Spanked by my Boss
by Pan
Chapter 12
To my surprise, the feeling of satisfaction lasted all night. After the kids went to bed, Aaden made a move, and for the first time since I’d started at Gio Industries, I actually turned him down.
I could see he was surprised, but he didn’t object—before my new job, it hadn’t been an odd occurrence for me to pass on sex.
Maybe this ridiculous crush was finally out of my system. Maybe I could return back to normal. A normal professional woman, with a normal relationship with her normal boss.
But the next morning, as I approached Mr. Peterson’s door, I could feel it returning.
The warmth.
Before I even crossed the threshold of his office, it was there, lurking. Just at the knowledge of what was about to happen, that Mr. Peterson’s firm hand was about to strike my fully-exposed backside...I could already feel myself getting aroused.
No, not aroused. It wouldn’t be appropriate to be aroused at work. It wouldn’t be appropriate to get turned on by the knowledge that my boss was about to see my naked ass.
And it would be completely unprofessional to allow his hand to bring me to a hot, dripping, powerful orgasm.
But I knew that it was going to happen anyway.
When I entered, I was relieved to discover that it was just the two of us. The stranger’s gaze yesterday had made me strangely uncomfortable.
And (for reasons I had no interest in exploring) excited me more than a little.
Mr. Peterson’s smile was warm as I approached his desk. My heart leapt at the sight of it—of course he’d had to maintain a completely professional attitude the day before. We’d had an audience (my cheeks burned at the thought of it) and he couldn’t risk anyone thinking what we were doing was anything but above-board.
If he was too friendly to me, Ricky might have thought he was enjoying spanking me to orgasm, which could reflect poorly on the company.
As much as I might have secretly wished Mr. Peterson was aroused by spanking me, I had to remind my poor confused body that it wasn’t about that.
It was strictly professional.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly, and I nodded, biting my lip as I lowered my pants and bent across his desk.
I’d thought I was ready for it this time, but as I dutifully counted down the strokes against my ass, I knew that I’d been fooling myself. By the time a ragged “Ten, sir,” left my lips, I was dripping wet—I almost came at “Fifteen, sir,"...but, just as for the past two days, it wasn’t until I gasped “Twenty, sir,” that I allowed the warmth to enclose me, my legs shaking as I tremblingly came, my ass burning from the precise slaps that Mr. Peterson had so carefully delivered.
This time, I managed to almost entirely maintain my composure—I didn’t black out, I didn’t collapse onto his desk...my eyes fluttered and I bit my lip, but when my orgasm passed, I was still standing.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, a slight smile on my face. It hadn’t been the ground-shaking orgasm of the previous day; the satisfaction hadn’t reached all the way down to my toes, but it was hard not to be grateful.
Not that Mr. Peterson was deliberately giving me an orgasm, of course—I was really more grateful that he wasn’t making a big deal out of it. I would have been so embarrassed if he’d said something, or thrown me a look of judgment.
My eyes widened when I saw his brow was creased with worry.
“Amber,” he said, “we need to talk.”
My heart leapt to my throat.
Oh, god. I tried to slow my racing mind as it flitted from worried thought to worried thought. I was normally quite foggy after a...punishment...but my boss’s short statement had cut through the fog, and sent my brain into overdrive.
What had I done wrong?
He’d been so nonchalant about the fact that I came every time he spanked me, surely he…that couldn’t be the problem, could it?
No. No, I was certain that Mr. Peterson understood that when I came, that was just my body’s natural response to…to…
“Sir?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. I was standing in my boss’s office, at my place of work, with my pants around my ankles. My glowing ass on display.
I tried to tell myself that it was okay, that what we were doing was fine. It was in the EED. I had just been punished for a typo, as any employee would have been.
But I knew that wasn’t true.
Most employees wouldn’t cum. Most employees wouldn’t be brought to orgasm by their boss’s hand.
Most employees didn’t picture their boss deep inside them when they went home to fuck their husband.
Was that what Mr. Peterson wanted to talk about? My stupid crush? Had he worked out how I felt about him?
God, if he even had an inkling that I fantasized about him whenever I felt Aaden inside me, I knew I would die. Everything else was completely within the bounds of professionalism, but that: that was crossing the line.
No. How could he know? He couldn’t know.
Could he?
Maybe the way I looked at him, the way I trembled with pleasure whenever he touched me. The way I got giddy when he glanced at me, my head spinning whenever I knew he was paying attention to me.
The way my pussy got so wet at the feeling of his firm hand, spanking my ass.
My boss took a deep breath, and I realized I was holding mine. I just wanted him to approve of me. I just wanted to be the best employee I could. I wanted to be good for him.
I wanted to be Mr. Peterson’s good girl.
