket and be so good as to put that straight-backed chair in the middle of the room we can begin.’
Firmly back in control of events Paul allowed a further hint of steel to creep into his commands. Mrs Burton obeyed without hesitation, surprised to find a strange security in doing so. With an unfamiliar but not unpleasant feeling of surrender she slipped off the tailored jacket and handed it to him to hang up before moving the solid, hardwood furniture into position.
‘Thank you. Now, kneel on the seat please, face the back and raise your skirt to the waist.’ Did he sound as matter of fact as he intended? In truth watching this curvaceous, mature woman do his bidding was infinitely more arousing than chivvying any number of skinny youngsters into position. Mrs Burton knelt on the seat cushion as instructed. Someone else was calling the tune for a change, whatever happened next would not be her responsibility. With a mixture of relief and pride she carefully drew the hem of the just-above-knee-length skirt up to her waist, excited by the deliciously naughty sensation of revealing herself to a complete stranger. Paul wasn’t disappointed by the view. Firm flawless buttocks surmounted long shapely legs. What’s more, she was wearing stockings.
‘Right, hands gripping the back of the chair please and get ready.’ He stood parallel to her hips, and noted with pleasure how easy it was to circle his left arm firmly around her waist, inhaling an expensive perfume as he did so. With his right hand he tugged a pair of silky French knickers higher up onto her haunches. Wider and more rounded than those usually presented to him but by far the most tempting target he’d seem in a very long while. Mrs Burton turned to look at him, her pretty face still betraying no outward emotion. ‘Is this it?’ she asked struggling to stop her voice from trembling.
By way of reply he began to smack the scantily protected cheeks, following his tried and tested method of alternating from one to the other, warming up slowly. At first Mrs Burton remained rigidly in position as his palm cracked down. After a while he paused to observe her looking fixedly ahead, as if in a daydream, lips pursed, hands grasping the back of the chair in a tight grip.
By the time Paul halted for the second time Mrs Burton was becoming agitated. Her body jerked and twisted against his firm hold as her breathing audibly quickened. Paul resumed the spanking watching her nether cheeks pinken, feeling her futile gyrations become ever more animated. He was forced to grip her slender waist ever more tightly to maintain their respective positions. Little gasps, punctuating by cries of ‘oww’ and ‘aah’ left him in no doubt that the message was getting home.
Mrs Burton relinquished her tight hold on the chair, fluttering her hands behind her in a hopeless attempt to ward off further punishment. Twice he had to grab her wrists pinning the palms out of the way into the small of her back. Finally Paul gave vent to mounting exasperation.
‘Really, Mrs Burton, I’m surprised at you, behaving like a teenager, you simply must keep still, I’ve hardly started yet.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re right of course,’ she said meekly, ‘I used to be able to take a routine spanking like this with ease but I’m rather out of practice.’
‘You’ve been spanked before?’ Paul enquired, surprised. ‘Most of the girls I deal with have never received so much as a slap at home or school.’
‘At boarding school in the early ‘70s we were still caned across our knickers; it only happened to me once, I got six for smoking and haven’t touched a cigarette since.’
‘And the spanking,’ he pressed, intrigued.
‘My husband used to like to take me across his knee for the occasional bum warming, as foreplay, not punishment.’
‘You didn’t, I mean it doesn’t seem to fit the image of the modern professional woman?’
‘I’ve had that argument with feminist friends,’ replied Mrs Burton wearily, ‘and the answer is that I prefer to keep politics out of the bedroom. The whole bloody point of feminism is being able to make my own choices. What are fantasies for if not to be lived out?’
‘A hot sensual smart to your rear end certainly livens up married sex but that all stopped when the sod left me for his young secretary three years ago. With an 18-year-old just starting university you can see why I’ll do doing anything to keep such a well-paid job.’
‘Everything except keep still and take your medicine,’ corrected Paul with characteristic good humour.
‘You could go a little easier…’ suggested Mrs Burton archly.
‘If you think you can talk me into letting you off lightly forget it. Someone in a senior position deserves a far sounder hiding than some silly little low paid trainee and that’s just what you’re in for. I don’t intend wrestling with you for the rest of the afternoon but I do intend finishing the job Mitsuno are paying me for.’
