Spanked by my Boss
by Pan
Chapter 2
For the next few days, I was extra diligent about my grammar. For each and every report I sent, I ran it through an advanced spell-checker, and even had a colleague or two look at it.
To my relief, nothing had changed between me and Mr. Peterson. Whenever he passed my desk, he’d give me the same small nod and smile he always had. I’d once taken my headphones off when I’d seen him approaching, but he’d shaken his head.
“No no,” he said. “Keep those in. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I’d never been one to call bosses sir, not really, but that was another strange thing about Gio—they seemed to be very hierarchical. Even though I was a Senior Accountant (in title, not in years—unless you consider 32 to be senior, that is) and not a secretary, I knew that Mr. Peterson was my boss, and so I followed the examples of everyone around me, consistently addressing him as ‘sir’.
About a week after my ‘punishment’, I sent Mr. Peterson a quick message asking permission to leave early—my son’s birthday was that weekend, and the bakery I’d ordered the cake from had limited hours on Fridays.
He replied immediately, but not with what I’d been expecting.
Come into my office, his email said. Immediately.
When I entered, Mr. Peterson was standing up, leaning against his desk.
“Sir?” I asked, and he gestured for me to close the door behind him...something he’d only asked me to do once before.
Oh, no.
“What kind of company is this?” he asked, staring at me with an intensity that surprised me.
“An accountancy firm, sir.”
“And what sort of business do we do here?”
I hesitated. It sounded like a trick question.
“Accountancy.”
Mr. Peterson nodded, and I felt a wave of relief. But his stare never grew less intense, and it was obvious that he wasn’t done.
“Tell me, Amber,” he asked casually. “Do we sell…cosmetics?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“I don’t believe so, sir.”
“Interesting.”
As my boss stared at me, I felt my tension return.
“Do we deal in cosmetics at all?”
I mentally tried to run through our various clients and partners—they were all consultancy firms, insurance companies, banks—from what I could remember, none of them dealt with physical products at all.
“No,” I answered hesitantly. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“And do we, perhaps, offer some kind of employee package involving lipstick? Mascara? Eyeliner, perhaps?”
After our last meeting, I’d read the EED front to back. I definitely hadn’t noticed anything about any of that.
“No, sir,” I answered confidently, and my boss nodded. I almost felt like I’d passed whatever strange test he’d presented me with.
Almost.
Reaching behind him, Mr. Peterson grabbed a piece of paper sitting on his desk. He handed it to me.
“Read this aloud for me.”
“Hi Mr. Peterson,” I read. “I was wondering if I could duck out an hour early today. I’ll come in early on Monday to make it up.”
I looked up at him nervously. He raised one eyebrow.
“It was fairly standard at my old job,” I said, trying not to let my confusion show in my voice. “I mean...—”
Mr. Peterson held a single hand up, and I fell quiet.
“Read the last sentence again,” he said, his lips thin.
“I’ll come in early on Monday to...”
I trailed off.
“No no,” he said. “Please, continue.”
“...to make up.”
In my haste, I’d omitted a word from my request. Suddenly his opening remark about cosmetics made a lot more sense.
“That was a typo,” I said feebly. My heart sank at the cold look Mr. Peterson shot me in response.
“I’m sorry, Amber,” he said with a sigh. “I know you’re a hard worker. But the EED is very clear about what to do in situations like that.”
“Sir,” I protested. “This is an email.“
“An email sent from an employee to her boss, through the official Gio email server. That makes it an official company document. I’m afraid I really have no recourse here.”
I opened my mouth to object, but closed it again after a brief moment.
He was right. Of course he was right. It had been my mistake, and I was the one who’d have to pay the cost.
There was nothing that could be done.
“Yes, sir,” I said with a sigh. “Five?”
“That’s right,” he nodded. I got into the same position as I had last time, but it felt...different. One week earlier, Mr. Peterson had been across the desk, watching me as I spanked myself.
Now, he was standing next to me, just inches away.
I hadn’t even administered a single slap, and already I could feel the warm feeling entering my body.
“Wait!” he said, as I raised my right hand. “I let you take care of the punishment yourself last time because it was your first offense. This time, I think I’d better be the one to handle it.”
My eyes widened. “Mr. Peterson...sir! You can’t.”
That eyebrow raised once more. “Oh can’t I?”
My voice died in my throat, as I realized what I’d said.
I liked Gio. Genuinely. The people were nice, the pay was great, and the work was challenging...although made much easier by the music that the earbuds seemed to deliver directly to my brain.
But nothing comes without a cost, of course, and I knew just how rigid this company was about rules.
If the handbook said that a typo was punishable by a spanking, I knew that I’d be getting spanked.
But I couldn’t just take it lying down (or, as was the case, standing up). I knew I had to say something.
“What will my husband think?” I asked, a slight tremble in my voice.
