Spanking my Secretary
Lubrican
Spanking my Secretary
by Robert Lubrican
Original Edition
Copyright 2022 Robert Lubrican
License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapters One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven
Foreword
The classification for this story might be a little skewed. I'll just say that right up front. That's not intentional. Instead it's a result of my ignorance. I am not known for writing stories involving the DOM/SUB or BDSM tags. There's a good reason for that. I don't get it. I don't understand why some people like to endure pain or stifling control, and why others enjoy inflicting it. I know it happens, of course. I just don't fathom how it works, and how the partners still end up being in a meaningful relationship. I know that happens, too, regardless of my ignorance as to why. I know that subs and masters (or whatever they're called) do have deep, meaningful relationships and that there is genuine, meaningful, positive emotion involved. I'm sure they'd call it love.
Part of why this is such a mystery to me is because I've never known anyone who admitted (to me) to being in that kind of relationship. I've traded emails with several subs, and I've also exchanged messages with women who said they liked to be spanked, but none of them have ever been able to explain why they enjoy this kind of relationship.
I am an author, however, and authors, by nature, have (hopefully) good imaginations. So why not take a stab at exploring this submissive/dominant kind of bond?
So that's what this is. For those of you who don't like BDSM, I get it. I'm not a fan, either. But this is probably, actually bdsm (intentional lower case) so I hope you'll trust the Lubrican style, give it a try, and see if any of this makes sense to you.
And if you are a Dom or a submissive, let me know what I got right and what I got wrong. I won't change this particular story, once it is finished and published, but I'd still like to know. I can promise you it will inform my future work.
I've always been a fan of that TV message: "The more you know". Maybe you've seen it, too, that series of public service announcements featuring short, educational clips by famous people. I'm not a famous person, but I'd be tickled if this actually helped expand people's concepts about people often labeled as "different". I generally don't think most of us are all that different, down deep.
Finally, the germ of the plot is borrowed from another author called Ronin722. I think he posted his (or her) stuff on the Kristen Archives, but don't quote me on that. He (or she) wrote a standard, hardcore BDSM story, which I didn't care for (and didn't finish reading), but the plot idea got me started wondering what a Lubrican interpretation of the idea might look like.
So, here is that interpretation.
Thanks for reading.
Bob
Chapter One
There is something almost magical about being able to relax and lie back, after cumming in a hot woman, and then not having to suggest to said hot woman that it might be nice if she sucked your cock to get it hard again. It doesn't extend my orgasm or anything, but it's a little like giving my penis a nice massage after all the hard work. Except she's the one giving the massage.
The "she", in this case, is named Mandy Potemkin. She's my executive assistant, not to be confused with 'secretary'. If I were to make the grievous error of calling the woman assigned from the secretarial pool my 'secretary' it would be asking for a complaint to be filed with HR. I know this because it happened to a buddy of mine. I don't get that. It's officially called the secretarial pool and, unless the secretary is assigned to one of ten or so people in the company, they are called secretaries. Assign one of them to work for one of those ten or so people, however, and it suddenly calls for a change of title, for some reason. Like I said, I don't get it, but then there are lots of things I don't get. Those are things for my executive assistant to 'get for me', so to speak. That's why it's so difficult to find a good one.
I am a department head in the firm I work for, which means I'm one of the ten or so people I mentioned. The CEO, CFO, and two VPs get to choose their own executive assistants. I presume they get to call them whatever the fuck they want to. We lowly department heads get the luck of the draw, from the secretarial pool. The only advantage I have is that I can get rid of my executive assistant whenever I want, without giving any cause or reason. Working for me doesn't bring a pay raise, so being sent back to the pool doesn't affect the income of the woman. The only advantage a woman has working for me is the status among her peers of working for one of the department heads.
This system was established quite intentionally, by the way. The big brass choose their own secretaries, who are separate hires and definitely not pulled from the secretarial pool. But they made sure that none of the women (or men, which is unusual) in our pool could bring expensive litigation against the company for such things as the Me Too movement was based on. In the old days, so I'm told, it was almost routine for a boss to diddle his executive assistant and then send her back to the pool, so he could pick a new one to diddle. That was when a girl did get paid more for working at that level. The girls were at a distinct disadvantage. If one didn't play ball (or play with his balls) then she got sent back to the pool and lost her raise. If she didn't want to suck his cock (or maybe swallow), same thing. Won't allow your boss to bum fuck you? You're back in the pool and there goes your pay raise.
I'm not saying it was rife, but it definitely happened. The girls weren't stupid and one of those not-stupid women sued her former boss for getting her pregnant and tossing her aside. She claimed, in court, that she was at a financial disadvantage, caused by him while she was "engaged in her assigned duties". The company lawyers argued that sex wasn't one of her "assigned duties". Her lawyer put two other of this man's former executive assistants on the stand and they convinced the judge that, if you wanted to keep your job, sex with the boss definitely was one of your official duties. The company lawyers insisted that the only reason she'd been sent back to the pool was because she was pregnant, and that she no longer "fit the profile of a professional young woman". They also insisted the baby wasn't his, and actually produced documents in court that said he was sterile, thanks to a vasectomy. The plaintiff knew exactly how many penises had been inside her (one) and that was right about the time paternity tests became something the courts accepted as evidence. The judge set her up for life and further fined the company half a million for submitting false documents to the court. It was actually the "Perp" who provided the false documents (he paid his doctor to manufacture the imaginary vasectomy) and the company just took them at face value. But it was the company that had to pay. The doctor lost his license as well, but that's a whole different lawsuit.
Obviously this guy lost his job and probably never worked for any of the large companies again. Word gets around about potential problem people like that. The company's fix to that situation was to ensure that there was no financial gain in working for one of the directors (or any other assignment) and no cut in pay, should your assignment change. The secretary could request reassignment at any time and "personal reasons" was fine as justification. Raises were based on reaching benchmarks based on time of employment, completion of courses and tests, and the like. It was a pain in the ass for the directors, on more than one level, but it solved the company's problem and that's all the lawyers cared about.
This is not to say I didn't dally with the odd executive assistant, now and then. There were unwritten rules, though. For example, it was a no-no to fuck one of the secretaries and then get her assigned as your executive assistant. There was no monetary gain for her if that happened, but there was social status involved, and of course the perceived (whether real or not) perks of working for the boss. I say "unwritten rule" because HR made sure that crap just didn't happen. The head of HR was a woman named Marjorie Addenhall and she'd been with the company for a hundred years. She'd worked there longer than all but one of the top brass. Marge knew what was going on all over the company and she ran interference on all sorts of potential issues.
Anyway, my former executive assistant (one who didn't play around with the boss, by the way) got married and quit, so HR knew I needed another one and Mandy's straw got drawn. T he first day she walked into my office, reporting from the secretarial pool, my prick hoped there was potential there, but it seemed unlikely, based on the employee packet that had preceded her arrival at my office.
She was a single mom, for one thing. Such women have (usually) been burned and don't trust men easily. For another she was a knockout, and beautiful women have learned they have choices in this world. She was thirty-one and probably already had a boyfriend. Still, she was definitely eye candy and would be nice to have around. She stood five-six, which is short next to my six-two frame. She was dressed conservatively, but that couldn't hide lush breasts and hips just made to carry babies. Her long, flowing hair was that brown with red highlights in it that makes it kind of glow. It was long enough to cover her breasts, but it didn't hide them, either. Her demeanor was professional but not distant. I detected no interest in me as a man at all. She was wearing glasses and looked (to me) like every man's dream of a sexy librarian.
So, how did we get from that first day of her walking into my office with me thinking she was in the off-limits category to now, with her lovingly running her tongue over my cock head while holding one hand over her pussy so my seeping cum didn't drip out onto the bed?
