Spanked by my Boss
by Pan
Chapter 4
I don’t know what was worse—the long walk down the hallway to Mr. Peterson’s office, or the look of disappointment in his eyes when I entered.
Though I did knpw the guilt I’d feel in half an hour would trump both of them.
As soon as I entered, he stood up, and my eyes—my damned, treacherous eyes—immediately dropped to his crotch.
Not that there was anything noteworthy to see, of course. This wasn’t a sexual act—he was simply implementing company policy. Everyone else in the building was subject to the exact same rules as I was...but I, for some reason, had turned it sexual.
But I can’t deny, I was disappointed not to see the outline of a hard-on.
I immediately returned my focus to Mr. Peterson’s face, hoping he hadn’t noticed where my attention had briefly been. Once more, he was holding a printout.
“Really, Amber?” he said, gesturing to the paper in his hand. “We’re analysing our medical client’s mental state now?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I replied, my eyes downcast. “It was a stupid mistake, and it won’t happen again.”
As soon as I’d gotten the email, I’d scoured my latest reports to see what I’d missed. Again, a simple typo, but one that no app was going to pick up on. I’d shared an extrapolation, based on the past three decades of data, that one of our clients (a local hospital) should see a slight uptick of...patience.
Not patients. PatienCE.
Again, it had been an internal report—the hospital would never see it—but I knew the rules.
“Five, sir?”
“Five. Can I trust you to count them this time?”
“Yes, sir,” I nodded.
On the outside, I was projecting a completely professional image, just an accountant reporting to her boss for a routine discipline. But on the inside, I can’t deny...I was excited.
Not sexually, of course. This was a punishment. There was nothing sexual about it.
But since the last time Mr. Peterson had spanked me, nothing else had given me that feeling of warmth. Nothing had made me feel so alive.
Riding my husband, cumming around his cock, remembering the feeling of Mr. Peterson’s hand meeting my buttocks...that had come close.
But it wasn’t the same.
Even before my boss stood up and moved around his desk, even before he raised a hand...just the act of bending over Mr. Peterson’s desk was enough, I was surprised to discover, to begin filling me with warmth.
CRACK.
“One, sir,” I said, trying desperately to keep my tone professional.
Trying, and utterly failing.
It wasn’t as bad this time, admittedly—this was more of a pleasurable whimper than the outright begging I’d succmbed to during my last punishment…but it was far from the austere tone I was trying to broadcast.
CRACK.
“Two, sir,” I gasped.
The feeling of my boss’s hand on my rear...it was like it awoke something in me. I felt like my entire body was electrified, suddenly alive in a way that I couldn’t help but find alarming.
Alarming, and very very exciting.
The warmth had spread through my entire body, and it was all I could do to stop myself from pushing my butt out, trying to chase the hand that I so desperately wanted to make …contact with.
CRACK.
“Three!”
I could feel my heartbeat. Adrenaline was racing through my body. Every part of me was switched on, turned on.
But not aroused, of course. That would have been inappropriate.
This was a normal interaction between a boss and his disobedient employee, nothing more.
I stood there, my eyes closed, gripping Mr. Peterson’s desk, focusing with all my might on the sweet anticipation of what was coming...
...but it didn’t come.
Slowly opening my eyes, I turned to see why Mr. Peterson had stopped. He was looking at me, his mouth curled with disappointment.
“Amber,” he said softly. “I am trying.“
I nodded, unsure what response he was looking for.
“We do try to be lenient here at Gio,” he continued. “We’re interested in giving employees all the tools we can, so they can do the best job possible.”
Then get some better damn reporting software, I mentally responded. He shot me a strange look, like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I made sure my expression was that of pure innocence, and waited for him to continue.
“In return, we don’t ask much, do we?”
I shook my head, too nervous to speak. What had I done? Was this going to warrant another punishment?
My clit throbbed at the idea.
“We ask for professional communication, both digitally...and in person. And sure, maybe it’s a little old-fashioned, but it IS a company requirement.”
“What is?” I asked nervously.
“That you call me sir,” he replied, as though it was obvious. My cheeks burned at his patronizing tone, and I nodded.
“Now,” he said firmly. “Would you like to try that again? What number were we at?”
“Three,” I responded, barely louder than a whisper. “...sir.”