Mr. Peterson thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Probably best not to tell him,” he said, and without warning, his hand swung down and met my buttock with a loud CRACK.
“Oh!”
My boss’s hand was firm, and—as you’d expect—larger than my own. And while I thought I’d been delivering my punishment at full force, I realized now that at least part of me had been holding back.
“Count!” Mr. Peterson hissed, and without even thinking about it, I obeyed.
“One!”
My voice was somewhere between a moan and a squeak. I could feel it again—the warmth, eminating from my ass and swiftly spreading to the rest of my frame.
CRACK.
“Two!” I exclaimed, holding onto the desk like it was the only thing preventing me from falling over. My knees were weak as my boss’s powerful hand swung, sharply delivering my punishment.
CRACK.
“Three!” I gasped.
As well as harder, Mr. Peterson’s slaps were coming faster than mine had a week ago, and I felt like my body wasn’t being given enough time to recover between each of them.
Not, of course, that I was going to complain. This was exactly what I deserved.
CRACK. CRACK.
“Four! Ungh...five!”
My voice was trembling as I counted the final two blows, given with barely a moment’s pause between them. The speed of their delivery had meant that they weren’t as strong as the others had been, but I still felt like every inch of me was made of jelly.
Warm jelly. Very, very warm jelly.
“That will be all, Amber,” Mr. Peterson said. In no time at all, he was sitting behind his desk, tapping away at his computer as though nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
Not, of course, that it had. This was just a standard corporate punishment, given when an employee made a typo in a company document.
So why was I filled with dread at the idea of my husband finding out about it?
I barely made it out of my boss’s office before I was once more on my knees, suddenly desperate for air. I lay there for what felt like hours, on my hands and knees, my face just inches from the carpet, feeling overwhelmed and confused and so very, very warm.
This time, to my surprise, someone stopped and sat beside me. I’d seen her around before—she worked in marketing. Tracy, I think her name was. She was an Australian.
“Punishment?” she asked, and I nodded dumbly, not sure how to respond.
“Yeah,” she continued, her accent thick. “Those can be pretty full on. What was it?”
“Just a spanking,” I said. It was a struggle to get the words out—I don’t know why I felt so strange after being disciplined. Maybe it was guilt?
“How many?”
Not wanting to put my voicebox through any more stress, I held up a single hand, with five fingers. Tracy nodded.
“Not too bad,” she said, and my eyes widened. I’d never even considered the possibility of receiving a worse punishment.
“Do you know what I find helps?” she asked, and I shook my head. At that point, I would have done near anything to feel normal again.
Tracy cocked her head towards the woman’s restroom, just two doors down the hall. “Head in there and have a wank. You’ll feel way better, pretty much immediately.”
My mouth fell open at the suggestion. I’d had some pretty frank conversations with co-workers before, but nothing like this...and certainly not with someone whom I’d barely met.
Tracy tilted her head, and I realized how rude I was being. After all, she was only trying to help.
With a bit of effort, I managed to emit an entire sentence. “I couldn’t do that,” I said, looking around nervously. “Is that even allowed?”
“Not technically,” Tracy replied, wrinkling her nose. “But no one will know. And I know for a fact that everyone does it.”
“Really?” I said. “But...why? It’s not sexual.”
“Of course not,” she said, as though shocked by the suggestion. “It’s just a punishment. But...well, the body doesn’t know that. It’s very easy for your arse to get confused. Popping in there for a quick wank will fix you right up.”
With that bizarre nugget of wisdom, Tracy stood up again.
“Good luck,” she said, and shot me a warm smile as she walked away. “And don’t worry...you get used to it.”
It was several more minutes before I felt like I could stand up again. I didn’t ‘pop into the dunny for a wank’...but I’d be lying if I wasn’t tempted.
For the rest of the day, I stayed at my desk, let the strange throbbing music pulsate into my head, and got as much work done as I could before leaving early to pick up my son’s cake.
That night, as soon as the kids were in bed and the dishes were done, I all but dragged my husband upstairs. He didn’t object as I stripped, fell to my knees in front of him, unzipped his jeans, and got him hard.
And he definitely wasn’t complaining as I lay him down on the bed, slowly lowering my sopping wet pussy onto his erection, then rode him to two orgasms before he came inside me.
My husband and I have a good sex life—we knew how important it was to keeping a marriage alive, especially after kids. Nothing fancy, or kinky—just two healthy adults with a strong attraction to each other.
I enjoy sex, Aaden enjoys sex. If it ain’t broke, y’know?
Normally I’m not quite so aggressive, but it wasn’t completely out of character.
What was odd was where my mind went. Normally during sex I’m very ‘in the moment’, but as I gaspingly came around my husband’s cock, one thought never left my mind. Mr. Peterson, standing behind me, his hand raining down swiftly on my ass.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
“Five!” I gasped quietly as I reached my second orgasm.
Fortunately, Aaden didn’t notice a thing.
* * *