She rushed to her desk as fast as her restrictive pencil skirt and 4 inch heels would allow. Glancing at the clock she winced, realizing that despite her best efforts she was 5 minutes late... again. Maybe he wouldn't notice, maybe he was busy with some email or paper work and just would assume she arrived on time.
She checked herself in her compact as her computer started up. The rain had taken its toll; her chin length chestnut brown hair was soaked and hung heavy and flat, looking almost black. The loss of volume made it look longer than it normally did, and she teased it as best she could with her finger to aid its drying.
Her make up wasn't too bad. The mascara she used to frame her deep blue eyes needed touching up, as did her red lipstick. But all in all she looked incredibly well put together for the morning she had had. Leaving her apartment, the 22 year old recent college grad lost her umbrella to a gust of wind, only to approach her bus stop to see her bus pulling away.
The shelter at the stop hadn't provided much by way of protection as she waited for the next bus to take her downtown to her first "real" job. It wasn't much; she was an administrative assistant to a web designer named Timothy Reed. She wasn't particularly knowledgeable about computers or design , but her degree in French literature left her few options.
She was, however, very articulate, very organized, capable of producing professional correspondence, and her facility with French aided her boss with an occasional international dealing. And she needed the money. With graduation came the new experience of rent, utilities, food, transportation, and the ever looming student loan repayments. The ability to read and interpret Proust wasn't going to put a roof over her head. But truth be told, the need for money and the lack of employable skills is not what led her to this position.
Her computer finished loading, her hair and clothes slowly drying, she began her first task of the day and breathed a sigh of relief at her tardiness having gone unnoticed. It was a full half an hour later when the door behind her suddenly opened and her she heard her boss's steely voice, "Ms. Welsh, would you please step into my office."
She stood and took a deep breath causing her chest to swell against the buttons of her white blouse. Pressing her palms against her thighs, she pressed out any wrinkles in her skirt before taking hold of a legal pad and pen and turning to walk into his office.
"Shut the door, please," he said as she entered the well decorated room. Her heart skipped a beat. Had he noticed she was late after all or was this something else? She moistened her lips with her tongue as she closed the door and turned back towards him.
"You were late again," the words were cold, matter of fact. His stare cut into her and she lowered her chin to her chest and bit her lower lip.
"Yes Sir," she said softly before breaking into a litany of excuses, "but with the rain, I missed the bus, and then my umbrella..."
"What happens when my assistant is late?" he cut her off, uninterested in her excuses which he had heard far too many times in the short period she had worked for him.
Her head bowed, her voice small, she replied barely audibly, "She gets punished, Sir."
"And when she makes excuses...?" He asked expecting her to finish the sentence.
Obediently, and with little pause she almost whispered, "The punishment is worse."
He stood and walked around to where she stood. His height and strength towering over her small frame. Leaning down to her, he put his mouth next to her ear and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck as he said, "Raise your skirt and bend over the desk, Ms. Welsh."
As she wiggled her hips, raising her skirt to reveal that she wore no panties over her round ass and smooth and hairless mound, images from her first night with Him flooded into her memory. She hated that she was already moist as she moved to lean over the desk, gripping the near edge of the heavy metallic border that framed the modern piece of furniture.
She was sheepishly leaning over, waiting for Mr. Reed to act or instruct further. Her head bowed, short cropped hair falling forward and hiding the rising flush in her cheeks. She remember how he smiled at her when they met at the graduation party her father threw for her, how serious his eyes were, and how her heart skipped a beat as she felt compelled to return a shy smile of her own.
Mr. Reed went to his metallic locker and opened it. He pulled out a riding crop and sliced it through the air. She winced as a whistling sound filled her ears, remembering days past with its sting so masterfully guided all over her back side.
Next a deep thud filled the room. That was the wooden paddle. If he was gentle, it wouldn't be so bad, but she knew better than to hope for such a thing during punishment.
"Ahh, here we are," he said, retrieving some unseen instrument from the cabinet. The sound was unfamiliar, like the crop, but not as strong. She turned her head slightly to see Mr. Reed brandishing a flogger, black, with enough strands that she couldn't count them.
Her eyes narrowed in curiosity as strands of hair fell across her face, she hadn't experienced that particular toy before. Was it new? Or was it special? The thought made her shudder because special meant especially punishing.
