I’m late for work. Well, almost late. I’ll officially be late in about four minutes, and the guy in front of me will take at least that long to stutter the non-fat soy something or other order his wife undoubtedly sent him to fetch. Pathetic.
When he finally steps away from the counter I hold my card out and order a tall latte in a voice that I hope makes it clear that I don’t want whipped cream, I don’t want cinnamon, and I certainly don’t want to tell the chipper barista how my morning is going. I don’t recognize the girl behind the counter; she’s new and looks frazzled. If I wasn’t running late I might feel sorry for her, but right now all I feel is impatient, especially when she can’t seem to manage a simple debit transaction.
“Just run it as credit, for Christ’s sake,” I say as I see my order appear at the pick-up counter. I drum my fingers loudly right next to the cash register, sure that the people in line behind me are just as irritated with the new girl’s incompetence as I am.
“I’ve got it,” I hear a voice say to my left. I look over as you slide a few bills across the counter, subtly grabbing my arm above my left elbow as you speak. You don’t yell or even look angry; quite the opposite, actually, as you flash her a smile that broadcasts relaxation. I hold out my hand for the card, slipping it casually into my pocket, attempting to look as nonchalant as you, although I’m sure I fail. I thank the new girl, I make a point to thank her, like I would have done anyway if you hadn’t intervened… I’m almost positive I would have…
When I reach up to grab my coffee you intercept with your free hand, taking the cup as you basically march me out of the shop. As soon as we’re out of the doors you drop it in a nearby trash bin. “Hey!” I start indignantly, digging my heels in for a second. I almost lose my balance when you don’t stop, when you don’t even slow your pace, when you just keep us moving right along with the foot traffic toward my office. “Hush,” you say, “you’re in enough trouble.”
I start to panic as we near my place of work, curious and nervous about what you plan to do. You’ve spanked me before, sure, but that was play. We’re spanking buddies, sharing an interest and a few hours every couple of weeks. You’ve warned me about being polite; we both have a few ground rules we expect each other to follow, and you do not allow your friends to be disrespectful. But I’m not usually so bad… it’s just because I was running a little bit late… or so I tell myself, bracing for a battle I’m already sure to lose. I assume you’re walking me to my building to drive your point home, that I will have to make an appointment with you later this week to deal with my tantrum.
When we reach the elevators and you’re still with me, I look at you questioningly, nervously. You simply raise your eyebrows and push the up button. This is not good. When we walk past the secretary, I have enough sense to have her hold all calls, a smile plastered on my face. She’ll assume you’re a client, although she’ll probably be surprised when she sees you begin to close the blinds, as if this is your office and not mine.
Now I know a spanking is imminent and I really start to get scared. I find my tongue and lose my good sense and start babbling, handing you excuses and ultimatums and outright refusals, telling you that you have no right to be here, to do this, to assume you are in charge!
Of course, while I’m doing that, you finish closing the blinds and you take my desk chair, placing it in the middle of the room. When you grab my wrist and guide me to stand between your legs as you sit, my defiance slides seamlessly into begging—begging you not to spank me, not now, and please please not here where anyone might be listening. The walls are thick and should be sound proof, but I haven’t exactly tested this. I try to bargain with you, even as you begin to unbutton my pants, even as I automatically place my hands on my head, where you’d expect them to be for this part.
You tug my pants down, then lift my shirt up before putting me over your lap. I think about how grown up I felt just this morning as I carefully pressed my clothes, how professional, and how now I feel like a little kid who was just playing dress up.
You don’t waste any time, spanking me hard and fast, easily keeping me in place when I begin to kick and wiggle and occasionally squeal, despite my efforts to be quiet. My underwear are whisked down soon enough, and I imagine the split-second imprint of your hand on my backside as I try not cry. When you finally hear the first sob escape, you don’t stop or even slow down. Instead, you actually swing your arm a little wider, a little harder, a little lower, blasting the tops of my thighs, so I renew my kicking and abandon any hopes of stoic silence, so I begin to cry in earnest.
You stop as abruptly as you began, scooping me up into your lap, rubbing my back while I cling to your shirt, sniffling and apologizing and promising to be nice from now on. Once I’ve calmed down you slide me off, so I’m again standing in front of you. You gently pull up my undies and pants, straighten my shirt, button it where it came undone. Leaving your hands on the sides of my thighs, you look up at my red eyes meaningfully, ask me what I intend to do tomorrow before work.
“Apologize to the coffee shop lady,” I choke out, my eyes welling up with new tears as you stare me down. “Good,” you say, wiping a stray tear off my cheek with your thumb. I have every intention of apologizing, although I would promise you almost anything in this moment, anything to please you, and to keep my bottom safe from further damage.
You pat my leg and then stand, pulling me into a hug, planting a kiss on my forehead. You put my chair back behind the desk, and then send me toward it with a gentle push. One more hug and you’re heading out, calling back over your shoulder as you leave, “I’ll see you this evening.”
That’s when I remember that we have a play date tonight, that you have been very naughty this week, that I ordered a brand new paddle for the occasion. I even manage a slight smile as I sit down gingerly. I look at my afternoon schedule… maybe I can even take off a few minutes early to check the mail. I begin to look forward to the end of the day, and my mood improves… drastically…