by Alison Tyler
“Nice posture,” he says, drawing closer until his height advantage over her is obvious and inescapable. “Take off your jacket.”
She unbuttons carefully, eases it down her arms.
He takes it from her and hangs it up.
“Shoulders right back,” he reminds her softly. “Thrust out those breasts—as far as you can. Good. Now, let’s have that shirt off.”
She is grateful to him for turning the heating up a notch. All the same, her nipples stiffen once they lose the protective layer of businesslike cotton. Already hard with excitement, they tighten into painful knots.
Stanshaw’s finger traces the line of her bra cups, down one, up the other.
“Pretty,” he says. “Now. Skirt.”
She reaches behind and unzips. The knee-length silk-lined wool slides coolly over her thighs, then pools around her feet.
“Ah, well done. You got my email, then.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The directive about knickers being forbidden during office hours this week. Yes, she’d opened that one after breakfast on Sunday morning. The washing-up had had to wait until she’d dealt with the itch the email had provoked.
“Turn around.”
She rotates slowly, giving him a slow reveal of her naked bottom, then turns back around to display her suspender-framed shaved pussy and golden upper thighs.
“Did you buy those especially for me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Her first stockings, bought along with the suspender belt on Saturday afternoon in a luxury department store. She had felt excited and wicked and embarrassed handing the items over to the cashier, fumbling with her purse and avoiding her eye. She could only be buying them for sex. That was their sole reason for existing.
“Yes,” she imagined herself blurting, “yes, I am going to get fucked. Want to make something of it?”
And now they cling to her skin, covering it while exposing it.
Stanshaw’s finger burrows inside one of the straps and strokes up and down, rough knuckle dragging against smooth flesh.
“Yes, you’ll do,” he says. “Now, I suppose we should move on to the briefing proper. I’ll take your report over my desk, Ms. Forrester.”
She knows what he means by that.
“Oh, you need to take the bra off first, of course.” He catches himself, stunned at his omission.
Alisha frees her breasts, then shudders at the thought of pressing those poor bare mounds down on to the cold, hard walnut desk.
But it has to be done.
She reaches across to the far side, not quite able to grip the opposite edge because the desk is vast. Instead, her palms lie flat on the leather blotter while her nipples squash into the varnish.
She has worn her highest heels, all the better to present her arse to his view.
One of his hands cups the curve, just holding it there, more a promise than a caress. Or should she say, a threat?
“Let’s have those figures, Ms. Forrester,” he says.
She takes a deep breath, holds it at the top of her lungs, steadying herself.
“Industrial action on public transport impacted a number of offices, resulting in a higher than usual level of staff absence, especially at the Newbridge and Holkham Wood branches. Therefore, productivity was not as high as it was last week. Sickness absence remains static at two percent, excluding staff with long-term medical problems. One machine broke down and needed costly replacement parts, but seven clients settled accounts. However, overall, profit for the week fell by…”
She grits her teeth. She knows he’s going to love this.
“Three hundred and seventy-two pounds.”
“Three hundred and seventy-two? Are you sure?”
“Positive. I triple-checked the figures.”
“Well, that’s unprecedented. Our worst week since I started here.”
“I know, Sir. The strike action couldn’t be helped…”
“No, but all the same…”
Silence falls. Alisha barely dares to breathe. Breath will only interfere with her attempts to gauge his mood and her fate.
“Well, I don’t see the benefit of sparing the rod,” he says at last. “This can’t be repeated, and the message needs to be clear and unequivocal. So it’s going to be five minutes with my hand, followed by twenty with the strap, then six with the cane to finish off.”
She bites her lip, determined not to whine. But this is her hardest penalty yet. She knows that strap of old, and it is both heavy and cruel. Not as cruel as the cane, though, which is her most feared of implements.
He starts with his hand, easy at first, pacing himself. It’s in nobody’s interest to take Alisha beyond her levels of endurance. The smack-smack-smack reverberates around the office. He’s said before that it’s well soundproofed, but Alisha can never quite dismiss that element of doubt, thinking of Jo at her desk outside.
She keeps hold of her self-control, breathing evenly, making it a matter of pride not to cry out or kick or flail. Her bottom warms, slowly but relentlessly, the tingle graduating to a smart.
“It won’t do, will it, Ms. Forrester?” says Stanshaw, spanking on and on. “Too many weeks like that and we’ll all be out of a job, won’t we?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It’s all very well to blame forces beyond our control, but we can still make plans and preparations. We can organize car shares. We can put agency staff on standby. Can’t we?”
“Yes, Sir.” She begins to struggle with her composure. She wants to protest, But there wasn’t enough notice! As if excuses will make a shred of difference.
He pushes an open manual under her nose.
“Read the top paragraph,” he instructs with a smack of reinforcement.
She spends the remainder of her hand-spanking sentence reading haltingly from the section on effective management while Stanshaw’s palm falls repeatedly on her suffering bum.
While he plies the strap, she has to read from her job description, but now it is not possible to let the sentences flow smoothly. They are interrupted by gasps and whimpers until eventually she is only able to utter a few broken syllables between strokes.
