A Day at the Office

Lance, an office ambulatory disciplinarian has an interesting day at the office.

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I get into the parking lot at 7:15. That's a full 45 minutes before my start time but I set my clock to it because I'm committed to always being early. When I took the position, it was explained that I'd need to be crisp: haircut every two-weeks, manicure, the same. Clean-shaven, I got one of the facial wax treatments. Clothing was all dry-cleaned, light starch, tailored. Expensive--but I knew the job and the job demanded perfection in personal appearance.

The Sortex Main Campus was a 12 story mammoth with sprawling sub-buildings around it. It looked like maybe a college campus, but it was all owned and operated by the Fortune 25 company with a massive international footprint and some of the most advanced stochastic manufacturing facilities in the world.

It's also the largest, by far, private-run company that follows The Method. The Method's origins are in dispute and, to my knowledge, not generally amenable to scholastic study. There are families, schools, towns, even a European small city, that subscribe to The Method. It's said to be a secret sauce--a clandestine recipe for success, a way to improve all your systems and processes. I was introduced to it in the Dolorman Men's University--a private school a counselor in my high school got me to apply to.

Graduating, with honors, I had a degree in Applied Mathematics--but the job I had here didn't have much to do with that.

I breezed through the entrance, through the massive, perhaps intimidating lobby, and then back around to the banked elevators that took me up to my office floor 30 stories above. I exited past the Welcome Desk (and artwork that edged a little past suggestive and into the provocative category and then through my office where Caroline was already at her desk.

At Sortex we don't have administrative assistants--we have secretaries. They are expected to 'fetch' coffee and take dictation like the office girls of old. The hiring requirements for them--and for all the 'secretarial pool girls' are similar to those for the old PanAm Stewardesses. Height, build, weight, beauty, elegance--all of it in service to The Method.

Those who don't make that cut, have places--honestly, better ones--on lower floors. But everyone still wants to be a 'pool girl'--at least until things get... hot.

That was where I came in. I removed my jacket and hung it carefully in the closet. I stepped around to my desk and brought up my system. Caroline has to be in before 7:00 and she turns the machine on, has my coffee waiting, and a collated list of my current schedule. I'm the office Ambulatory Disciplinarian--meaning that when an employee is ticketed for a punishment, it's my job to go to their desk (or office) and deliver it.

I got out my number-3 paddle--a rectangular form 20" leopard wood "scientific" paddle with rounded holes bored in it for less air resistance. It was a 375 ounce piece with a custom wrapped leather teardrop handle. I examined it, turning it slightly in the light. I always sprayed it down and cleaned it after each usage--not that it needed it usually. Ambulatory Discipline is usually one to 12 strokes--hard, but not extremely hard--and over clothes. Enough to hurt, enough to embarrass, and certainly enough to get the attention of the girl (or, far more rarely, the boy) whose boss assigns it.

It was in excellent condition. Caroline knocked on the door frame.

"Sir?"

I looked over. "Carol?"

"Jasmine was just remanded to station 4 for a D-class reprimand punishment and Ella is out at Building G."

I glanced up from the paddle. "Great," I said, my tone indicating this sudden change to my schedule was anything but welcome.

"Well, she's in there now," Caroline said. "I can tell them to put a hold on her until you can better fit her in or Ella gets back."

"No," I said. "It's just a Class-D. I'll have it taken care of before Ella's back and she ought to be leaving shift anyway. Tell them I'll be right over."

Caroline gave me a nod and a smile.

I have spanked her a few times--three for (minor) mistakes. Four times for "office behavioral alignment" which means a punishment done for reasons "other than purely corrective."

We get along very well now--and I've never been a vindictive boss. I was almost certainly considered the most fearsome (and, surprisingly, desirable) boss to work for. In truth, Caroline was far more interested in impressing me than she was scared of making a mistake and being disciplined for it--which is how it should be.

I put the number-3 into its carrying sheath and hooked it onto my belt, picked up the small briefcase of other supplies. "Tell them I'll be there directly," I said.

"I have her sheet," Caroline had a hard copy of Jasmine's record and notes on her discipline ticket.

"Thanks," I said. "You're the best."

She fairly glowed.

I knew Jasmine. I know most of the girls I'm sent to. There are a few who have no--or nearly no--disciplinary tickets on record. However, once you get above that small section, you quickly get into the 'frequent flyers' club where I see them bent over practically every other week.

