Catherine Clarke over at Shameful Desires asked for a writing prompt recently, and I gave her a final sentence. The very erotic tale she told deserved a counter-view, so I present here the Boss’s view of the events of that day…
Today did not start well, to put it lightly, yet it ended in a way I could never have imagined.
I spent my first hour having my balls chewed by Miss Fitzwilliam, our noble General Manager and part-time despot. She came to us from the world of Education, and we’ve never been allowed to forget it. She likes to think we are all still students in short pants, I am sure. Every time I visit her office it feels like I’m back at my private school, about to drop my pants and assume the position. Today was no different. Month end reports showed a drop in all the key measures for the Division and she was taking it all very personally. I swear, this time she was one step short of ripping my dick off and shoving it up my arse. Fair enough, I know the results were off, but it’s a tough economy and I’m not the only one working here. Foolishly, I tried to tell her as much. She loomed over me (I’m not short, but she’s a good six-footer).
“Lack of focus,” she roared, inches from my face. “You run a slack ship,” she bellowed. I winced as I caught scent of her breakfast burrito. “It is high time we saw some APPLICATION!” She punctuated this last assessment by slapping a wooden ruler hard on her desk. I am absolutely certain she imagined my behind under that ruler as she punctuated her vitriol with smacks to the desk until the wood gave out and fractions flew in all directions. She looked down, puzzled at the shard remaining in her hand. She took that as the end of our morning chat, and turfed me out with a final rebuke.
“If we were 20 years ago at Saint Julian’s, you would be carrying the marks of my wrath on your buttocks for many days, MARK MY WORDS. You are a pathetic apology for a manager. Get your house in order or so help me, then next time, it really will be your arse on the line!”
I was getting a coffee an hour later, still stewing over Fitzgerald and the patent unfairness of it all. Her stinging words had taken me right back to my school days.
I had been set up as a prank by my classmates. Someone had slipped a tiny sheet of equations into my pencil case before a test. Miss Greensmith saw it and sent me straight to the Head. He had bawled me out just like Fitzgerald had, but instead of slapping a ruler on the desk, he had slashed his cane six times across my trouserless buttocks, punctuating each swipe with an assessment of my worthless future as a cheat and a liar. I carried his mental chastisement for far longer than his physical one, and the chaps certainly had a field day when they saw my purple stripes in the changing rooms next morning.
These parallel injustices were playing in my mind when in strolled Miss Clarke, a half hour late and tottering on heels more suited to a nightclub than the work place.
“There’s my problem,” thought I, “There’s where my ‘lack of productivity lies’. Never done a hard day’s work in her life!” I took in her white blouse straining against the force of her out-thrust breasts, and the expanse of toned thigh revealed when she bent to stow her bag by her desk, her too-short summer skirt riding up as she did so. I swear she was an inch away from showing her panties – if she even wore any!
“Women like her, they use their sex to get on, then complain about women’s rights,” I remember thinking. “That woman radiates sex you can smell. How’s a man to do any work with that as a distraction?”
I took my coffee to my desk, lost in my self-pity. As I glanced up I realised I had a perfect profile of her chest. As I stared I realised she was constantly fidgeting. She was continually shifting in her seat like she had an itch to scratch. Her tits joggled as she shuffled around. I could stand it no longer. In two seconds I was up and standing at her shoulder. I looked down at her, suddenly aware that my stance had given me a perfect view right into her cleavage. I reached for the mail as a distraction, but all the while I felt my eyes drawn to the strain of her white blouse, a button too many undone and revealing rather too much of her firm, smooth breasts and the edge of a pale-yellow brassiere. Her breasts were the size of large navel oranges but with the flawless texture of silk. I could see the push of her nipple, straining to be free of its bounds.
I coughed and she glanced up. I quickly adjusted my eyes to hers, but I know she saw me staring at her breasts. She didn’t speak, just parted her lips so slightly and dragged her tongue across the underside of her top lip.
I know I started slightly. “The little hussy is taunting me,” I thought. She looked away and returned to typing. My view cast downwards from her chest, to her waist and to the spread of her hips. She sat a little taller, thrusting out her buttocks as her lower back dipped inward.
“This is a woman in need,” I thought. “I can smell her need, her want.”
“My want, Mr. Smithers?” She looked up from her work, a look of confusion and – something else – on her face. OH MY GOD –I had spoken aloud!
In for a penny, as they say. I might not have a job tomorrow. “Yes, Miss Clarke,” I said. I cleared my throat again. I leaned forward and whispered, “I can smell your want.”
She froze. “Excuse me?” She was trying to be all uppity now, but I knew that’s why she had come to work today dressed like that.
“Your want, Miss Clarke. I can smell it,” I said. “I’m finding it quite distracting. In fact, I’ve been distracted by it for several weeks now.”
She sat, staring up at me, confused but with something underlying – was it fear? No. Anxiousness? Possibly, but mixed with an eager anticipation. “She wants this,” I thought, “I was right”. I pressed home on my advantage.
“It is quite distracting, Miss Clarke, that hunger that you have.”
“My … hunger?”
“Your hunger.” And here I whispered again. “Between your legs.”
Her hands rested lightly on the keyboard, tremoring slightly in time with her shortened breath. I fancied I could see her heart fluttering in the soft flesh of her bosoms.