Her legs begin to tremble, even though most of her weight is supported by the desk. She thinks about using her safeword, but his arm comes to rest and she realizes that the twenty strokes have been dealt.
“Taking the cane isn’t going to be easy today,” he says gently, fingertips grazing her heated flesh.
“It never is, Sir.” Her voice wobbles but she feels she owes it to him to demonstrate some resilience of spirit. He mustn’t think he’s broken her.
“No, no, I suppose not. But it must be done. Lessons must be learned, Ms. Forrester. After all, if you fail in your position, then we all run the risk of losing ours. Don’t we?”
“I suppose so, Sir.”
He has her count the six cane strokes and thank him for each one. He takes his time, giving her plenty of time to anticipate and dread each falling cut, choosing each target with care.
He stripes her behind perfectly; five parallel welts, crossed fiendishly with the final diagonal stroke. His mark upon her, ensuring that she will be avoiding sitting down for the rest of the day.
Her head on the desk is spinning. The fire behind takes up every scrap of her attention; the rest of her body might as well have fallen apart. She feels she could stay there all day, sinking into the wood, eventually merging with it.
But Stanshaw has other plans. He follows each welt with a fingertip, keeping the pain fresh, then bends to kiss them.
“It’s been too long since I caned you,” he whispers. “And how about here…oh…yes. So wet.”
Alisha’s hips wriggle at the sudden contact of finger and clit. Stanshaw massages her pussy, dipping deep, drawing from her well. Despite the unceasing sting—or because of it—she sighs and pushes back for more.
“Later,” he says with a chuckle. “You have to give me your official thanks.”
She needs a few moments but eventually she is able to haul herself to her feet, turn around and drop to her knees.
Without a word, she takes Stanshaw’s hard cock from his suit trousers and lowers her mouth onto it.
There is something about having a sore bottom that makes her relish this task and give it every ounce of her lascivious strength. The heat spurs her on, makes her throat deeper, her tongue faster, her suck stronger. She cups his balls eagerly, devouring his prick as if her life depends on it.
When he fills her mouth she swallows it greedily, licking every last drop from his shaft before withdrawing with a final loving lick and raising her eyes, like a faithful dog with the stick it’s retrieved from a bush.
She watches his chest rise and fall, watches the vivid color begin to drain from his cheeks, watches his eyes de-glaze.
“All right,” he says. “Lotion. Back over the desk.”
Now her reward comes, in the form of cold cream melting into those buzzing stripes. Sensitive fingers dance across the stinging skin, then they move lower, lower still, until they delve between her pussy lips, ready to give her something to be really grateful for.
“I’m going to let you come this time,” he says, dealing ruthlessly with her clit. “I did question whether you deserved it…but you took the whipping well, and I guess you do need a little bit of positive motivation. After all, we can’t have our managing director feeling too down in the dumps, can we?”
“No, Sir. Ooh. Oh, that’s good.”
One hand busies itself with Alisha’s clit while the other digs inside her, thrusting two fingers, then three, up her soaked and spasming cunt. She writhes vigorously on the desk, feeling her orgasm approach from afar, a tiny seed growing and blooming in the pit of her stomach.
“A happy boss…happy staff…happy workplace…motivation and profit.” He intones catchphrases and buzzwords while Alisha begins to slap the desk, humping Stanshaw’s fingers for all she is worth.
“You need to come, don’t you? You always need to come after a spanking. What does that make you, hmm?”
“Bad, oh, a bad girl, oh.”
She comes, jolting and banging the desk, while he spears her with deadly efficiency, holding his fingers inside until she flops in a lifeless heap.
She lies there for a while, her breath misting up the walnut sheen of the desk, then she peels herself off it and turns to face Stanshaw, who is in the corner fussing with the cafetière.
“Could you pass me my skirt?”
He hands it over with a smile and watches her dress once the coffees are poured.
“Should be a bit better this week,” he remarks.
“Oh yes, I should think so. Your branch was one of the few that held their own last week, actually. I think your carpooling system saved the day there.”
“Thanks. Perhaps it could be a company-wide policy?”
“I’ll certainly mention it to the board tonight. We have the Christmas bonuses to consider as well.”
She finishes buttoning her jacket and takes the coffee cup.
“Ah. The Christmas bonus. That’s how all this started, of course. Do you remember?”
She could hardly forget. Alisha allows her memory to drift back to that late-November afternoon visit to Stanshaw’s branch. Ever since he’d taken over at the helm there, she’d found her flirtation with him becoming more and more ungovernable. It was crazy—the managing director and her lowly vassal—but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“We’re considering introducing a Christmas bonus scheme,” she’d said, once they were face-to-face in the big comfortable office.
“Christmas…?” He pretended to mishear, smirking.
“I said bonus, not boner, Mr. Stanshaw! Don’t look at me like that.”
“Sorry, got a little overexcited. Take it from my salary.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t take anything from you. Except maybe…”
“Go on!”
“No, I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
“Oh, that sounded really masterful! Say it again.”
He growled this time. “Tell me.”
“What will you do to me if I don’t?”