Well, that's what the rest of this story is about.
If you've ever watched a few episodes of M*A*S*H, then you're familiar with Radar O'Reilly. He was, basically, the executive assistant to both of the company commanders in the series and his intuition about what his bosses needed was legendary. Mandy could have been nicknamed "Radar".
She wasn't insecure, like the M*A*S*H character, or innocent, but she had an innate sense of what I needed. She was almost rigidly formal in her approach to me, but by the end of the first month, she knew where everything in my office was located. No matter what I asked for, she would tell me exactly where it was or go and get it for me. I worked with a dozen files and projects at a time and she always knew where each set of files were, and what their status was.
I never thought I'd be one of those bosses whose secretary picked up my dry-cleaning and fetched me lunch and such, but somehow, over the course of several more months, that's exactly what happened. The next thing I knew, she was making reservations for me when I traveled.
It started out business-related; dinner with a client, flight and hotel reservations when I had to attend conferences, things like that. The next thing I knew, she was making reservations for my trips; shows if I was in a place where they were available, cars for my travel away, basically everything I might need or want. She had all my credit card information and kept me straight on the company-related expenses as well as my personal expenses. All this developed within the first four months. It was almost scary how natural it was to rely on her for practically everything.
Then, one time, she overheard me talking to one of the other department heads about a date I had later that week, and how I was looking forward to it and all that. I mentioned that I wanted to impress the woman, who owned a company that had promise as a future vendor for our firm. He asked who she was and what her company did, and I didn't think a thing about the fact that my executive assistant was quietly filing things nearby.
The next day Mandy approached my desk and handed me a sheet of paper that had the entire itinerary of my date printed on it. She'd made dinner reservations and gotten tickets to a play that was showing at our local art house. She'd even sent flowers to the woman with a card saying, "Looking forward to our date."
"I took the liberty of setting things up for you," she said, her face devoid of any emotion. "I hope I didn't overstep, Sir."
"No," I said, trying to cover my surprise. "Not at all. I appreciate your help."
"I hope the date goes well for you, Sir," she said, and went back to work.
That was the first time anything personal had come up between us in the months she had been working for me. I'd tried to start conversations, but she seemed uninterested in banter. All she responded with were monosyllabic responses. This was the first time she'd displayed any interest in my private life at all. Assuming you want to call dating someone to cultivate future business opportunities part of my private life.
Two things happened at the eight-month-mark that were rather significant. The first is related to the fact that, at that point, I knew she was divorced and had a soon-to-be-teenaged daughter. I have a photographic memory and remembered seeing that data in her employee packet when she first came to work for me. I also knew that her daughter, Cynthia, had a birthday coming up. So, it seemed perfectly natural to me to buy her a present. The girl was twelve so I didn't know what was appropriate, but I figured all young girls listened to Adele and got her a CD. I had the store gift wrap it and put it on the corner of my desk the next morning.
When Mandy came in with my coffee I pointed to it and said it was for her daughter. She displayed overt emotion for the first time since I'd met her.
"You didn't have to do that, Sir," she said, her voice tight.
"I know," I said. "I just wanted to."
"Nobody's ever paid attention to us like that," she said.
I thought this was pretty insane, because I knew any man who saw her would "pay attention" to her, and the picture I'd seen on her desk of her daughter showed a cute girl who was going to be a heart-breaker some day.
Mandy tore the paper, as if she were going to open it, and I reached to grip her wrist. This was the first time I'd ever touched her, other than brushing past her.
"That's for Cynthia, not you," I scolded.
"How do you know her name?" she asked, staring at where my hand gripped her wrist.
"Well, Mandy, I'm the boss. I know everything," I quipped.
She looked up at me and into my eyes. I realized she had green eyes at the same time I realized this was the first time our eyes had actually met for any extended period of time.
"Yes, sir," she said, softly. "I'm sorry, Sir."
"You don't have to be sorry. Just put a piece of tape on it and tell her happy birthday for me. It's an Adele CD, so there shouldn't be anything inappropriate on it. If there is, let me know what else to get her. It's no big deal, Mandy. You do a good job for me and I just wanted to get your daughter a little gift for her birthday. Okay?"
"Yes, Sir," she said, her voice back to the stable, emotionless alto I was so familiar with.
But we had interacted on a personal level. I wouldn't call it "intimate" exactly, but it was definitely a departure from her normal, stiff, professional attitude when we spoke.
The second and more important event came about a week later, when Mandy came into work actually crying. I had just finished reviewing, editing, and approving a major project the day before, a week ahead of schedule, and given Mandy all the information, both printed and on a thumb drive, to put together into a presentation for the VP of the company. This project involved a contract that, if accepted by the other entity, would net our company several million dollars profit. Projects like that had to be approved by guys at the top. If all worked out, it could mean a little bonus for the contract officer who wrote it, and a nice bonus for me because I supervised him. I know that doesn't sound fair to people not in the business. Why should the boss get a bigger bonus than the guy who actually did the work? Because that's just how it works. It's one of the perks of being a boss. If you don't like it, then figure out how to become the boss.
Anyway, she was crying because the vast majority of the work had been destroyed. Most of my notes were gone. I use a fountain pen, because I just like the feel of it, but the ink is water soluble. The memory stick with the data charts was unusable and the sketches of several proposals were stained and torn.
It started the previous evening when it was raining and someone had accidentally knocked the file out of her hands on her way home from work and the wind distributed things on the sidewalk for the rain to soak. A passing skateboard had trashed the thumb drive before she could pick it up. The crowning blow had been when a bowl of tomato soup tipped onto what was laid out to dry.
It wasn't the disaster she thought it was, actually. The electronic data was on my computer at work. It just needed a final edit and colors confirmed and that kind of thing. The notes had been my instructions to her on what I wanted her to do. The biggest problem was the sketches, which could be reconstructed in a couple of days, but needed to go to the art department for final production. That would mean getting them bumped to the front of the line in the art department when they were ready again, but I had the clout for that kind of thing. All in all, instead of being a week ahead of schedule, I would be just-on-time. I tried to explain this to Mandy, but she seemed to be on the verge of a complete collapse.
She needed to stop crying and get back to work on this, but all she wanted to do was moan and groan. I finally lost my patience and snapped at her. Thankfully, the door was closed so nobody outside heard it. I gripped her shoulders and basically shook her.
"Knock it off!" I yelled. She went white and stared at me through tear-filled eyes. I have no idea where the next part came from. I guess it just felt right, but what came out of my mouth was something I'd never said to a woman. "If you want me to beat you, I'll do that later this afternoon! Right now I need you to focus and help me start putting the presentation back together."
I immediately knew, of course, that I had crossed the line. These days the boss doesn't offer to beat the help. At a minimum I could expect to be visited by a stern-faced Marge from HR, asking me just what the hell I thought I was doing. More worrisome was the potential for a lawsuit. Her response, however, was both odd and comforting, because she didn't act like she thought it was inappropriate at all. In fact, it seemed to be exactly what she needed. She stopped crying, gathered her composure, looked me in the eye, and said, "Yes, sir. Right away, Sir." Turning around, she walked out of my office to her desk and for the rest of the day she had her nose to the grindstone. By the end of the day, between the two of us, we were probably more than halfway to where we needed to be. We had only worked maybe an hour overtime when I started my routine of preparing to leave. Mandy had hung in there with me, which was great. Most of the rest of the office workers were gone. When Mandy walked in and stood in front of my desk. Her eyes were downcast. Her arms hung like they were paralyzed and she couldn't move them. I knew she'd been working her ass off to repair things, so I tried a little levity to tell her everything was okay.
"Are you here for your beating?" I joked.
"Yes, sir."