He nodded, and my shoulders slumped in relief at his approval.
“As you were,” he said, and I turned back to face his chair.
CRACK.
“Four, sir,” I moaned.
I could imagine Mr. Peterson sitting in that chair after I left, getting hard at what we’d just done. I could imagine him counting down the days until my next punishment, wanting to spank me as much as I desperately wanted to be spanked.
It was all fantasy, of course—to him, this was no more exciting than budgeting paperclips.
But it was a fantasy I allowed myself to sink into. I pictured him pulling out his erection, touching himself at the memory of what we’d just done…just as I had.
CRACK.
“Five!” I said, prouder of myself than I should have been that I hadn’t gotten distracted. “Sir!”
As the warmth filled my body, all I could think of was making my way into the women’s bathroom and getting off. Masturbating was the only way to relieve the tension that my spanking had built up…which was weird, really, since there had been nothing erotic about what we’d just done.
It was just a normal, everyday, routine disciplinary session…but I needed to get off. My body was on fire, and it was the only way to douse the flames.
I needed it. Just to calm down. I was so wired, I hadn’t felt like this since...well, since the last time my boss had punished me.
So my mind was scattered as Mr. Peterson dismissed me. I thanked him for his help, promised not to do it again, and all but ran on my shaky legs to the woman’s bathroom.
It wasn’t until I was entering the small stall and closing the door that it struck me.
Had he really called me a ‘good girl’?
No. No, that couldn’t be right. He would never be so unprofessional. That was a sexist, patronizing term, and certainly not one a man of his position would ever use. He was my boss, and he’d never treated me with anything but respect.
He certainly wouldn’t call an accountant, a fully-grown woman, a well-paid professional…that.
His good girl.
My lust-addled mind must have imagined it.
As I sat down and spread my legs, I discovered that I was just as wet as I’d been last time. As I began to firmly rub myself, one thought was in my mind.
Good girl.
I was Mr. Peterson’s good girl.
Good girl.
My other hand reached up, and crudely grasped at my tits.
Good girl. I’m a good girl. I’m a good girl for my boss.
I’m a good girl for Mr. Peterson.
I wanted to be his good girl.
It felt like only a few moments before my orgasm hit me, and my cries of pleasure began filling the small room. It felt so good—the warmth that had built up between my legs began radiating out, filling my entire body.
Every part of me glowed as I sat there, pants around my ankles, my right breast hurting from the rough treatment I’d just given it. I was finally able to think again, and tried to make sense of what was happening.
I had a crush on my boss, that much was clear. Because of the way he made me feel—not intentionally, of course. He knew I was married, and would never do anything inappropriate. He was just doing his job.
But my body couldn’t tell the difference. All it knew was that when Mr. Peterson touched me, it felt amazing. Though it was supposed to be a punishment, something about being spanked inflamed my nerves, and my brain—normally so intelligent—had confused the signals.
Now, whenever I saw him, I was filled with endorphins. That’s all love is, really—your mind and body associating a particular person with pleasure, and my suddenly-stupid brain had managed to get it completely mixed-up.
I still loved Aaden, more than anything. He was my rock: my husband, the father to my children. I’d built a life with him, and I knew that keeping my relationship stable—and my family together—had to be my highest priority.
And so I needed to make sure that Aaden didn’t suspect a thing.
It was important that Aaden had no idea that while he slid into me at night, it was Mr. Peterson that I was thinking about.
It was vital that he had no idea that I was sitting in the bathroom stall at work, thinking about my boss as I touched myself.
I had to keep this at work, no matter what.
My husband could never know.
I bit my lip, and gently traced a pattern on my inner thighs. Aaden loved my thighs—he’d often nip at them before his tongue slipped between my legs.
But it wasn’t my husband whose hand I was imagining.
It was my boss’s.
I closed my eyes, and pictured Mr. Peterson standing above me, calling me a good girl.
Not that he ever would, of course. It was pure fantasy. It was part of my inane crush.
I had to keep my worlds separate. I had to keep these stupid, uncalled for feelings at work, out of the house.
And that meant I had to work off this sexual energy now, to ensure that Aaden didn’t suspect a thing.
“Yes, sir,” I said demurely in my fantasy, looking up at him pleadingly.