With that assertion Paul strode across the room, collecting a second, identical chair which he placed back to back with the first. ‘Bend right over the back like this,’ he said gasping her wrists and positioning them on the seat. ‘Hands supporting your upper body so they can’t protect that bottom.’
He spent another couple of minutes positioning Mrs Burton to his satisfaction, silently marvelling at her aura of sensuality. ‘Knees slightly apart for balance, skirt out of the way, knickers down to your knees,’ he’d remember the erotic, tactile sensation of sliding the soft material over her hips for weeks to come, ‘they weren’t doing much to protect you anyway.’
‘That’s better,’ he added, finally content with arrangements. ‘Now since I’m wearing my palm out to no avail we’ll complete the spanking with this.’ As he spoke Paul crossed to a small cupboard in the corner of the study, opened it and produced an old-fashioned hairbrush. Mrs Burton, glancing in his direction, caught a glimpse and groaned a quiet protest.
‘Oh, please, that’ll hurt dreadfully, put me over your knee instead, I’d rather humiliation than suffering.’
Paul gently tilted her chin up to gaze directly at him.
‘In that cupboard I’ve a collection of tawses, paddles and straps that can do a lot more damage than a simple Mason Pearson, so you’d be well advised not to complain and keep your delinquent backside still.’
Placing his left hand in the hollow at the small of her back he set to work, methodically whacking every centimetre of the broad buttocks with the well-used wooden wonder until they turned from pink to a uniform crimson.
Mrs Burton reacted with a series of yelps, squeals and a good deal of undignified wriggling. Her face blushed red as her posterior danced under a steady stream of blows.
Satisfied that the upper reaches were glowing nicely Paul transferred his rhythmic attentions to the crease where buttock and thigh meet.
‘Oh no, no, no, Yeow! no… oh pleeease stop, oh, my poor bum.’
Mrs Burton’s sang-froid was rapidly deserting her and, as the facade of control slipped ever further she gave voice to a string of unladylike epithets.
Ignoring her squeals of protest, Paul continued his chastisement, causing the lushly rounded flesh to bounce and judder. Legs kicking wildly, her thighs involuntarily parted to reveal the deep dark crease between her blushing buttocks, anus and labia gleaming moist through the tight, fair curls. No longer in control Mrs Burton’s sole concern became concentrated on halting the burning pain that seared every inch of her nates.
‘Almost finished,’ said Paul running his hands across the glowing orbs that radiated heat to the touch, fondling each buttock in turn, soothing and stroking, affording his victim an all too brief respite.
‘I want you to count the final dozen out loud, please.’
Humiliation complete, Mrs Burton struggled to find her voice.
Whack — ‘One, thank you sir,’ she began without prompting.
Crack — ‘Owww, two thank you sir.’
Slap — ‘Three, ow, ow, ow, thank you… not my thighs, aargh, ten, yeow, thank you sir.’
With two final wristy humdingers Paul reluctantly deemed stage one complete. ‘Get up please, leave your skirt and knickers exactly as they are and stand facing that wall with your hands on your head,’ he instructed. Slowly and stiffly Mrs Burton complied, soundly spanked and perfectly obedient, lips wet and eyes brimming with unshed tears. As she stood, squirming from one foot to another, Mrs Burton was only too well aware of the spectacle she was presenting to Paul’s unabashed gaze.
Knickers around her knees, bottom, which seemed to have grown in size, burning like a beacon. So much for her carefully cultivated executive image. What had she got herself into?
Paul spent another couple of congenial minutes observing her deliciously dishabille discomfort before relenting. ‘Alright, now you can rub,’ he said, a note of kindness in his tone.
Immediately her hands flew back to massage the hot, sore flesh, looking sadly over her shoulder at the crimson display. ‘Thank goodness I didn’t wear tights,’ she observed ruefully, ‘I’d never be able to pull them up over my poor tender bot.’
‘Your poor derriere’s not finished with yet,’ Paul reminded her, ‘you’ve still six with the cane to come.’
