I had been in my new job just a few days when my boss - an attractive 42-year-old called Stephanie - called me into her office.
She wanted me to work overtime that night, and, hoping to make a good impression, I readily agreed.
At 5.30pm, as the rest of the staff were knocking off, I reported to Stephanie in the basement area of the building.
"Your overtime will be four hours," she said, "and you will not be paid for it. This is a test to establish whether you are suitable for my employment."
This took me aback but before I could object Stephanie added: "You will speak only when spoken to and will address me as 'Ma'am' at all times. You will carry out my orders without question - if you want to keep your job. Understand?"
I didn't understand at all but I was desperate to stay in employment.
I'd tasted life on the dole and it didn't agree with me. This job - a filing clerk in the subscriptions department of a small publishing house - wasn't exactly prestigious but it would bring in a monthly pay cheque.
I swallowed my pride and replied: "Yes, Ma'am."
"Good," said Stephanie. "Now strip to the waist."
As I stood there open-mouthed, she added: "You'll do as I say or I'll sack you right here and now for disobedience."
As I peeled off my white cotton shirt, Stephanie opened a cupboard door and pulled out a large canvas bag, from which she extracted a black, lacy bra and tossed the garment onto the floor in front of me.
"Put that on," she ordered.
I didn't like the way this was going at all but I felt I had no option but to comply.
It took me a few minutes to struggle into the bra, which proved to be a very tight fit, the straps biting into my shoulders.
"Now take off your shoes, socks and trousers," my boss commanded.
When I had obeyed this instruction, Stephanie looked me up and down, and said: "Mmmm, I quite like those striped boxer shorts. I think I'll have them as a souvenir. Hand them over"
I could feel my face burning with embarrassment as I slipped off my underpants and presented them to this domineering woman. Stephanie put the boxers in her handbag.
She then spent a few minutes walking around me, inspecting my tackle and arse before delving into the canvas bag again, bringing out panties, suspender belt and stockings, all in black, matching the bra.
"Get these on, and don't take all night about it," she barked.
The knickers were so skimpy that my dick and balls strained painfully against the sheer, silky material.
"That's much better," said Stephanie, as I fixed the stockings onto the suspenders.
"Now bend over that desk."
I stretched myself across the wooden desk in the middle of the room and waited in trepidation.
"How old will you be on your next birthday?" Stephanie asked me conversationally.
"Twenty-two, Ma'am," I replied.
I watched her as she reached into the cupboard again. This time she brought out a three-foot-long rattan cane, which she waved playfully in front of my face.
"So it's twenty-two strokes, then," she said.
Stephanie sat on a swivel chair in front of me and crossed her long legs, tapping the cane against the exposed flesh of her right thigh.
Eventually, she got up and positioned herself behind me, and I felt the cane being gently stroked across my backside. Then the rod was lightly tapping the seat of the panties.
"Ask me nicely for your punishment," she purred in my ear.
"Please, Ma'am, may I have my caning?"
Whack!
Her initial stroke caught me right across the crown of my arse. The intensity of the stinging lash sent an instant newsflash to my brain, whose natural response was to give expression to the physical assault by screaming my bloody head off. But, somehow, I managed not to cry out.
"Oh, the strong, silent type, are we?" mocked my spanker. "Your screams will be reverberating round this basement before I've finished with you, I can assure you of that."
This time I heard the sound of the cane swishing through the air before it cracked down on my backside.