“I’m your good girl.“
My hand slipped between my legs, and began pulling and tugging at my sparse pubic hair.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I imagined myself saying. “Please, sir. Anything.”
“Anything?” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Uh huh,” I nodded, thrusting my shoulders back, presenting my ample tits to my boss’s imaginary gaze. ”Anything.”
It was less than five minutes before I was cumming again, two fingers inside my hungry pussy as I imagined my boss fucking me over his desk. Just to be safe, I got myself off twice more before returning to my desk and slipping my earbuds back in.
To my great relief (and my body’s disappointment), I didn’t make any more typos for the next two weeks.
This meant that I also didn’t make any visits to Mr. Peterson’s office. I had mixed feelings about this—on one hand, I was glad that I was contributing to the team as best I could, living up to the high standards of Gio Industries.
I was a good girl.
It also meant that I spent less time in my boss’s presence, which meant less time for my body to misinterpret signals. Whenever he smiled at me, a thrill ran through my entire body...and I knew what would happen if he touched me.
God I wanted him to touch me.
But despite the reduced contact, my feelings didn’t lessen. Getting spanked by my boss would have been a great excuse for the fact that I still thought of him each and every time I got off. Despite being an accountant, I knew it was impossible to count the number of hours I spent remembering exactly how it had felt when his hand smacked me.
Exactly how it felt.
I hadn’t visited Mr. Peterson’s office in several weeks. but I was still visiting the women’s bathroom each and every day.
I’d drawn a strict line between work and home—finally achieving work/life balance, of a sort—and I didn’t want Aaden to have even a vague suspicion about what was going on between my boss and I.
Not that anything was going on, of course. Not really.
Just in my head...
And so whenever the thoughts got overwhelming, I’d make my way into the woman’s bathroom and I’d ‘let them all out’, so to speak.
Over those two weeks, Mr. Peterson fictionally took me in every position I could imagine. I pictured him bursting in on me in the bathroom, and insisting on finishing the job my slick fingers had started. I fantasized about him coming into my cubicle and insisting coming into me while I continued working.
And I imagined him spanking me again and again, before taking things further—lowering my trousers and fucking me over his desk.
A part of me was extraordinarily grateful that I hadn’t revisited his office; it was getting to the point where I was worried just looking at his desk would be enough to make me cum. That was where this ridiculous crush of mine had been born in the first place, formed from the feeling of his strong, powerful hand. It was where I most imagined myself naked, laying under him, or slowly lowering myself onto his rod as he looked up at me, and told me I was his good girl...
But all of my fantasies took place in the office. That was important to me. Mr. Peterson was a stupid work-crush, nothing more. I only ever fantasized about him at the office, and I only ever fantasized about him AT the office.
And yes, maybe when Aaden was fucking me I’d sometimes pretend that Mr. Peterson was watching, offering guidance, reminding me that if I didn’t fuck my husband as well as I possibly could, he’d have to punish me...but that was different.
While Aaden was inside me, I did everything I could to make sure that my attention was focused on him. My spouse. The love of my life.
At the moment of orgasm, however, my body would betray me. As my eyes rolled back in my head, it would be Mr. Peterson that I was imagining inside me, on top of me, using my body, telling me that this was just part of the job…calling me his good girl.
After I came, the guilt would follow, and I would enter work the next day determined to flush it all out of my system by getting myself off in that small stall, so I could go home and be the best mother and wife I could be.
Each and every day, I’d make my way into the woman’s bathroom. I’d moan long and loud as I came, again and again, trying to smoke my crush out, doing everything I could to oversaturate my brain with thoughts of Mr. Peterson. If I could cum and cum and cum again, maybe I’d burn out on these ridiculous feelings.
It hadn’t worked yet, but I was doing all I could to make it happen.
In the meantime, I’d done the impossible and grown even MORE diligent. Everything that passed my desk was checked, then double-checked, then TRIPLE-checked for grammar and spelling. I’d even broken my work/home rule and started reading books on grammar before bed, to ensure that there was no chance of mistake.
I was a good girl. I wanted to be a good girl.
I wanted to be Mr. Peterson’s good girl.
And I suddenly knew a LOT about semicolons.
So I was completely floored when I came into work one day to discover an email from my boss.
“My office,” it simply read. “Now.”
* * *