Spanked by my Boss
by Pan
Chapter 3
Monday morning had barely started before I was called into Mr. Peterson’s office again.
As I walked down the hall, I somehow knew what was going to happen. And sure enough—my boss informed me that I’d missing a comma when sending a company-wide memo.
It was my fault.
The punishment was the same as last time. Five firm, hard smacks.
I deserved it.
Again, I promised to count them aloud. And as I bent over my boss’s desk, my back arched, my rear presented for his hand, I couldn’t help but think about Tracy’s words from Friday.
I couldn’t masturbate in the office, could I? It wouldn’t be...proper.
CRACK.
“One, sir.”
It hurt, but not intolerably so. I’d gone through childbirth—twice! I could put up with a few firm smacks.
Besides, I deserved them.
It was my fault.
CRACK.
The second spank was what triggered the warmth’s arrival this time, faster than before. My mouth dropped open, and I heard myself say “Two, sir.”
In my head, it had been professional. Functional. I was keeping count, so that my boss could concentrate on executing my punishment.
But it came out as a passionate whimper, a groan of pleasure. It came out like the cry of a lust-filled woman.
CRACK.
“Three, sir.”
I hoped Mr. Peterson wouldn’t misunderstand what was happening. I knew that the punishment was perfectly reasonable.
No, more than reasonable. Necessary.
How else would I learn?
CRACK.
“Four, sir”, I moaned.
The feeling of warmth wasn’t...pleasure. I mean, not really. That wouldn’t be appropriate. I was at work. Mr. Peterson was my boss. And this was a punishment.
If I was getting off on it, it wasn’t really much of a punishment.
But if it wasn’t a feeling of arousal, it sure did a good impersonation. Whenever Mr. Peterson’s hand struck me—the same place, each and every time—it would appear and begin to spread out, filling every inch of me, pooling between my legs.
How had Tracy described it? The body not being able to tell the difference?
Obviously I knew that what we were doing wasn’t sexual. It was corporate policy. If you make a typo, you get punished.
But my body didn’t understand that. As far as my body was concerned, this was...foreplay. This was what couples did, after all. The man spanked the woman, to get her excited.
To get excited himself.
CRACK.
I blushed at the idea. Was what we were doing...exciting him? Was it turning him on?
Not intentionally, of course, but was his body—like mine—getting confused? Getting...aroused?
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Mr. Peterson picked up the pace. I could feel my nipples hardening as the warmth filled my large breasts, caused me to lose focus, made me forget where I was and what we were doing...
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
My eyes opened as I remembered that I was supposed to be counting.
“Five!” I gasped. “Five, five, five!”
As the words left my mouth, I was reminded of the previous night. Why had I thought about this while I was cumming? With my husband?
It didn’t make any sense.
And at the same time, it made all the sense in the world.
“Good girl,” Mr. Peterson said with a nod. His eyes briefly travelled up and down my body—I must have looked a mess. I could feel the sweat on my face, every inch of my skin was bright red, and my eyes were watery and unfocused. “Don’t do it again.“
“I’ll try not to, sir,” I said, embarrassed to hear my words coming out as a seductive purr. God, what must he think of me? First I make an embarrassing typo, then I can’t even stop my body from misreading my punishment.
My eyes flicked down to his crotch, suddenly very curious to know what he thought of me. Was that a bulge I saw, or were my optimistic eyes just imagining it?
“Amber?”
I turned impossibly redder as I realized my eyes had flicked down to his crotch...and never returned.
“We’re done here,” he said pointedly. I nodded, then all but ran out of the room.
I managed to avoid collapsing outside my boss’s office this time, though it took almost every ounce of willpower I had in me.
Instead, I marched my shaking legs directly to the restroom that Tracy had gestured to on Friday. Unzipping my jeans, I was unsurprised to find that my panties were soaked.
Letting out a long, loud moan, I moved one finger directly to my throbbing clit. I’m not normally one to masturbate—Aaden takes very good care of me in that regard—but I’m not a total stranger to self-pleasure.
As I firmly began rubbing myself, jeans around my ankles, I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just taking care of my body’s needs. It didn’t understand that what we were doing wasn’t sexual—as far as my pussy was concerned, the spanking had been to get her in the mood to be fucked.
My eyes widened. As soon as the image entered my head, I was unable to get it out. Mr. Peterson, his body just as confused as mine, uncontrollably turned on, aroused by what company policy forced him to do.
Me, spreading my legs, silently offering to relieve his tension...and mine.
I shook with orgasm. The fantasy was so vivid, I could almost feel it—Mr. Peterson slowly sliding his cock inside me, filling me up, giving my wanton body just what I so desperately needed...
As I came down from the most powerful orgasm I’d ever given myself, the guilt returned.
What had I done? I was married—happily married! And Mr. Peterson was my BOSS.
