Sunday, February 6, 2011

Punished for Being Late to Work

She knocks on his door, cautious, but not overly.

She'd only been a few minutes late, after all.

Only, for some reason, he'd asked specifically to see her in his office -- something he'd never done before with her, and had only done with other employees on very rare occasions.

"Come in."

If the stern sound of his voice hadn't set her on edge, the look he fixed upon her as she entered certainly did. His eyes were steel, unyielding -- yet somehow warm. In the moment of induced silence after she shut the door behind her, she felt her eyes drop to the floor under his accusatory gaze.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Bailey?" By the end of this question, his eyebrows have raised in expectation.

Had she really been that late? Had she done something else worthy of this kind of inquiry? Conscious of the stretching silence, she answers uncertainly, not wanting to further incriminate herself. "I think so, Sir?"

"You think so?"
His answer is immediate, and dissatisfied.

"You are here, because of your consistent tardiness. Do you think coming late to work is okay? And you were late again today, you know that?" He is standing now, bearing closer to her with each sentence, making her more and more conscious of the fact that the closed door rests solidly behind her, leaving her nowhere to run, no room to conserve the dignity of personal space. The closer he comes, the more she must look up in order to meet his eyes—he towers nearly a foot over her modest 5’ 4”.

"Yes, Sir, I know, but --"

"No excuses. You know you've been late six times in the past three weeks?? That's practically every other day!"

He's been keeping track?? She hadn't realized that he'd been so concerned with her time of arrival -- that he'd been paying close enough attention to notice it consistently, among so many other employees.

"By all rights, you should be put on suspension from work." He looks away from her as he says this -- it is obvious that he doesn't like the idea any more than she does.

"No, Sir, please -- I'm sorry!" A suspension would look terrible on her professional record!

“You’re sorry.” The whirring gears in his mind glimmer through the thoughtful look in his eyes as he weighs his options—options as yet unknown to the unfortunate employee now standing distressed in his office. He makes to move away from her, back over toward his desk, but takes less than a step before he’s made up his mind. “Saying you’re sorry just isn’t good enough, Rayne.”

She is wringing her hands now, not yet resigned to the frightful idea of a suspension—how would that effect the rest of her career? How would she pay her bills in the meantime? What would she tell her coworkers?

“But I am not going to suspend you.”

A deeply relieved sigh escapes unwillingly from her tensed lungs… thank goodness. His eyebrows rise again at her slip in decorum, but he lets it pass.

“Instead, I’m going to spank you.”


It is several moments before her brain can fully wrap itself around his words, and their implications. All she can do is blink several times, frozen. He’s going to what? Spank her?… What does he mean? How is this even an option?...

But he is speaking again before she can regain her bearings, making the most out of her temporary state of shock. “Have you ever been spanked before, Miss Bailey?”

She finds it easier just to answer his questions, while still gathering her thoughts, “Not for a long time…” Her mind reaches back to a few childhood spankings that she can remember receiving on rare occasions from her parents. But that was close to 15 years ago now…!

“Well, seems like you need a refresher. Come over here.” He is settling himself into an armless chair near his desk, turned to face her—even while seated, his head is merely inches below hers where she stands.

This is all happening so fast! “Sir…” she is having trouble forcing her body to obey.

“Here.” His peremptory tone accompanied by an equally commanding gesture to the space directly in front of him gives her the fuel she needs. As she approaches, he swings his left knee outward, and before she can fully realize what is happening, all she can see are his ankles and the hardwood floor, all the blood in her torso is rushing to her face, and her hips are positioned squarely over his left thigh.

The spanking starts immediately—he’s not kidding!

His hands, proportionate to his height, are wide and heavy. One is wrapped firmly around her waist, and the other is spanking her over the seat of her pants, hard and fast.

More out of shock at this new, painful sensation and exceedingly vulnerable position than any real distress (yet), her feet start to come up off the ground, her knees bending more with each impact of his hand on her quickly warming bottom.

He is ready for this. Not more than five or six hard swats in, and he is already placing his right leg over hers, pinning her legs down, denying her the privilege of even limited mobility.

This is serious.

She cannot believe this is happening. What grown woman gets spanked at work? How soundproof are these office walls? Why hadn't she realized that he cared so much about her work performance?

"Do you realize that people depend on you here, Miss Bailey? Do you know that when you are late you are making them wait for you? Do you think that's acceptable behavior?" His scolding is making her feel even more like a child than she already does, over his knee getting spanked.

She is retaliating before she can stop herself, "It was only 5 minutes!"

"Only 5 mi-- get up!" The abrupt halt in spanks which had been raining down on her only moments before allows her to realize just how much this is starting to hurt. Once released, she finds her feet again as quickly as possible, unable to meet his eyes, her heart racing, somehow sure that she's just made a mistake.

"Lower your pants, and quickly."

Her face is turning beet red as she obeys, shocked beyond belief now -- barely able to breathe out of alarm and embarrassment.