Mrs Burton looked dismayed, then, with an heroic act of self-control took a deep breath and steeled herself for the inevitable denouement.
‘There’s no point in pleading for leniency I suppose,’ she observed sorrowfully, ‘and since canings are traditionally on the bare these had better come off.’ Down slid the panties, causing the cricket stump currently occupying the front of Paul’s thankfully loose-cut chinos to become a tent pole.
‘Blouse as well,’ he heard himself saying, exceeding the Mitsuno disciplinary procedure by a mile and throwing caution to the winds. Paul stepped forward, carefully unbuttoned the white silk garment and slid it from her shoulders. Mrs Burton stood, gorgeous and unresisting — nearly naked in only stockings, shoes and suspender belt — the V at the top of her legs as noticeably damp as her eyes.
‘In which case,’ she added, in a voice almost returned to its former strength but several octaves lower, ‘there’s precious little point in retaining this either.’ Her bra joined the other items, freeing two full, erect-nippled breasts. Paul, standing behind her, gently cupped one in each palm, relishing their weight and warmth. Words were rapidly becoming redundant. An electric tension linked them like telepathy.
‘Where do you want me,’ she inquired huskily and Paul became aware that yet again the estimable Mrs Burton was in danger of resuming command, leading events from what was supposed to be a penitent position.
‘Over the back of that,’ he instructed pointing to a large well-upholstered armchair, ‘grip the front legs, feet well apart, bottom right out. No need to count, just concentrate on keeping still. This is going to hurt, and I warn you, move and I’ll repeat the stroke.’
His authority regained, Paul chose a thin malacca cane from the cupboard before taking up position to the right of Mrs Burton, now bent fully over the chair back as directed.
She waited, well-toned body taut with apprehension, sheer stocking-clad legs spread. Her still throbbing, sore bottom thrust out prominently, head down, breasts unfettered. A near perfect submissive pose, awaiting his will, unsure how and when this would all end.
Cruelly Paul flicked the cane through the air, watching the woman flinch at the sound. Mustering as much detachment as possible he methodically laid on five parallel stripes, striking hard into the already ravaged flesh, letting each lingering hurt sink in before delivering the next.
Every cut produced a shriek, frantic immodest weaving of hips and drumming of toes, but Mrs Burton, now completely mastered, somehow managed to maintain her stance, keeping some small shred of decorum as her curvaceous bottom was soundly whipped.
The final diagonal “gating” stroke caused loud cries of distress and floods of tears as it slashed a blazing trail across each of the previous marks on her comely posterior like the coda to an agonising symphony.
‘Well done Sonia,’ said Paul with perfect sincerity. ‘You took that caning very well, now stay exactly where you are and I’ll reward your fortitude with some cold cream.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Mrs Burton huskily, raising her make-up smudged, still damp face to attempt a smile, ‘that would be lovely.’
Her scalding cheeks were a focus of physical suffering yet she felt energised and alive, simultaneously relaxed, purified and above all, aroused.
Searching the bathroom for the soothing ointment, Paul prudently pocketed a packet of condoms. If his reading of the runes was right Mrs Burton, a tingling warmth steadily spreading through her loins, was ready for a rather different kind of rod. Back in the study he rubbed the cooling balm into Mrs Burton’s expertly-beaten buttocks. Wordlessly she pushed back her hips and thighs, opening to accommodate him. Soon moans of pain subtly changed in timbre as her first orgasm approached.
Two days later, Mr Kenyati, European president of Mitsuno, applauded politely as the meeting ended. ‘An excellent presentation Mrs Burton, surpassing even your consistently high standards.’ His deputy, soon to be if she did but know it director of human resources, smiled in acknowledgement before walking gingerly from the conference room. Strange, mused Mr Kenyati to himself, she moves just like a recently thrashed trainee, that can’t be the case, senior managers are not subject to such strictures… But the thought was already fading as he turned back to check the latest revenue figures.
Another month further on, bottom shifting restlessly in the driving seat of her company car, the newly-promoted Mrs Burton takes a familiar detour, turning into a pleasant tree-lined road, making a beeline towards a detached redbrick Edwardian house. She is smiling. It’s five to five…