I was smiling. She, however, was not. I'm usually pretty adaptable but I have to admit her response surprised me. She wasn't joking! So I stopped what I was doing and gave her my full, undivided attention. Unbidden came images in my mind of this lush beauty over my lap with her fine ass exposed while I smacked it with my hand. I felt my cock start to stiffen.
Looking down at my desk, she started in her soft voice. "I know I should be fired for what I did, and if I had any self-respect at all, I'd quit for having ruined your project. But I need this job. I have to have it. But I also know I should be punished. So if you want to beat me, I'm ready."
Right. I was back to seeing those flashes of lawsuits. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe it was something else... "Blackmail" is such an ugly word...
"Mandy, I was just joking. There's no way..." She cut me off.
"No, sir! What I did was careless and unacceptable and I must be punished. I know you could fire me, or at the very least you should dock my pay, but I can't afford that. I'll work this weekend without being on the clock, but please do something other than docking my pay. What I did was unprofessional and negligent. I failed to take proper care of such an important project. A child could have taken better care of it so it's only right that I receive the punishment of a child. I must be disciplined."
The first thing I thought of was that she'd already been on unpaid overtime when she took things home to work on them. She didn't seem to realize that, but even if she had I don't think it would have made any difference. The second thing I thought of was a time in my youth when I'd done something wrong (can't even remember what it was, now) and my father gave me the choice of being grounded for a month, or a session with his belt. I'd chosen the belt, because that would be done and over with in a very short time; much shorter than a month of boredom and missing being with my friends. I also remembered that I'd felt guilty about whatever it was I'd done, and I didn't remember the whipping being unfair at all.
I came to the sudden realization this wasn't for me; it was for her. She needed absolution.
"All right, Mandy, if you think that's what's necessary. But this is neither the time, nor the place. Go gather your things, get your car, and follow me to my place where we can continue this conversation. I don't need any late workers or the night janitor hearing my hand smacking against your ass."
"I-I... didn't think... I'm so stupid..."
She stood there babbling. This girl had no self-esteem what-so-ever. She had just told me I could ... should beat her and now was apologizing to me because she hadn't thought about the rest of the office hearing me beat her. My cock was so hard I thought I would pass out from the blood-loss.
"Sir?" she said meekly, "I don't have a car. I take the bus into work every day."
Sometimes, I'm such a retard. Here she had worked for me for nearly a year and I had no idea she didn't even own a car. How was she going nearly every day to get me lunch, do my shopping, get my laundry if she didn't own a car? There's your all-knowing boss for you. I felt guilty, and then I felt guilty for not feeling guilty enough.
"You don't own a car," I said, leadenly. On reflection, I realize it might have sounded like I meant, "You've got to be fucking with me. Who doesn't own a car?" I wasn't sure what my tone of voice might have added. She didn't bat an eyelash, though.
She was barely whispering. "No, sir. I'm sorry. I – I – the insurance is so expensive and ..." I held up a hand to stop her.
At this point I was angry. Okay, not angry, exactly, but miffed. If that sounds strange, it was. There I was, feeling guilty and stupid and, for some reason, I blamed that on her! I knew that wasn't fair. I knew that in that very moment. But she had taken me out of my comfort zone and was now demanding I do something I'd never done before. Well, if she wanted to be punished, then I was going to fucking punish her!
"Get your things and be ready to go in five minutes. You'll ride home with me and I'll put you in a taxi when I'm finished with you."
"I'll pay you back for the taxi..." she trailed off.
"You will do exactly as you are told to, and nothing more!" I snapped. "I think we've already established that you can't afford a taxi."
So far, there had been no real indiscretion in all of this. Ok, maybe the part about the beating was, at the least, a faux pas, but we really hadn't crossed the line of no return ... yet.
"If you feel obligated to pay me back for the taxi, then you'll do what I tell you, when I tell you," I added.
"Anything you say, Sir," she whispered.
That's a culturally-charged phrase, at least in Western society. Anything? It was at this point that the train started rocking on the rails. Truth be told, I'm a little fascinated by the whole BDSM thing. I've never engaged in that sort of behavior, but I've read stories about it. Most of them involve ... sex. This might get me an opportunity to explore a little, but I also knew I needed to be careful. She seemed willing to submit but at the same time, I wanted to leave her an out, in case she changed her mind somewhere along the way. I thought I would take her home, slap her ass a few times, and maybe, just maybe, get to play with her a little bit before I put her in a taxi.
I would worry about the awkwardness of tomorrow morning tomorrow morning. As the old saying goes, there's only enough blood in a man's body to run one head at a time, and right now, my little friend started doing all of my thinking for me.
"Let's just see what it takes to absolve you of your transgressions," I said, menacingly.
The instant change in her was absolutely amazing. "Yes, sir," was all she said before turning and walking out to her desk. All the indecisiveness and apprehensiveness was gone and in its place was the focused employee that she always seemed to be when she had a purpose and knew what it was she had to do. I realized that, socially, she was a follower. She needed someone to make her decisions for her and once made, she could perform under someone else's direction. I knew such people existed, but in my social circles, I'd never met one. Most of the people I interact with are hard-chargers.
Ten minutes later, I strolled out of my office, not completely sure what to say. Mandy stood up from her desk and moved past me to secure my office door. It had never dawned on me before, but she was always there when I arrived in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee on my desk as if it had just been made. And she was always there when I left in the evening. Obviously, she was adept at tidying up after me and securing my office; she did it with a practiced ease. Minutes later, we were riding the elevator to the garage with neither of us having spoken a word.
I think it's chivalry that causes me to open doors for women. I have heard Feminists say that it's the male contempt for women that causes it; a display of superiority, attempting to reinforce the antiquated notion that women are helpless without a man to perform such simple tasks as opening a door. I think most feminists just need to get laid. I do it as a very simple expression of appreciation for a woman that I respect. In this case, I respected this woman more than she respected herself. Even if I was pissed off at her, at the moment.
Here was a woman about to get into my car to ride to my house so I could beat her ass and who knew what else. I thought the very least I could do was open the door for her before I disciplined her. It was obvious she was not used to such treatment. She looked at me almost as if she half-expected me to slam the door on her as some sort of joke as she was trying to get in. If she hadn't been mistreated in her life, it was obvious no one had ever treated her well. This astonished me because she was so beautiful that I knew people had fawned over her in the past. Then I thought about how "popular" people often had no real friends. All those who surrounded them wanted something and thought the popular person was the path to get it. I also thought about the men who marry gorgeous women. A lot of them only want a good looking pussy to fuck every night, or to show off to jealous friends. It was quite possible that this woman was lonely and felt insecure a lot of the time. Her excellence at her job was what anchored her to a world where she felt worthwhile. I suddenly felt sorry for her.
Then the little head reminded me that it was possible – not likely, but possible – that this girl hadn't had a cock in her in years. If I got lucky, she'd probably be as tight as fucking a virgin. Yep, only enough blood in the male body to run one head at a time...
It was awkward but fascinating at the same time as we left the garage and I started maneuvering through traffic. She never said a word. She didn't look around or seem remorseful or regretful. Purposeful. That's what it was, she had a purpose; a focus. And she was completely accepting in it. For ten minutes, through stop and go traffic, she never uttered a sound or looked around. Amazing. I couldn't help stealing glances at her. As usual, she was wearing a nice blouse and a skirt. At the office that skirt fell to just above her knees. In the car, a good six inches of creamy thighs were exposed.
"Will this complicate things for Cynthia?" I finally asked. "You'll be getting home later than usual."
Looking straight ahead, she answered.
"I called and asked my neighbor if Cynthia could stay with her until I get home. The neighbor has a daughter the same age and they're best friends. Mrs. Hudson told me to take as long as I needed." I got the briefest of glances before her eyes went forward again. "I didn't tell her why I was going to be late, just that something had come up and I didn't know how long it would take to resolve it."
