Spanking In The Office: Strict Boss Spanks Secretary At Work

This is a fictional story that is only allowed to be read from the age of 18

Table of Contents

Secretary Enters Boss’ Office For A Punishment

My heart pounds as I press the heavy mahogany knob of the door to Mr. Callahan’s office. The scent of polished wood and his spicy aftershave hits me. My heels click on the parquet floor as I step inside.

The blinds filter the afternoon light, golden stripes dancing across the desk. Mr. Callahan sits behind it, his broad shoulders filling the tailored suit. His gaze, steel-blue and piercing, locks onto me.

My knees tremble slightly, but I square my shoulders. I know why I’m here. The mistake in the report I submitted yesterday burns in my mind.

Numbers swapped, a careless error. I should have known better. My breath quickens as I brace for what’s coming.

Strict Boss Confronts Secretary’s Mistake

“Ms. Harlow, take a seat.” His voice, deep and calm, allows no defiance. I slide into the leather chair in front of his desk, feeling the fabric of my tight pencil skirt glide over my thighs.

“You know why you’re here,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. His shirt stretches slightly over his chest. I swallow, my throat dry.

“The report was unusable. You put me in an awkward position.” His words cut like a scalpel. I lower my gaze, staring at my hands fidgeting in my lap.

My nails, cherry-red and glossy, shimmer in the dim light. “I’m sorry, Mr. Callahan,” I mumble. My voice sounds thin, almost foreign.

I hate how small I feel, but a tingle spreads in my stomach, an inappropriate spark I can’t control. “Apologies aren’t enough.” He stands, rounds the desk, and stops in front of me.

His shadow falls over me. I smell the faint leather of his shoes, see the fine creases in his trousers. “You know how I deal with mistakes, Ms. Harlow.”

He gestures to his lap. “Come here.” My breath catches. I know this procedure, having gone through it once before, months ago, when I botched a meeting.

Back then, I squirmed, begged, but it made no difference. My cheeks flush at the memory. Slowly, I rise, my legs feeling like rubber.

The skirt hugs my hips tightly, accentuating my backside, which—I know—is perfectly shaped, firm and round, a compliment I hear often. I step closer, feeling the warmth of his body as I drape myself over his lap.

Secretary Receives Hand Spanking From Her Boss

My stomach presses against his thighs, hard and muscular under his trousers. My hands seek support on the floor, my fingertips scraping the parquet. He grabs the hem of my skirt, pulling it up slowly.

The fabric slides over my skin, revealing the sheer pantyhose clinging to my legs. My skin tingles as the cool office air brushes against it. I hear the soft rustle as he grips the pantyhose and yanks it down to my knees with one swift motion.

My thong, black and airy, barely more than a wisp of lace, offers no protection. “Please, Mr. Callahan,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I’ll make it right.”

My words sound desperate, yet deep inside, a forbidden curiosity burns, a spark of arousal I don’t want to admit. His hand rests on my backside, warm and heavy. The touch sends a shiver through my body.

I see the tan lines marking my skin, pale stripes from my last vacation where the bikini covered my bum. They frame my curves, making them even more striking. “You know that’s not enough,” he murmurs.

His hand lifts, and I hold my breath. The first slap lands, a sharp, burning strike on my right cheek. I gasp, my fingers clawing at the parquet.

The pain is immediate, a hot sting spreading outward. My legs squirm involuntarily, but his other hand presses my back down, holding me firm. The second slap follows, this time on the left.

My cheeks dance under his hand, the flesh rippling with each strike. I bite my lip, tasting the metallic hint of blood. “Count,” he commands.

Attractive Man Spanks Sexy Woman With The Cane

His voice is calm but unyielding. I swallow hard, my throat tight. “One,” I whisper as the next slap hits my skin.

The pain intensifies, a fire searing into my cheeks. “Two.” My voice cracks. My labia, exposed through the thin thong, brush lightly against the fabric of his trousers.

The friction is agonizing, a sweet pull that shames me. I don’t want to feel it, but my body betrays me. The slaps come rhythmically, each precise, each with a crack that echoes in the room.

My cheeks burn, the skin tightens as blood pulses beneath. I count on, my voice growing hoarse. By “ten,” I’m out of breath, my eyes stinging with unshed tears.

My backside is an inferno, red and hot, the tan lines a stark contrast to the flaming pink. I feel my skin throb, every movement painful. Yet there’s also this damned warmth pooling in my lower belly, a traitorous pulse I can’t deny.

“Stand up,” he says finally. I tremble as I rise, my legs shaky. The skirt slides back down, but he holds it up. “Not so fast.”

He guides me to the desk, his hand firm on my back. “Bend over.” My heart races. I lay my upper body across the cool wooden surface, feeling the grain under my palms.

My thong still hangs at my knees, my backside fully exposed, the air brushing over the sensitive, heated skin. I hear the faint clink as he takes the cane from the drawer. My stomach clenches, but a shiver of anticipation runs through me.

“Hold still,” he says. His voice is a deep rumble vibrating in my bones. I close my eyes, my lashes wet. The first strike of the cane whistles through the air, landing with a sharp crack on my cheeks.

The pain is different, cutting, a white-hot line burning into my skin. I cry out softly, my fingers digging into the edge of the desk. “Count,” he orders again.

Spanking In The Office: Secretary Reflects On Punishment

“One,” I gasp. The next strike follows, another welt streaking across my skin. My cheeks twitch, the flesh ripples under each blow.

I count on, my voice a whimper. The welts burn, I feel them etched into my skin. My backside is a mosaic of red and white, the tan lines a silent witness to my humiliation.

Yet there’s also this heat pooling in my groin, swelling my labia, arousing me against my will. At “five,” I falter, my voice failing. The cane whistles again, and I cry out, my legs trembling.

“Please,” I beg, but he remains relentless. “Continue.” I count, my voice breaking, my cheeks wet with tears. The strikes come precisely, each leaving a welt that burrows into my skin.

My backside is a blazing work of art, red and swollen, the welts like brushstrokes of an unforgiving artist. After the tenth strike, he sets the cane aside. My legs shake, I pant, my hands clutch the desk.

I feel the cool air brushing over my glowing skin, hear the soft rustle as he steps closer. His hand rests gently on my backside, stroking over the welts. The touch is like an electric shock, pain and pleasure merging.

I gasp, my labia throbbing, my arousal undeniable. “You’ve learned your lesson, Ms. Harlow,” he says, his voice soft, almost tender. He pulls up my thong, then the pantyhose, helping me adjust my skirt.

My legs are weak as I straighten. His gaze meets mine, and for a moment, I see something in his eyes—not just sternness, but a hint of desire. My heart beats faster, my cheeks flush, this time not only from the pain.

“Go,” he says finally. I nod, my throat too tight to speak. My heels click on the parquet as I leave the office, my backside a throbbing reminder of this hour.