The delirious feeling of crossing the line goaded them both onward, into an uncharted terrain of unprofessionalism. But neither could stop, and neither wanted to. That afternoon, Stanshaw’s Christmas bonus had been bestowed in the form of hot sex over the desk. Alisha had left the office with laddered tights and disordered hair. If Jo noticed, she didn’t mention it. But of course, she wouldn’t.
And now here they are locked into this curious sub-dom relationship, carried out on a fortnightly basis.
Alisha opts to stand up to drink her coffee.
Stanshaw is about to say something about the Christmas bonus, but his phone rings. He picks it up with an apologetic grimace.
“Yes. Sorry. Yes, I know. We’ve been thrashing out the figures. I’ll be another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Bye.”
Alisha, who has snorted a bit of coffee through her nose at the phrase thrashing out the figures, dabs at her jacket with her handkerchief.
“Yes,” says Stanshaw, resuming after the interruption. “It’s our anniversary, of sorts, isn’t it? We should celebrate.”
“I think we already did.”
“No, I mean…ah, well. You know. Sometimes I think it’d be nice…”
He trails off, making Alisha feel obscurely guilty.
“You want to…you know…outside the office?”
He shakes his head, his eyes occluded.
“I feel like a sex object sometimes,” he says eventually.
“Oh! Luke, I had no idea. I thought this arrangement, well, I thought you were happy with it.”
“I know you’re a busy woman, but would you ever consider…?”
She already has. But the inequality between them has always prevented her making any kind of move.
She leans back against a filing cabinet, making sure her tender bottom doesn’t bump up against the unforgiving metal. It feels so delicious, this literal afterglow. The man who gives it to her does have a special place in her heart, if only he could know it.
“Tell you what, Luke,” she says softly, her hand not so steady under the saucer now. “It’s the Christmas do on Friday. Do you want to take me?”
“I always want to take you.”
“Then I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. Now, are we briefed?”
“I’d say so.”
“So would I. Thanks for the coffee.”
She walks past Jo, acknowledging her with a brisk nod and a tight smile.
The workers at the watercooler are clearly discussing her, gossiping about her private life.
Well, why not give them something to gossip about? Forrester Industries is strong enough to take it, after all.
TEN A.M. KICKOFF
Donna George Storey
I never really got the appeal of football until I met Alex. Why would I? I grew up in a family of three sisters who all favored ballet over team sports. Sometimes my father would watch a play-off game in the family room, but it all seemed so mysterious. No matter how often Dad explained the rules, I could never figure out why the “down” kept changing from first to second then back to first again. Eventually I gave up trying. Football was for boys anyway.
I met Alex in June, at a party. By August I was practically living at his place. He didn’t have a roommate, so it was much easier to spend whole weekends in bed, getting up only to refuel with takeout or gelato, before we went at it again.
Then one Sunday morning in early September, Alex did not immediately reach for me as soon as he opened his eyes. Instead he reached for the remote and turned on the East Coast football game.
The honeymoon was obviously over.
I lay beside him pretending to sleep while I nursed my broken heart. Still, Alex looked so handsome as he watched the game, propped against two pillows, his hands behind his head, an easy smile on his face. Not
that he was exactly relaxed. I could feel his body stiffen and quiver with each exciting play, a tension that found release in a spirited howl when things went wrong for his team and a hearty cheer when things went right. Both sounded raw and unmistakably erotic to me.
After the first quarter, I had to admit I was getting very turned on. As in stiff nipples, tingly belly, joy juice wetting my thighs. I considered masturbating for relief—maybe he’d be so caught up in the action on TV he wouldn’t even notice?—but somehow that felt like admitting defeat before the game was over.
So I snuggled up against him, sliding my leg over his so that my crotch was pressed against his muscular thigh.
He grunted agreeably and patted my head.
The announcer’s voice rose in excitement. Alex’s body tensed again. He let out a sigh of victory and relaxed into the mattress. I used that as an excuse to rock my hips forward, grinding my clit against his leg.
Alex glanced down at me with a faint frown. He had to be aware how aroused I was. I could feel my slickness as my pussy skated up and down over his skin.
His hand crept toward me, and I thought, for a stomach-churning moment, that he was going to push me away. Instead he brushed my nipple through my nightshirt, then took the stiff tip between his fingers and tweaked it.
A jolt of electric pleasure shot straight to my groin. I moaned aloud into his shoulder.
He laughed softly. Then let me languish there, unattended, while he swore at the ref’s bad call.
A few moments later, he was back to me. “You’re humping me just like a little dog in heat,” he whispered in his “dirty” sex voice.
I gasped at the lewd words and rubbed against him some more.
“First down! Yesss!”
How the hell was I going to keep his attention on me instead of that damn game? Desperate for an ally, I curled my fingers around his hard cock. It twitched in solidarity.
Alex looked down at me again, as if deciding what to do. Then he did push me away, rearranging our bodies so I was on my back and he was on his side. One hand slipped around my shoulders to caress my breast, the other cupped my mons. Caught in his embrace, I’d lost my power to control my own stimulation. His cock, too, was safe from the temptations of my wandering hands.