Now, I was more intrigued than anything else. I kept thinking that at some point, she'd put a stop to this. She'd open up the door while we were stopped and hop out, or ask me to pull over so she could catch a cab. And then we were pulling into my driveway.
I have a nice house. I've done pretty well for myself in the few years since college and getting my MBA. It's nothing outrageous, but not too shabby, either. I have a house in the suburbs with a fantastic kitchen (I like to cook) and a sunken great room that I've turned into something of an entertainment area. There's a full sized pool table in the middle, with a bunch of sectional seating to one side where there's a big TV for sports and movie viewing. In the back yard there's a small pool with an attached hot tub, surrounded by an eight foot board fence, for privacy.
I've got a game system hooked up to the TV, for when the guys are over and there's nothing on TV to watch, and my bar is nicely stocked with quality spirits. And yes, I have a kegerator, with Heineken on tap. The house has four bedrooms. The master bedroom overlooks the great room, which has a vaulted ceiling. A hallway leads off to the other three bedrooms, with a guest bathroom there as well. I turned one of the bedrooms into a home office, but I don't use it all that often. It's not a mansion, but I do all right. If this description causes you to think, "This guy has obviously never been married," then you're right. It would take a very special woman to tame me and make me give up my creature comforts. An even more special woman would join me in enjoying my creature comforts, but I'd never met her either, yet.
Mandy followed me into the great room, then turned and stared at me. I leaned against one corner of the pool table. I'm not sure which of us felt more awkward. So I offered her a drink. Sometimes I'm such a dork.
"Okay, I know you're here for me to redden your ass, but would you care for a Coke first? Something stiffer? Whiskey? Glass of water? Nothing? You're good?"
"I think we should go ahead and get this over with. I don't want to inconvenience Mrs. Hudson any more than necessary."
Wow. Talk about getting a face full of cold water. I didn't get it. This was basically her idea. Why was she now acting like she was doing me some sort of favor? My ire had cooled as we drove home, but now it was rekindled. Suddenly, I got the feeling as if she were treating me like a perv who was coercing her into something. That meant things needed to happen by steps that could be rejected, for my own safety.
"There are rules," I said. "Do you agree to do whatever I tell you to?"
"Yes, Sir," she breathed, without pause.
"The first rule is that I'm going to spank your bare bottom. Remove your panties."
Amazingly, she did just what I told her. She never even hesitated. She bent, reached under her skirt, and slid a dainty pair of black lace panties to her ankles. She lifted one foot, clad in a two inch heel, and then the other. When she stood, she tossed the panties on top of her purse, which she'd laid down on the back of a section of a couch. She stood, staring not at my face, but at my chest. I started to think maybe she'd done this a time or two before.
"How many times has another man punished you like this?" I asked, suddenly.
She swallowed.
"I had a professor in college who disciplined me whenever I did poorly on an assignment or test," she said. "He taught me there must be consequences for failure."
So, some horny college professor had taken advantage of poor Amanda. Was that where her daughter came from? She answered that question for me.
"My ex-husband used to knock me around, but he didn't really understand how to discipline me," she went on. "He hurt me one time and I threw him out."
So poor little Mandy wasn't helpless after all. If she wanted to, she could be decisive. This meant I needed to tread carefully.
"I intend to spank you," I said.
"Yes, Sir."
"It may bruise your bottom," I said, carefully.
"I have lotion at home that will treat that," she said, without a hitch.
Maybe this wasn't absolution, maybe she was just horny. Didn't subs need a master? I'd read that somewhere. It was part of what I didn't understand about the BDSM community. It was claimed that the master liked hurting his sub, but also loved the sub, and that the sub responded in much the same way. Did she need a master? Was that the role I had unknowingly assumed when she came to work for me? Was I being ... recruited?!
I decided to play with it a bit to see how far this would go.
"Bend over the back of the couch," I ordered.
She did so. When I lifted her skirt to expose her ass she didn't make a sound. What also got exposed were thigh high stockings and a garter belt. I had worried for a few seconds that I might be foiled by panty hose.
"Do you always wear a garter belt?" I asked. This had nothing to do with her punishment and gave her a chance to tell me so.
"Whenever I wear hose," she said, her voice muffled by the back of the couch. "Sometimes I don't wear stockings."
"Continue that habit," I said. "I like garter belts."
"Yes, Sir," came her reply.
This was the moment of truth. I lay my hand on her naked butt cheek.
She didn't flinch.
Her toes were pointed, but not touching the floor. This allowed me to move behind her and use my foot to move one of hers to the side. The other one moved away all by itself, which made it clear this wasn't the first time this had happened. I looked to see a very pretty pair of pussy lips with no hair around them. They were thick and slightly wrinkled, not white and not pink; some color I couldn't come up with a name for.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
"You have a fabulous ass and a very pretty pussy, Mandy," I said.
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder into my eyes for the first time I could remember. Her face betrayed no emotion. It was as calm as if I'd complimented her on her choice of dress.
"Thank you, Sir," was her response.
Bingo! Little head was elated, because he now knew he was going to get wet.
I paused, thinking ahead.
"I have some lotion. I'm going to get it before I begin," I said. "That ass is too fabulous to leave bruised for long."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," she said. "I'll wait right here, Sir."
Yup, she'd done this before.
I went to my bathroom and grabbed the bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care I use to moisten my beard. I wondered if she'd actually still be bent over the couch when I got back, but there she was, vulnerable and exposed, just as I'd left her.
It was time to get down to brass tacks.
I raised my hand and brought it down on that bubble butt a little harder than I had intended. I think that was the remains of the anger I'd been experiencing. She jerked and a sound escaped her throat, but it was obvious she wished it hadn't. I stared at the handprint on her white skin that bloomed like magic.
Five strokes later she started moving. She had placed her hands on the edge of the couch seat and one of them moved, as if to block the next slap, but then flashed back to where it had been.
Five more strokes, alternating between cheeks, and she was moaning pitifully.
I stopped and let her breathe.
"I think that's enough for now," I said, realizing I was breathing heavily. My cock was as hard as it had ever been.
I squirted the lotion across her ass and started working it in. Her legs wiggled, her knees bent, and then she spread her legs more. It occurred to me that this stuff stung whenever I used it, and that her pussy lips might be a lot more sensitive than my face, so I steered clear of that area. I got close, though, just to see what she'd do. She did not attempt to protect that area.
She was sniffling at first, but calmed as I mauled her ass cheeks.
"Do you want the rest of your punishment here ... or on a bed?" I asked. I held my breath.
"Bed, please," she whimpered.
Eureka!
I gripped her waist and helped her stand. There were tears in her eyes.
I took her hand and she let me lead her to my bedroom, where I stood her by the bed. She just stood there.
"I need to wash my hands," I said. "When I get back, you should be lying on the bed, face up."
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
I got all the lotion off my hands and when I returned, there she was, on the bed as instructed. I was mildly disappointed that she hadn't taken her clothes off, but that was mitigated by the fact that her skirt was up over her abdomen, leaving her pussy in plain view. Her legs were spread slightly.
"When was the last time you had a good, hard cock in your pretty pussy, Mandy?" I asked.
Her head came up and, for the first time, I saw challenge there.
"That's personal, sir," she said.
"Do I need to turn you over and start again?" I warned.
She blinked.
"No, Sir," she said.
"Okay, let's try this again, shall we? When's the last time you had a thick, hard cock sliding in and out of your tight, wet pussy? You know, when you get it long and hard before a man puts his seed in your fertile belly? When's the last time you were fucked, Mandy?"
She licked her lips and there was just the slightest hesitation before she answered.