She is back over both of his knees now, her pants down around her knees -- but it is only a matter of seconds before a new development takes place: apparently more peeved by her retort than she'd realized, he suddenly pulls her panties down, too, all of half-way down her thighs. An involuntary whine issues from her throat, as an even deeper wave of embarrassment floods over her.


"Complaining, now?" His hand on her bare skin, just as hard, just as fast, reminds her of just how protected she'd been with her pants still on.

"Nooo..." she can barely keep the whine out of her voice as the spanking builds velocity.

"No what?"

"No, Sir!"

A volley of purpose-driven spanks forces a squeal out of her as she tries her best not to squirm over his lap.

"I want to be sure you won't be late anymore, Rayne. Don't you? Why shouldn't you be late?" His ability to scold and to spank at the same time, with vigor, is astounding to her... while she is struggling to keep her thoughts in coherent order.

"Because... ahhhhhh...!" but the constant SMACK of his hand on her bare bottom is making it very difficult for her to string the right words together.


Satisfied at least with her attempt, his pace continues as he prompts further, "Because people are depending on you? Because you have responsibilities here? Because you shouldn't keep people waiting, right? Is that why?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"And what can you do to make sure you won't be late in the future?"

This time, he slows very briefly, allowing her to gather her breath, and her words. "Go to bed earlier?" comes her suggestion, a desperate attempt at ending this barrage.

"Good idea," and he is back to spanking again, causing her to squeak and squirm. "What else?"

Her brain is still in motion, still reaching, grasping for opportunities to stop the pain now mounting under his heavy hand, "Lay things out the night before--" But it does nothing to cease the spanks, he merely nods and continues, commenting on her new-found ability to suddenly come up with such great ideas!

Without warning, his pace triples in speed and she is hard-pressed to keep from crying out too loudly -- but the quickened volley of 15 or so is only a precursor...

"Up." She needs a few extra moments to find her balance this time, her hair messed, her hands reaching down in an automatic attempt to conserve even the smallest level of dignity at keeping her pants from falling to the ground. She need not have bothered, however, because no sooner had she stood than he followed her, walking beyond her to a cupboard across his office.

"Bend over the desk. We're not through yet."

Her bottom burning, her face flushed, she finds no strength to resist, although curiosity gets the better of her as she tries to peer over her shoulder at what he seems to be pulling out of the cupboard.

"Don't look back
-- eyes straight ahead."

His movements behind her set her senses on hyper-alert.

"You're going to get the strap, Miss Bailey, do you understand?"

Luckily, he takes her concerned whimper for a 'yes.'

"And you're going to count. Three for each time you've been late. How many is that?"

Now he's asking her do to math??? Her pants and panties are down around her knees, her bottom is bright red, she's bent forward over his desk in his office, anticipating more punishment, and he wants her to practice multiplication??

"18?" the answer comes out as a question, in part due to her uncertainty in her own logical abilities at the moment, and in part due to her slight surprise at the rather large number.

"That's right. You'll count each, and you will say 'thank you' after each one, is that clear?"

"Nnnn yes, Sir."

WHAP! The first comes as a slight surprise -- but it doesn't hurt as terribly as she had feared it might. "One, thank you, Sir."

His scolding continues throughout the strapping. WHAP! "Two! Thank you, Sir." He reiterates the reasons she should not be late for work, WHAP! his concern with her conduct, WHAP! his intention to bring her here again on the drop of a hat if it were to happen again.

WHAP! "Five, thank you, Sir..." He repeats the preparations she had cited earlier to keep from being late again, WHAP! admonishes her for letting it get to this point, WHAP! and assures her that he will be watching very closely in the coming weeks to make sure her behavior improves. WHAP! "Eight! Thank you Sir!"


"Will you be late again, Miss Bailey?" WHAP!

"No, Sir! Nine, thank you, Sir..."

"Halfway there." His voice is steady, almost reassuring.

Each stroke is harder than the last, so that by the time they reach the later teens, her counting has become slightly irregular. WHAP! "Sssssssssixteeeeen... Thank you... S-sir..." WHAP! "Sev-teen! ThankyouSir!"

WHAP!! His last is so hard, she can't keep from yelping and hissing before making her count, and bringing her punishment to a close.

"Now, pull your clothes back up, collect yourself, and go back to work. I don't want to see you in here like this again any time soon, Miss Bailey."

7 comments:

  1. Nice blog entry. I have somehow the feeling I was there. I guess it's your writing style. What else could it be....?

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  2. I have no idea what it could be, Mr. Lewis! Perhaps wielding that strap so vigorously (18 times!?) has left you a bit light-headed, and susceptible to flights of fancy? :D *hugs*

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  3. Excellent post ! Love the tentative knock at the door image !!

    MarQe

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  4. Thank you, MarQe! Yes, amazing how pictures just *fit* sometimes... :D

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  5. Thanks for sharing I enjoyed reading

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