“I have a problem,” he said, and I nodded frantically.
“Something I was wondering if you could help me with.”
“Anything,” I wanted to blurt out. “I’ll do anything I can to help you.”
It was true. I’ve always been a model employee—except for my recent, inexplicable bout of typos. Combined with the way I felt about Mr. Peterson...I would have done anything he’d asked.
There was a feeling of devotion, deep inside my core. I hadn’t realized until then, but I was completely and utterly devoted to my boss. To Mr. Peterson.
And to my job, of course.
But I managed to hold back my girlish exclamation, and just nodded once more.
My boss’s office was air-conditioned; something I didn’t realize until I felt the cool air against my wetness. I could feel my face heating up, in contrast to the room’s temperature.
Part of me felt like I should get redressed. After all, whatever Mr. Peterson needed help with...I was sure that it wouldn’t require my pants to be lowered.
Would it? My cheeks burned at the thought.
No. No, of course it wouldn’t. My boss was a professional. I was the one who’d made it weird.
My stupid crush and my sick mind had perverted a perfectly ordinary instance of employee discipline, and made it...dirty. Wrong.
Hot.
Mr. Peterson returned behind his desk. As he sat down, I was acutely aware that his eye-level was at my exposed pussy. I’m just tall enough that the surface of his desk did nothing to hide my wetness from his eyes.
He didn’t look, of course. But I wanted him to.
Not just a part of me. Most of my body craved his attention. I wanted to feel his eyes on my cunt, I wanted him to see what he’d done. How wet he’d made me.
How I throbbed for him.
For a moment—just one sweet, beautiful moment—I thought I saw his eyes flicker down to my exposed pubic hair. But it was so fast, I couldn’t even tell if I’d imagined it, and his gaze was affixed to my face.
“I need...”
He hesitated. I wanted to lean forward, to let him know that I’d do anything to help him, but I couldn’t cross the line. Letting him spank my bare ass until he brought me to a powerful climax was already getting dangerously close to unprofessionalism; there was no way we could take things any further.
We couldn’t.
No matter how much either of us wanted to.
No matter how much I wanted him.
And so I waited as he mentally struggled with his request.
After a few moments, he slumped back in his chair.
“Never mind,” he said with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
My eyes widened. “Sir??” I asked, immediately wanting to bite my tongue.
All the urgency, all the desperation I’d worked so hard to conceal—it had all come out in that single word. I must have sounded like a mad woman.
I watched Mr. Peterson carefully, but to my great relief, he hadn’t reacted to my desperate plea. It looked like he was still internally grappling with whatever was bothering him.
It was strange to see. For all the time I’d been working for him, my boss had seemed like a man of great resolve. Whether it was setting timelines, solving problems, or deciding an appropriate punishment, I’d never seen him struggle with something like this.
If you’d asked me before now, I would have said that his confidence was his most attractive quality. But there was something oddly appealing about seeing him vulnerable like this.
As if my dumb crush didn’t have enough fuel already.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I really shouldn’t have said anything. It wouldn’t be...”
As he paused on the last word, my worries spiked once more. Was it something I’d done? At my last job, I’d always gotten along with my boss—he’d been wonderful in many ways, but giving employee feedback was not one of them.
Whenever he’d had to tell us something was wrong or share bad news, he’d ummed and ahhed like Mr. Peterson was now.
“...appropriate,” he finished.
My temples were pounding with every beat of my heart. Two possibilities immediately sprung to mind.
It made sense for Mr. Peterson to have realized how I felt about him. Aaden often teases me about how transparent I am, how obviously I wear my emotions on my face. And it would explain his hesitance, too: how do you talk to your employee about their inappropriate feelings for you? Especially when your job requires you to strip them down and discipline them regularly?
So that was the first option.
The second was...well, the adrenaline flooding my system wasn’t purely driven by fear. If Mr. Peterson was having inappropriate thoughts about me, I’d...I’d...
I froze. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do.
He won’t, I reminded myself. He doesn’t.
He’s a professional. He’s my boss.
Of course he doesn’t want me the way I want him.
But…what if he did?
Part of me wanted to pound my fists on Mr. Peterson’s desk and demand that he tell me what the problem was.
Another part of me wanted to drop to my knees and promise him that whatever it was, I’d help him solve it. That I’d do anything he asked.
Anything.
But I did neither. Instead, as I always strive to, I listened to my professional side. I fastened my pants (did Mr. Peterson glance at my pussy before it disappeared from view, or was that just wishful thinking?) and silently walked to the door.
“Thank you, Amber,” Mr. Peterson said quietly. I returned his smile, and returned to my desk.
Normally after my daily discipline, my mind was foggy with arousal.
Today, it was burning with questions.