“Your distraction is becoming a concern, Miss Clarke. A concern I need to address. Nip it in the bud, so to speak, before things get out of hand and Miss Fitzgerald becomes involved.”
She said nothing. The tension was palpable. Her fingers still rested on the keyboard, twitching as she tried to control her emotions.
“I think, Miss Clarke, that I need to deal with this behaviour, this distracting behaviour, so that we can move forwards. You know we have high standards, and that failure must be punished.” I took the back of her chair. “Miss Clarke, please stand.”
She looked at me and slowly, stood up. She nervously smoothed her skirt over her bottom. She was flushed, her heat accentuating the musky scent of her perfume.
“Good. Now, Miss Clarke, please bend over your desk.”
I could see her nipples clearly now, making their presence known through the sheer fabric of her blouse. “She wants me, wants this,” I thought, and I felt my penis stiffen at the thought.
“Miss Clarke, lean over,” I whispered.
She pushed aside her keyboard and some papers and then, very slowly, she lowered herself until her elbows rested on the desk. Her bottom thrust outwards against the loose fabric, but I wanted more, a better target, a better view.
“Miss Clarke, all the way down please,” I said. She lay her chest on the wooden surface of the desk, arms stretched forward to the far edge. Now her bottom was presented optimally, clearly outlined through the thin summer fabric. Her feet were slightly spread. I leaned down to whisper in her ear. Her scent was delightful. “Miss Clarke, you know what I am going to do with you…”
I reached forward and picked up the ruler she kept on her desk. A solid 18” wooden ruler, aged by many hands. She gasped as I swished it experimentally.
Could I really smack her bottom? Should I? She wants me to, or she would have slapped my face and stormed over to Fitzgerald. The ruler seemed to have a life of its own as it whipped down and smacked across her skirted cheeks.
She jumped and yelped, more from shock than pain, I know. She didn’t really feel that little swat.
“Miss Clarke, control yourself,” I whispered. I smacked her again and this time she let out a low moan, telling me he wanted more, she wanted to be punished. I gave her another half dozen or so smacks, but this was not working for either one of us.
“I do not believe you are getting the message, Miss Clarke,” I panted, “I need to take this further. Please raise your skirt.”
Without hesitation, she reached back and slowly slid the fabric up, revealing her cheeks and tiny lace panties.
“Beautiful, Miss Clarke, ” I breathed, “Just beautiful. I may need to have you after this, Miss Clarke.”
She swallowed again. “More, please, sir,” she whispered.
I took the ruler again. Smack! The sound exploded across her almost-bared cheeks, and a pink rectangle blossomed. I smacked her again, three, four times. She was whimpering now and her cheeks had a pinkness to them. I dropped the ruler and slipped my fingers into the waistband of her panties. I eased them over her cheeks and down her thighs. I rested my hand on her cheek, feeling the warmth. I spanked her, open palmed, and she yipped. I did it again, then I got into a rhythm and I slapped her firmly and rapidly. She squirmed and yelped, but with no real resistance.
Finally, I stopped and I cupped her cheeks, feeling the firmness and the heat. Her white bottom was now a delightful rosy red. I traced her bottom cleft and she clenched as I pressed a finger inwards towards her anus. I gave her a sharp smack and she relaxed so that I could tease her cheeks apart and view her delightful hidden offering. Beneath, I could see she was wet, open and ready.
I undid my belt to release myself. She gasped as she heard the leather pull loose from the fabric loops. She glanced at me and I saw a need different to the one I had expected. I glanced at the belt in my hand, and at her naked buttocks. I swear she twitched her bottom, enticing me onwards. I folded the belt in my hand. As she lay there I whispered to her, “This is because your cunt is so wet, Miss Clarke. I … need to teach you a lesson.”
Before I knew what was happening, I had raised my arm high and swung that belt downwards with a crack. She cried out as the leather whipped around. I did it again, strapping her seven or eight times. The deep red weals popped even against the rosy glow of her earlier spanking. She was crying now, and I was as ready as she. I dropped my trousers and stepped between her legs. She pushed back to meet me and I slid easily into her wet, tight cunt. I Slid deep, feeling the grip of her all the way in, and I rested there, balls deep.
“Tell me what you want, Miss Clarke. Tell me now.”
“Please fuck me!”
That was what I needed to hear. I slid slowly back and forth, and she countered my thrusts perfectly. I quivered as I fought to control my orgasm, desperately trying to squeeze out every sensation from this moment. I realised I had wanted this woman for a very long time. She was murmuring, “Oh my God!” as we discovered each other. I could hold it no longer and my orgasm ripped through me like a freight train through a tunnel. As I came I rammed hard and deep, pushing her over her own edge as I did so. I am proud to say, she screamed as she came.
We lay there for the longest time, with me slumped across her back. Finally, I got up, plucked a handful of tissues from the box on her desk and cleaned off before rearranging myself.
“Miss Clarke,” I said, “You are remarkable. I will have you again.” And I went into my office and closed the door so that I could sit and dwell on the serendipity of life.
Through the glass door I could see Miss Clarke as she rose and tried to pull herself together. I saw her sit and suddenly jump up again. I leaned forward, curious, before I realised why and I laughed to myself, recalling my own chastisement years before.
“Yes,” I thought, “She will be sore for a while, and bruised for longer. We won’t have any problems with the dress code for awhile. We won’t be seeing those short shorts this week, that’s for sure. But I think it was very much worth it.”
image from Dreams of Spanking