He walked back to her and looked her over. He admired how well she had been trained so far. How the first transgression at work had been met with much resistance and a constant chattering and begging from her. He had told her when he offered her the position what it entailed, but at that moment the two of them had been lying in bed together and the most "punishment" she had yet experienced was a simple bare handed spanking from him as foreplay. He had tried to make things seriously clear what he demanded, but in her youthful optimism, she hadn't imagined exactly how deep her submission would go.
He shook his head as he looked over her sloppy form. "You know better than this, Ms. Welsh, spread your legs and arch your back." As she wiggled her feet into a wider stance and arched to present her ass more readily, he added, "You're being lazy today. I suspect though, after today, you will remember to be more conscientious for a while."
He brought the flogger down hard on the white flesh of her ass and red stripes immediately began to form. She gripped the edge of the desk hard and sucked in air through clenched teeth, but she did not cry out.
Again the leather strands struck her ass, and this time she let out a very short grunt, closing her eyes and riding through the pain as though she were a surfer on a wave. It spread through her body like warm liquid, up her spine and to her scalp making the follicles of her hair tingle.
In rapid succession three more swats with the implement, met first by her grunts and but the last elicited an actual high pitched cry. Her flesh was burning now, it glowed red and warm, and her body tingled from head to toe. The pain in her ass made her thighs shake as she strained to keep her feet in proper position.
At her cry he taunted her, "Do I need to get the gag? I can't have you screaming out like a hysterical child in the midst of a tantrum. If you can't keep yourself quiet, I can find a way to make that happen."
"No, sir," she panted, "Sir doesn't need to gag me. I can take my punishment like a big girl."
Her words made him smirk in self-satisfaction at how far he had brought her into this new role as his secretary and submissive. The first time he flogged her she had to be gagged almost immediately, and even though he was relatively gentle, by the end her face had been a mess of tears to accompany her silent squeals at the touch of the lash. Still, punishment is meant to be difficult to take, so when he brought the flogger down again, it was with a skill that made the leather talons bite hard into her soft flesh.
She squealed at the new pain and her ass shook up and down as she bit her lip, her whole body tense with the shock of the blow. But far more terrible than the blow, more terrible than the welts and small abrasions it produced was how, even as she cried out, she could feel her young pussy gush with moisture.
"What kind of person am I?" She thought to herself. She hoped he wouldn't notice, but somehow he always did. It wasn't enough that she was his to control and correct, he had to make it known how much she enjoyed it. This was not the image of the strong, confident, young woman her parents had raised her to be. She was a submissive slut, and what she craved most, was the discipline of her Sir.
The flogger stung her already sensitive flesh again and she whimpered as she fell forward against the desk, her legs shaking from the harsh sting in her ass. She managed to keep them spread; however, just as he had instructed, and in her new position, open and slightly up turned, he saw how wet she was.
He walked behind her and ran a solitary finger up her inner thigh, collecting the moisture of her drooling cunt on its tip. He never actually entered her; he didn't have to. She was so wet at this point, the dampness on her thighs was enough to make his point.
She felt his finger and closed her eyes. Despite her deep embarrassment at being so wet, she wanted nothing more than his touch with her folds of flesh. Hadn't she been good enough to deserve that? Even for a moment?
But no, before reaching its source, he pulled his finger from between her thighs and then maneuvered to hold it under her nose. "It seems that more than the rain is making you wet, Ms. Welsh, because that is not water, is it?"
In a soft, almost disappearing voice, she whispered, "No sir." He cheeks flushed as red as her abused ass when she spoke.
"What is it, Ms. Welsh, can you identify it for me?"
She hesitated, too embarrassed to speak, and not sure what she should say if she did. But hesitation would only make things worse.
"No?" he asked sarcastically, "Perhaps you should taste it then." And he shoved his already dampened finger into her mouth. True to her nature, she eagerly accepted it, sucking it hard and cleaning it with her tongue.
When he removed it he asked, "Well Ms. Welsh, what is it?"
She mumbled something so low in response that no one could have heard her. The lack of clear answer earned her another lash with the leather.
She whimpered and cried and writhed at the new sting, and over all her commotion he growled, "I asked you a question, Ms. Welsh." And then, punctuating each word with another touch of the leather, he asked again, "What. is. That. Liquid?"
She cried and writhed and shouted in tormented, embarrassment, "My juices! My pussy juices! Oh God Sir. Please!"