Meekly, barely more than a whisper, "Eight years. Not since my divorce," she whispered.
"That long?" I was astonished. "Why hasn't that happened?"
She swallowed, clearly uncomfortable at this line of questioning into her personal life, but I saw that iron resolve settle on her face.
"There hasn't been a man who I felt could give me what I need," she said.
That meant I was a man who she felt like could give her what she needed. I felt almost proud. A thought occurred to me. My previous outburst had roots in my own happy fantasies. One of them was that the woman who let me in her was fertile. I had never married, but I'd always wanted to impregnate a woman. It was purely a fantasy ... up until this point ... because all the women I'd ever been with had been solidly protected.
"Are you fertile, Mandy?" I asked, my voice husky.
Again, she looked right into my eyes.
"I am not on birth control, Sir," she said.
"And you still feel like you need to be disciplined for your sloppy behavior?"
She blinked twice.
"Yes, Sir," she whispered. "My behavior was completely unprofessional and lax."
I contemplated getting naked, but she was still mostly clothed. I'd feel ridiculous mounting her if I was naked. She seemed to want this sex to be less than ... intimate ... somehow. I didn't get that, but it was apparently what she "needed". I unzipped my slacks and reached in to pull my little buddy out. It was, as I mentioned before, rock hard.
A note here. I'm not tooting my own horn or anything, but my "little" buddy isn't so little. I've been told by a few women that it's a challenge to take. I watched her eyes as they settled on it and saw them widen. She bit her lip, and I knew she was ... concerned.
"You need to be disciplined, but not injured," I said, calmly. "You are to tell me if you feel pain. Do you understand?"
I knew her composure was strained when she nodded, instead of speaking her submissive mantra.
Being clothed changed things in my mind and I altered the scenario by reaching for her knees and roughly pulling her until she was bent sideways and her butt was at the edge of the bed, with the insides of her thighs against my hips. Her pussy was wide open and defenseless. She wiggled until her upper torso was straight and let me hold her knees in my hands. She reached to hold her thighs up, since her legs were now hanging over the edge of the bed.
"You won't need to do that," I growled, and her hands dropped limply to the bed.
I lifted each foot, removed the shoe, and laid it on one of my shoulders.
"I'd like to see if your breasts are as pretty as the rest of you," I said, calmly.
Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and the edges parted to reveal a bra that matched the panties. She had great taste in underwear. It was also a front catch bra and it was bulging with white flesh. When she unhooked it, she let it fall to the sides and replaced her hands on the top of the bed.
"Gorgeous," I sighed.
"Thank you, Sir," she said, softly.
I looked down and gripped my prong. I nosed the tip between those fat, wrinkled pussy lips and found there was plenty of lubrication there. Little Mandy was excited, regardless of how much she tried to hide it. I didn't ask her if she was ready. I didn't think that fit, exactly, into this master/sub kind of thing. Without kissing, or any sort of foreplay other than beating and then massaging her ass, this felt odd, but I pressed forward anyway.
I got a long, drawn out "Uhhhhhh" as I fed her three inches, and she bit her lip again, but she didn't complain.
"You are tight," I panted. "You need to be stretched, Mandy."
"I know, Sir," she gasped.
I pushed the rest of the way in and had to lean forward to force myself in her. She was incredibly tight. I realized that, with her legs relatively close together like this, she must be feeling discomfort, but she didn't utter a sound. I had an image of the future, in which I would require her to be naked while I punished her, and she could spread those legs wide.
"You are to inform me when you have an orgasm," I panted.
"I'm not allowed to have orgasms, Sir," she whined.
That professor must have been a fucking bastard.
"Of course you are," I said. "That's part of your punishment. You are to have orgasms and you are to feel guilty about them, because you don't deserve to feel good after such poor performance. Does that make sense?"
Her head rolled from side to side, but I couldn't tell if it was because she was in pain, or was trying to adjust her psyche to this new rule.
"I'm going to have to do this as long as it takes to make you have that orgasm, Mandy," I said. "Is that clear?"
"Uh huh!" she gasped. "Sir," she added, belatedly.
"Good," I said.
I pushed in as far as I could go as her pussy adjusted to my size. For good measure I reached and pressed a thumb to an exposed and surprisingly large clit at the base of my penis.
I was shocked when, within ten seconds of mauling her clit with my thumb, her hips tried to lift and she wailed a sound that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It was a sound composed of a mixture of joy, shame, elation, and guilt. It sounded like she was being killed ... but wanted to be killed.
"Are you cumming?" I growled.
Her head flailed again and one hand slapped at the wrist above the thumb I was still crushing her clit with. I eased off and the hand dropped back to the bed.
"Answer me!" I barked.
"Yessss!" she whined.
"You were supposed to tell me!" I scolded.
"I'm s-s-sorry," she whined. "It surprised meeee."
"Now I'm going to have to make you cum again," I sighed.
All she did was cover her face with her hands.
Never having been with her before, I had no idea what got her off, other than having her clit mashed, anyway. Some women have vaginal orgasms and some have clitoral ones. Some women like taking it up the ass, and others don't. Some women have a G spot and some don't. I assumed she masturbated, but if she was telling the truth, I had just given her the first orgasm she'd had since she got rid of her husband's prick. Or her husband, the prick. As a man I know how much difference there is between the orgasms I give myself and the ones I have while buried in a hot pussy. I have to presume it's the same for women. The last one had been a doozy and it made me a little proud, so I was intent on getting her off again. I knew I'd have to experiment a little. Why? Because I wanted this woman addicted to my cock. I wanted her to request punishment for the slightest of infractions.
I started by just sliding in and out of her with long strokes. In this position I could get deep, but not too deep, before I ran into those bruised ass cheeks of hers. I'm not super knobby or anything, but I'm not circumcised, so when the head is uncovered, it bunches the skin along my shaft and that makes wrinkles that can massage a woman's vagina.
Turns out Mandy has vaginal orgasms. She might be able to have other kinds, too, but it was clear she got off on me sliding in and out of her. It was only a minute or so later that she lifted her head, looking a little terrorized, and gasped, "It's going to happen again!"
"That's too bad," I said. "You really don't deserve to have another orgasm this soon."
"I can't help it, Sir!" she whined.
I kept going and felt her pussy milk me as she came. I leaned down to suck one distended, pink nipple and her whole body jerked as that intensified her orgasm.
I realized she was crying, not quite sobbing, but clearly distressed. Apparently she had taken me seriously about feeling bad for feeling good.
It was time for the final part of this little play we were acting in. This last scene would either make or break the production. I lifted off of her nipple and leaned forward so my face was almost over hers.
"I'm going to give you my gift now, Mandy," I panted. "You don't deserve it, but you've accepted your punishment well."
She lifted her head and looked at me with tear-filled eyes.
"You could get me pregnant, Sir," she gasped. I couldn’t tell if this was a phrase she'd been taught to say by dickhead professor, or something she had concerns about. Only one way to find out.
"I know," I growled.
She did not push me away or scream at me to withdraw. It actually made me want to cum almost instantly.
So I rabbit-stroked her for maybe ten seconds until I erupted, sending bolts of hot semen deep into her belly. This was my little head thinking again and, later, I would actually realize how stupid this was. At that moment, though, my own biology required me to abuse her.
"Cumming!" I gasped.
Her head fell back down onto the bed and she covered her face with her hands again.
Chapter Two
Mandy went to the bathroom to compose herself (and presumably let my semen drip out of her over the toilet). Dressed again (with her panties in her purse instead of back on her body), she looked completely normal. If I hadn't known better I would never have believed she'd just been fucked and bred. She was composed and acting just like she had every day since she started working for me.