All he’d been doing was punishing me for my own mistakes, and I’d turned it into some sick fantasy where we...where we had...
I couldn’t even bring myself to think about it.
On one hand, Tracy had been right: as soon as I came, I immediately felt much calmer, more in control. I stood up, cleaned myself off as best I could, and returned to work, donning my headphones and allowing the strange music to flow through my head as I focused entirely on being the best employee I could be.
That night, I felt so guilty that I surprised Aaden with a blowjob. Oral sex is typically just foreplay for us, but this time I brought him off with my mouth, staring up at him as I swallowed his cum.
“Wow,” he said with a grin. “What was that all about?”
“I just love ya,” I replied, hoping that my guilt didn’t show on my face.
I couldn’t sleep that night. My mind felt like it was filled to the point of bursting with thoughts, emotions...memories.
More than anything, I was shocked at where my own mind had taken me. I’d had many bosses in the past, and never—NEVER before—had even a single sexual thought about any of them. And while I consider myself to be a pretty damn good employee, I’ll freely admit that I’m not perfect—I’d been told off before.
But I’d never left one of those meetings and masturbated, imagining my boss between my thighs.
This was different, of course—a more physical form of discipline—but that was no excuse. My body was confused about the nature of the company-enforced punishment, but that didn’t mean I had to be.
I was a happily married mother of two, and things between Mr. Peterson and myself needed to remain completely professional. There was no alternative; I had too much to lose.
And if my body couldn’t be trusted not to get things confused, that left it up to me.
Going forward, I’d just have to ensure that I didn’t make any more typos.
I got into work an hour early the next morning. The music was different every day; the welcome package had said that it was actually personalized to each of us, based on our work habits, natural rhythms, all that kind of thing. Today’s tune, if you can even call it that, was a slow, sticky one.
As always, it worked—within forty minutes, I was done. Far faster than I’d anticipated. The music had this way of turning my brain off, allowing me to focus entirely on what I was doing.
Allowing me to focus on improving at my job. At getting better.
Getting better for Mr. Peterson.
I’d added extensions to every piece of software I used—our email client, my calendar app...even to Excel. Almost a dozen different apps would now be monitoring every word I typed, looking for typos, checking my grammar...I’d done everything I could, short of hiring an editor, to ensure that all my work correspondance would be flawless.
To my delight, it worked. Weeks flew by—my various extensions, and my even-more-diligent-than-usual eyes ensured that everything I sent out didn’t contain so much as a misplaced period. I’d come into work, put my headphones on, and steadily get through my workload.
The one piece of software that I couldn’t add extensions to was the proprietary reporting software, so each time I needed to export an analytics report, I’d manually copy it into another app, scan it for errors, and then go over it once myself, just to be safe.
Everything was perfect, except for one tiny fly in the ointment.
Mr. Peterson.
Spanking myself in front of him, then feeling his hand on my ass had apparently done quite a number on my poor, confused body, because even though I knew that I was totally, utterly, and monogamously in love with my husband...my body apparently didn’t get the immaculately-typed memo.
Every time I saw him, my heart skipped a beat. If he shot me a friendly smile, I’d blush. And when he came into my cubicle to personally commend me for what a great job I’d been doing, I’m not going to lie...those few minutes of close contact with him filled me with a desire to sneak into the woman’s bathroom again.
I’d hoped that this ridiculous crush would fade over time, but if anything...it seemed to get worse. I started taking it home with me—whenever Aaden and I made love, my mind would drift to the memory of Mr. Peterson’s hand, against my ass.
Sometimes I’d be sitting in church when my mind would be flooded with the memory of what he’d done...what we’d done...and my clit would suddenly be throbbing in the house of God.
I was tempted to ask Aaden if he was interested in spanking, but I talked myself out of it. My grammar systems were good, but I knew that they weren’t perfect. The day would come when Mr. Peterson needed to spank me again, and if I’d deliberately associated that completely professional act with something sexual, I was afraid my body would get even more mixed-up than it was already.
I should stress, these feelings were completely one-sided. Mr. Peterson was a perfect gentleman—even moreso than when I’d started working there. Perhaps he’d received his own discipline for being a little touchy (I smiled, imagining his boss giving him the same punishment he’d given me) because aside from the occasional handshake, or a hug on my birthday, he deliberately avoided touching me.
As much as I’d have loved for him to.
It was more than a month since I’d installed all the apps when it happened again. Once more, it was my own fault—I got careless. I’d run the analytics report through the software, but hadn’t checked it as thoroughly as I should have. The past few reports hadn’t reported anything (the punishment system—unorthodox as it was—worked! My grammar and spelling had improved more in six weeks at Gio than three years at college) and so I had submitted it without going over it a final time.
And so when I saw my boss’s email, asking him to come into my office, my brain immediately began to panic…
…and my heart leapt.
* * *