Free Spanking Ms. Whitman by Kate Richards

Chapter One
     
    She circled the humming toy over her clit, the vibrations taking her higher, her muscles tightening, straining toward the climax just out of reach. His face filled her vision—stern, handsome, the slight shadow of dark, late-afternoon beard. He loomed over her, and she focused on his steel-gray eyes…eyes filled with disappointment. Her heart lurched.
    “You understand why I have to do this?” The rough velvet of his voice raised goose bumps on her skin.
    “Yes, sir.” And she did understand, even while she drowned in fear and anticipation. No other measure had corrected her behavior. He punished her from love. And she loved his punishments. Every raised welt a measure of his care for her. The crack of his whip the percussion section of their lovemaking.
    She flipped the switch on the vibrator to high, gliding it front to back, slipping the tip inside her pussy and out again, so wet for him.
    He’d bend her over his gleaming wood desk and slap her with the flat of his hand, his palm warming her skin. Each spank in a different spot, from high on her cheeks to her thighs. Not too painful yet, bringing her to life. Preparing her for flogging, whipping, caning. Whatever he chose to do to her, she would bow to his will.
    Then…here’s where it started to break down. In the books she kept in the drawer by her bed, the Dom always had a crop or a flogger. But in an office fantasy, there would be, oh...a stiff wooden ruler. Did people have rulers still? She faltered, distracted for a moment and decided he would have one and would use it to great effect, marking her ass.
    “Count.”
    She shuddered. “One.” Her belly tightening, she held the smooth end of the vibrator against her clit. “Two.” She clamped her thighs around the base. “Three.” Her spine arched in the throes of orgasm and the buzzing grew louder. The clock.
    He disappeared.
    Panting, she fell back, her hands at her sides. Her fantasies had become so real, she was almost surprised to find herself alone.
    Nine o’ five. Shit.
     
    ***
     
    Mona squirmed in dismay as the elevator crawled upward. Seven, eight, nine…. By the time she arrived at her office on the fiftieth floor it would be ten o’clock.
    Mr. Marks had hinted at unpleasant consequences for her next late arrival. She shivered. His threat had helped fuel the morning’s fantasy—making her late again. Twisted, but true. Every attempt to point out her faults led to another session with her B.O.B.—her battery operated boyfriend. A poor substitute for the BOSS in her bed. Not that he’d shown the slightest inclination to join her there. Still, she couldn’t let it go, her fascination, her fantasies, her crush.
    But what if she pushed her boss too far?
    When the doors opened, she rushed through the lobby. Maybe she could slip into her chair, click her screen on, and pretend she’d been there since nine.
    If anyone asked, she’d been there since five ’til. Sitting serenely at her desk, preparing for a busy day of reviewing insurance claims. Not bringing herself to earth shattering orgasms with fantasies of their sexy if ever so proper employer. If anyone asked.
    Past Angie in reception—had she looked nervous?—through the Employees Only doorway behind her and ducking down the hall. Closed doors on either side, her office coming up on the right. Almost there…a few more feet and…. Oh, no!
    The high double doors at the end of the corridor opened and a tall silhouette filled the space, light from the huge windows in his corner office haloing around him. “Ms. Whitman, you are late.”
    She froze, bubbles of panic fizzing through her veins. What could she salvage? She’d take any dressing down he cared to give, as long as she could keep her job. And maintain the slight hope he might one day notice her as more than an efficient—if late arriving—manager.
    “Good morning, sir.” She dumped her purse and sweater on the chair inside her office, keeping her focus on