I still didn't understand this new kind of relationship I found myself in, so I didn't know exactly how I should act, myself. I opted for compassion. Whenever my dad used to take a belt to me, after it was over he always told me he loved me. He made it clear that, while punishment for sins was done, it didn't mean love died.
I put my hands on her shoulders and made her face me. Her eyes went to the top button of my shirt.
"Look at me, Mandy," I said.
Her eyes lifted.
"You okay?" I asked.
Her eyes widened, but she nodded.
"You needed that?" I said. I made sure the question was clear in my voice.
"Yes, Sir," she replied.
"Well, in light of things ... it may be necessary for me to punish you in the future," I said.
"I know, Sir," she said. Her eyes dropped to my top button again.
"If my punishment methods are too harsh, I can get you transferred to another boss," I said. I held my breath, waiting for her response.
"That won't be necessary, Sir," she said.
"Are you sure about that?" I asked. I had, after all, shot off in her fertile pussy.
"Positive, Sir," she said.
I figured I'd just talk about the elephant in the room.
"If I keep having to punish you, and you're not on birth control, there could be complications," I said.
"I can't afford birth control, Sir," she said. "It isn't covered by our medical insurance."
"I can pay for your birth control," I snorted.
Again, she looked up at me.
"If there are ... complications ... then I deserve them," she said.
"You're kidding," I blurted.
She blinked, but didn't look away.
"No, Sir."
I was stunned. She had basically said she'd let me knock her up. She was already struggling, financially, so how could she accept that kind of ... "punishment"?
"We'll talk about that later," I said. "For now you are forgiven. We'll get caught up on the project and everything will be back on track."
"Yes, Sir. I'll work hard to get it finished."
I called her a cab and it was awkward while we waited until I said I should check her bruises. She promptly put herself over the back of the couch and pulled her skirt up. I worked some more lotion in and then we heard the honk from the cab outside. I had the urge to kiss her, but that felt wrong somehow.
"I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early," I said, as she walked out the door.
"Yes, Sir," she said, looking over her shoulder at me.
For the first time there was some emotion on her face.
Her eyes were smoky, and her lips pouted just a little.
"Thank you, Sir," she said, meekly.
Now, I've been on the merry go round of sex a few times. I like the ride. I've ridden a 'horse' and a 'zebra' and a 'lion' before. I've even ridden just sitting on the bench as it goes round and round. But the music was generally the same, even if the women were very different. As I lay in bed that night, though, I realized Mandy wasn't like any other woman I had ever fucked. I know my attitude about all this might seem cavalier, but the fact is I like there to be some romance involved with a woman when I take her to bed. If there's not, then I've been known to back off. Sex without the romance isn't much better than just jerking off.
So I was confused about Mandy, because there hadn't been anything romantic about our coupling at all, at least not while it was going on. And there hadn't been any romance or chemistry before I took her home, either. There had been no flirting or innuendo at work. I hadn't even taken her out to dinner first. And yet, somehow, I felt like something important had just taken place. With the others it had just been some fun between the sheets. None of those other types of women on the merry go round had really needed me.
Mandy had needed me. She had really needed what had happened, even if I didn't understand why. And she had actually chosen me to help her. I wasn't just some Joe she'd stumbled on. She hadn't just said, "Hey, Mister, want to beat my ass and fuck me? I kind of want that to happen right now."
The romance had been in that last look she gave me. There had been something in her eyes and her "Thank you, Sir," had been heartfelt. She really had been thankful that she was going home with a bruised butt, and that I was the one who bruised it.
I had never been involved with a romance like this. I didn't know how to be in a romance like this.
That's what I was thinking about as I went to sleep that night.
She was already there when I got there the next morning. My coffee was ready and she acted exactly like she had every day previous to that.
The first thing I did was give her a raise. Well, got it for her, actually. I didn't tell her about it. I went to HR and found out she was actually being paid three grades lower than her time with the company entitled her to. She had not taken any courses or tests. Routine paperwork (by a boss who gave a shit) had been ignored, even before she worked for me. HR didn't feel compelled to inform me of this and I seethed a little.
Back in the office we worked on finishing the project. Nothing whatsoever was said about the previous day, or the fact that I'd fucked her socks off before dumping my DNA in her fecund womb.
We were finished on time and the presentation went better than I had hoped for. The VP was delighted.
I decided to give credit where credit was due.
"My executive assistant was invaluable in getting this ready," I said.
"Then take her with you when you go," he said.
"Go?" I asked.
"I want you to go to New York to seal the deal with the contractor," he said. "I've already talked to their CEO and you'll have to meet with department heads of various parts of the company. It shouldn't take more than three or four days. This could produce millions in revenue for the company, Bob, so make sure we get that contract."
"Yes, Sir," I said. "I won't let you down."
Back in my office I pushed the button that called Mandy from her desk on the other side of a glass wall that closed in my office. When she came in there was interest plainly etched on her face.
"How'd it go?" she asked, foregoing the rigid politeness she was known for.
"It went well. What kind of provisions do you have for being away from home for a few days?"
"Sir?" She was plainly taken off guard.
"The VP wants me to go to New York to finalize this contract and he told me to take you with me."
"He told you to take me with you?" She was clearly unnerved.
"I told him you were indispensable in the preparation for the presentation. He said for me to take you with me so that we get that contract. We'll have to meet with a number of department heads and there will probably be social events to attend," I said.
"What would I be required to do?" she asked, looking worried.
I knew why she looked worried. It wasn't unheard for girls to be taken on trips to use as bribes to get contracts. That was a fairly common practice in big business deals.
"You're not a whore, Mandy," I said, bluntly. "This will be a straightforward contract negotiation and you will be my executive assistant, nothing more."
"Thank you, Sir," she said, looking clearly relieved.
"Unless you screw up," I added. "If that happens, I'll have to punish you, of course."
She looked wary again.
"Punishment, should it be required, will not involve anyone but you and me," I said. "Nobody will touch you without my express permission, and I do not intend to give that permission unless you ask me to."
"I won't ask you to," she said, followed by a clipped, "Sir."
"Good. So, what about Cynthia?"
She frowned. She even looked beautiful when her forehead was creased.
"Mrs. Hudson might be willing to let them have an extended sleepover," she said. "I should pay her, though."
"I got you a raise," I said. "You're getting almost twice what you were being paid. Paying this woman shouldn't be a problem."
"Sir!" she barked. "I didn't ask for a raise!"
"Calm down," I said. "This has nothing to do with your punishment. If anything, it has to do with the fact that you normally do excellent work. I discovered you should have had two raises before you ever came to work for me. All I did was correct your previous supervisors' negligence. You were due raises and didn't get them. So I corrected that. This doesn't mean I require anything from you other than continued excellence in your professional life."
I saw the glint of tears in her eyes.
"Thank you, Sir. This will really help."
"Just make sure you don't screw up," I growled. "I'd hate to have to punish you again."
"Would you, sir?" Her voice was, for the first time ever, a little teasing. I was really surprised.
"I will happily paddle you until you can't sit down, if you deserve it," I said, menacingly.
"Yes, Sir," she said. She looked like she was hiding a smile.
I realized that our relationship had just changed, somehow, become less stern and strict. I wasn't sure how to feel about that.
Basically, I wasn't quite sure how to feel about Mandy Potemkin.
What I didn't think about during all this, that's been described thus far, was that Mandy became my partner in excellence. I'm not joking. My last executive assistant had been quite competent, but only did what I tasked her with. Now that I looked back at things, I was like Mandy with that woman. I walked everywhere I went. Mandy went above and beyond her routine duties. I knew what to do, in terms of business, but she was like the car that got me to work each day. If I hadn't had that "car" it wouldn't have mattered how smart I was, business wise. I wouldn't have gotten to work to use all my smarts. If you want more examples then think of cell phones and microwaves. My mother got along just fine without either when I was growing up. Any mother who tried to do that these days would be at a serious disadvantage, compared to her more technologically accepting sisters.
Well, I suppose not if she was Amish, maybe.
But I'm not Amish and the cell phone, microwave, and car in my life that was Mandy made a huge difference in how things went for me. I never thought about that while I was getting to know her, and while she was becoming something I couldn't live without. She didn't, either, except she recognized how indispensable she was long before I did.
She booked the tickets and hotel as usual, except this time she did it for two, rather than just me. I thought it was interesting that, when we got to the hotel, there were two rooms waiting for us, next door to each other. There was a set of double connecting doors between them. You could unlock the one on your side, but if the person in the other room didn't unlock theirs, then there was no going back and forth between the rooms. It looked very professional and appropriate, without any hint of hanky panky. I wondered, for the first time, if I could order her to do things – things outside her professional duties – without the excuse of punishing her for some misdeed.
I decided not to push the envelope to find out. Fucking her had been pretty amazing, and I wanted to do it again. If I broke some mysterious rule in this new kind of relationship, I didn't want to suffer for it. Better to wait. She'd do something wrong, eventually. All of us eventually do something wrong.
The bell boy hauling along the cart with our bags on it stood, waiting for me to open my door while Mandy stood beside him.
"Which bag is the proposal in?" I asked her.
"There are two copies, one in your blue bag, and one in one of my bags," she said. "Except for the posters. There's only one set of them." I glanced at the portfolio art case she'd carried onto the plane and which she hadn't let out of her sight since.
Good girl. She wasn't taking any chances this time around. I looked at my watch.
"I'm going to take a shower and change clothes." I looked at the bell boy. "Is the restaurant downstairs any good?"
He smiled.
"I'm paid to tell you it is, but in this case it would be the truth anyway. I'm told the lasagna is to die for."
"Just told?" said Mandy, suddenly. "Haven't you tried it?"
"I just deliver bags and show people around," grinned the young man. "You don't eat in our restaurant on those wages."
"You're fishing for a tip," said Mandy.
"Mandy!" I snapped. "Of course he's fishing for a tip. It's part of his job description. Don't be impertinent."
She looked down at the floor instantly and flushed.
"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."
I pulled out my wallet and reached in to find one of ten fifty dollar bills I'd had Mandy put there. I dropped it into the young man's suddenly outstretched hand and said, "Try the Lasagna. I hear it's to die for." I grinned and went inside my room. I went directly to the bathroom, knowing that Mandy would have him put my bags on the bed, or wherever, and she'd have a change of clothes laid out for me when I got out of the shower.
While I was in the shower I wondered if that connecting door would be open when I got out. I got hard thinking about it. I decided to jerk off in the shower. I didn't want to be on edge because I was horny and unable to do anything about it. I thought about punishing her for being rude to the bell boy, but if she didn't really see that as an infraction, that might backfire. For this to work, she needed to feel bad about something and, for all I knew, this was the first bellboy she'd ever engaged with. She was a small town girl who had gone to a small state university, where an unethical professor had dominated her. It was unlikely she was familiar with the lifestyles of those who were on the fringes of the rich and famous.
I had no idea she apologized to the young man when he took her to her room. I had no idea he said it was fine, but that fifty bucks would only get him an appetizer in the hotel restaurant. And I had no idea she had him show her how to open the connecting door (he had a tool that undid mine from her side) so she could get back into my room, where she got into my wallet and gave him two more fifties. He was a "little person" too and she understood exactly what the challenges of his life were likely to be about. She also made a friend in the process, even if he'd be a short term friend she'd never see again when we went back home. I only made friends with people I thought could provide me some advantage.
Mandy made friends because she liked having friends. It was her friends who had gotten her through the travails of college, and then the travails of being a single mom.
When I got out of the shower, sure enough, there was a casual outfit laid out on the bed, including socks. There was no underwear laid out because she knew I didn't wear any. The rest of my clothes had been put away and my suitcase was stowed on the little stand designed for that purpose. It was five-thirty, a little early for dinner, but I called Mandy and asked if she wanted to have a drink before we ate.
"I'm not so good with alcohol, Sir," she answered.
"You can drink something virgin," I said. "I'd like some company."
"Whatever you say, Sir," she replied.
I told her to go on down and wait for me in the bar, and that I'd be there after I made a call. I raided the little fridge in the room. There wasn't any decent Scotch, but there were two airline bottles of Jack Black, so I drank them while I dialed the number of my vendor contact to let him know I was in town.
"Your assistant already called me," he said. "Did you get your signals crossed?"
"She's in her own room," I said. "I haven't gotten a chance to see if she took care of things."
"Well, she did. I'll pick you up at eight in the morning. Now, I'd like to get back to eating supper with my family."
"Absolutely. Go," I said. I hung up miffed again. The guy was a jerk. Not only that, he was a low level jerk, most likely. You don't run a multi-million dollar business and then send somebody important to pick up someone trying to sell you a service.
I was still feeling surly when I got to the restaurant and looked for Mandy at the bar. She was there, sipping some kind of fruity looking drink in a martini glass. There was a guy invading her personal space, leaning in enough that she was leaning away from him. I walked over and stood within inches of both of them.
"I hope you're not bothering my date," I said.
The guy looked over at me and I recognized the bleary eyes of a man who started drinking way too early in the day.
"Fuck off," he slurred. "I saw her first."
"Actually, you didn't," I said, politely. "I got her a room here and she's having dinner with me, tonight. What you did is push yourself on a young woman who has better taste than to put up with the likes of you."
I saw the belligerence in his eyes and silently chastised myself. I was pushing it with him because I was angry with some flunky who just wanted to have supper with his family. I am six-two, however, and I do work out at the gym three days a week. I also wear tailored clothes, because I like looking like I wear tailored clothes. The guy might have already had one too many, but he wasn't so drunk he missed the potential for things not working out well for him.
"Don't get your panties in a wad," he moaned. "I thought she was a hooker. That's all."
"She's not, and now you've offended her," I said. Why was I itching for a fight?
Thankfully the bartender had seen what was happening. Mandy looked good, as usual, but he didn't mark her as a working girl. She was dressed too conservatively for that and, besides, he knew most of the hookers who tried to work the hotel. Part of his job was to notify the management when one of those girls came around. This hotel didn't want that kind of traffic. If you wanted a prostitute at this hotel, you called for one and she had the fix in with the management. She'd be sent straight upstairs to whatever room her "employer" was renting.
The bartender had already called about this guy and two rather muscular bellboys appeared, just as things were about to get interesting, to "help" him out of the restaurant.
"I'm Joe," said the barkeep. "What can I get you, Sir?"
"Single malt," I said. "Double. Neat." I turned to Mandy. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, Sir," she said.
I saw Joe's eyes dart toward her at the distinct "Sir."
"Good," I said. "Putting up with that isn't part of the job description of my executive assistant."
"He wasn't bothering me, Sir," she said.
"Of course he was, but thank you for being patient about it," I said. "You ready to eat?"
Maybe she saw that Joe was very interested in this ultra-polite executive assistant, who was so formal with her boss.
She just nodded.
The waiter brought us menus, glasses of water, and my Scotch. He asked if we wanted wine and I said no. I remembered my hard-learned mantra from high school: Wine on whisky – pretty risky. Mandy had already said she avoided alcohol.
"This is too expensive," she whispered, when the waiter had gone.
"No, it is not," I said, spacing the words out.
"But Sir," she started to object. I put my menu down and stared across the table at her.
"Look. This assignment is going to change our relationship a little. I don't mean the punishment part. I mean that, while we're on this trip, we're a team. We're not just a team, we're a close team. We work hand in glove. We'd finish each other's sentences if that didn't make us look goofy. That means we stay in a nice hotel and we eat at nice restaurants. We need to project confidence and expertise. We need to convince them they can't do without us. And for that to happen, you're going to need to relax just a little bit. I don't want you to call me Sir from now on. Not in public, anyway. You should call me Mister Franklin most of the time, but you should also throw in a 'Bob' now and then. They need to see we are close, but not chummy. You still work for me, but you're my right hand woman. Got it?"
"Yes, Sir," she said, automatically. I looked at her patiently. "Except ..." she added.
"Except what, Mandy?"
"I'm not used to this," she said. "I don't know if I can do it."
I leaned closer.
"Mandy, Honey, I paddled your bare butt and then fucked you. I'm quite likely to want to do that again some day. I think you should be able to be a little less formal with me." I leaned back. "Unless you feel like I abused you, or that you were forced. Did I rape you, Mandy?"
She leaned forward and sparks shot out of her eyes, which darted several directions before they landed on me.
"Shhh!" she hissed. "Don't even joke about that! Someone might hear and the last thing I want is a scandal!"
My, my, my. Submissive little Mandy had teeth behind those perfectly painted lips. She delivered two and a half sentences and not a "Sir" in sight. Not only that, she actually scolded me!
"That's better," I said. "I'm not sure you should actually chastise me in public like that, but at least you were direct with me."
She leaned back.
"I'm sorry ... Sir," she said. It was obvious she was taunting me. "I have a reputation to think about."
"And I don't? Sweetheart, what I did to you could easily get a man tossed in prison for years if it was talked about in the wrong way. You let yourself be vulnerable, but so did I."
"Please don't call me Sweetheart," she said. At least she left off the formal title. "I'm not worthy of that kind of name."
"Point taken," I said, instead of arguing with her. "You'll have to earn that name, which means you're going to have to keep working for me for a long time. Such names are felicitous only between lovers who feel genuine affection for each other and that usually takes time to develop."
"What do you want from me?" she moaned. Wow. Even more conversation not peppered with polite address.
"I already have what I want from you," I said. "I want a professional, adept, talented, intelligent executive assistant who will help me be the best I can be."
She blinked. I hadn't mentioned the sex. To be honest, I'd thought about the sex, but where in that sentence could you fit "smoking hot cum slut"?
"I think you want more than that," she said, her tone measured, thus proving the "intelligent" adjective about her was true.
"I think the real question is, what do you want from me?" I said. "You could work for any man in the company and he'd be delighted to have you. Why do you want to work for me?"
"I was assigned to work for you, Sir," she said.
Damn. She was putting that wall back up between us.
"I'll remind you that I offered to have you transferred, and you said that would not be necessary," I said.
She actually flushed. It went well with her hair.
She took a drink of her water and looked everywhere except at me.
"Maybe you'll figure it out by the time we've eaten," I said. "I'd kind of like it to be before tomorrow, because tomorrow morning we need to present that hand-in-glove appearance I was talking about."
"I'm confused," she said.
"About what?"
Again there was a pause, but she took a breath that pushed the front of her blouse out nicely.
"Life," she sighed. "My life, at least."
"Welcome to the jungle," I quipped.
I got a few more sparks from those green eyes.
"It's not funny," she said, but without rancor. "It's easy for someone like you. You're handsome and rich and you have a great job. You have the world in your pocket."
"And you're beautiful and talented and all those other things I said about you, and your job's not all that horrible. And you recently got a substantial raise, so why don't you have the world in your pocket, too?"
"It's different for a woman," she said.
"How so? I don't think I have to tell you you're good looking. You could have any man you wanted, and most of them would probably be glad to have Cynthia along for the ride as well."
"She's at a very difficult age," said Mandy. I didn't know whether she was avoiding or ignoring the rest of what I'd said.
"You never answered my question. Why do you want to work for me?" I asked.
"You said I had until we finish dinner to answer that," she dodged.
I sighed.
"I did. So, what else do you want to talk about?"
"I have no idea, Sir," she said. "I'm not good at this kind of thing."
We were saved by the waiter who reappeared. I told him what I wanted and he talked to Mandy for a good five minutes while she asked him all manner of questions and eventually wore herself down to committing to – you guessed it – lasagna. I was practically astonished when, just before the waiter left, she asked him, "Do you have any wine that isn't too strong?"
"We have a sweet, white wine I can put in a small glass for you," said the man, who was a paragon of patience.
"Yes, please. Thank you so much," she said.
"It's my pleasure, Madam," he said.
"I thought you said you weren't any good at this," I said, once the waiter was gone again.
"I'm not," she said, looking surprised.
"You just had a best buddy confab with a waiter who probably gets paid more than you do, and you wrapped him around your little finger," I said.
"All I did was order something," she argued.
"My point is, you had no trouble at all talking to him and making things work out."
"With him," she said. "It's different with you."
"Why?"
"I don't know," she said. "I told you I'm confused."
Mandy suffered no ill effects from the wine. Granted, the waiter really did bring her wine in a smaller glass than normal. The liqueur glass he brought probably contained a third of a normal serving of wine. Even if she'd had a full dose, though, I don't think it would have mattered. The lasagna serving was quite large and she ate like a horse. She wasn't sloppy, or anything. She just ate with gusto instead of nipping off little bites like a lot of women might if they were trying to appear dainty or something. She liked the food and I liked watching her eat it.
I did notice that I got charged for the full wine order, but I didn't care. This was on an expense account. I gave the waiter my card and when he returned, I gave him a thirty percent tip.
When we got up to leave, I edged close to her and brushed her arm with mine.
"Take my arm," I said.
"What?"
"Take my arm," I ordered, spacing my words out again.
I felt her hand slip under my elbow and we walked through the lobby to the elevators. Once inside the car she let go of my arm.
"I may have done something bad," she said, softly.
I turned my head to look at her.
"Remember the bell boy, when we first got here?"
"Yes."
"You tipped him fifty dollars."
"Yes."
"You told him to order the lasagna."
"Yes."
"Well, while you were taking your shower he said something about the lasagna being more than fifty dollars, so I went into your room and got more money to tip him with."
"You stole from me?" I didn't consider it stealing. I was surprised she'd be so bold, but I wasn't angry about it.
"I wanted him to have a good tip," she moaned. "But I just had the lasagna and it was only forty dollars. He lied to me!"
"So now it's only forty dollars?" I teased. "I thought you felt like it was too expensive."
"It was too expensive, she said. "But I believed him and took money out of your wallet and he basically scammed me. I should have talked to you, first."
"I was in the shower," I reminded her.
"I know that," she moaned. "It's not like seeing you naked would make me blind. I shouldn't have done what I did without talking to you first."
"Did you learn your lesson?" I asked.
"Yes, but ..."
"But what?"
She took my arm again, and pulled it against her full breast.
"I think I should be punished for not asking you before I took money out of your wallet."
The connecting door was open.
Mandy was on my bed. I looked down at her pale, naked buttocks, rising off the top of the bed like a little hill, with her lower back as the valley next to the hill. This time the rest of her was naked, too, and this time I had a folded belt in my hand. She had handed me the belt after folding it. Our clothing was lying in careless heaps on the floor.
"How much did you take out of my wallet?" I asked.
"I took a hundred more, Sir," she moaned.
"At ten dollars a swat, that comes to ten swats," I said. I hefted the belt. My dad had used his belt on me and I still remembered how that felt. I was not excited about using this belt on her tender skin. But she'd handed it to me.
"Yes, Sir," she said.
"Mandy?"
"Sir?"
"Look at me," I said.
She looked over her shoulder but her hair covered her face until she lifted one hand to brush it back.
"I've never done this before," I said. "Not with a belt. I don't want to injure you."