Jasmine is one of those. I wouldn't have picked her as a "frequent flyer" out of a line-up but since she'd come to Sortex it was very clear that she found something in a couple of the older executive women to spar with. As a secretarial pool girl, the idea of 'sparring'--or having any attitude at all with a senior executive is unbelievable. But she does--and she's not the only girl in the company who does.

Sortex doesn't fire people--we rarely lay them off. Very rarely. If someone isn't performing the general approach is to find out what's going on and work with them to fix it. Sometimes that means rather unpleasant motivation. For a lot of the lower-order employees, they make well above market rate but that money is put into a trust that only becomes accessible when they work a certain number of years. It keeps them from quitting.

When I got into "Station 4" and past the girl out front, Jasmine was already naked and on the spanking bench. The bench has an adjustable trench with restraints for the legs and arms. Her naked body was truly beautiful. Soft black skin. I could see the hint of her sex under the curves.

A mirror was where she could see me enter and her head came up in surprise. I saw her region clench in alarm--or humiliation.

"Ella's out at another site," I said. "I'm handling your ticket today."

"Oh." Her voice went small. All the nurses in the disciplinary stations are female--I guess more women go for the more intense disciplinary positions. I walked over and fastened the restraints around her legs--and then her arms and wrists.

I put my bag down on the counter.

"Ms. Laxine again," I said, glancing at the paper.

"She just doesn't like me," said Jasmine sourly.

"Well, you're giving her attitude and she's sending you to the discipline stations," I said. "Seems mutual."

"I didn't even do anything." She sounded younger than her 22 years. Pouting. Surly. I repressed too much of a smirk.

"She doesn't honestly need a reason," I said. "She can send you for a punishment whenever she wants. Your 'not doing anything' gives her an excuse."

I squirted a papain concentrate lotion into my palm and begin to rub it over her buttocks. It exfoliates and removes dead cells--but also sensitizes and softens the skin. The mix which also has alcohol and vitamin E (to help with healing) has a cool feeling on the skin and I felt her jerk and tense as I rubbed it in.

The lotion makes the punishment a good deal worse and I think she'd encountered it before. I could see her face in the mirror and she swore silently.

"She's just waiting for me to go somewhere so she can cross my path at the coffee bar or the bathrooms. She's stalking me."

"I doubt one of our executives is stalking a pool-girl," I said. I moved my hand to her other buttock. She shuddered. She was blushing badly--being fully naked for this punishment was turning out to be far more embarrassing than she'd expected. Probably more than Ms. Laxine had expected.

Jasmine was chewing on what I'd said, and I finished up. Wiping my hand off carefully, I took two strips of tape--forked on each end and smoothed them over her buttocks, the single tongue of the tape sticking around to her front so that her buttocks were pulled apart, fully exposing the valley between them..

I could see her fear at the sudden burst of vulnerability--and also outrage in her expression and the clenching and shifting of her bottom and her anus. It was a humiliating view--I could see her rear cleft open wide. She was blushing horribly--harder to see on her dark skin--but still highly visible. I could smell her vagina's lubricating.

With boys, erections are shockingly common. With girls, it isn't as obvious--but it's even more common. My time in the college Spanking Team had taught me that. Knowing it's common doesn't help though--and Jasmine was, squirming between the prickling coolness and tenderness of the salve and the spreading tape exposing her anus, was working. She was on the brink of tears: Ms Laxine would be quite pleased.

I took the paddle. "She scheduled you for a 'D' rating punishment," I said. "That's going to be 16 swats with a number-3. That's... going to hurt." She made a soft little noise at that. A tiny moan. "It also indicates a 'chaser' which is going to be a light cane used on your anus."

"My--" she gasped. I could tell the thought of facing discipline there was quite terrifying! It is a very tender place.

"Yes," I said. "It's going to be unpleasant, as intended, and when we are done, you will dress and one of the girls out front will march you to Ms. Laxine for you to apologize."

Her groan was a little watery. The tears were close. I imagined she'd be quite a sight when she got to Ms. Laxine. I held the paddle against her buttocks. She tensed slightly and I gave it a slight soft bounce before I drew it back and gave her bottom a sound smack.

With a number-3 paddle you don't have to try hard to get a good, hard spank--the paddle is comparatively heavy, hard, and broad. Every surface is carefully smoothed so nothing will cut or gouge. I drew it back about two feet and smacked her rear with a slight twist of my hips and a breaking of my wrist just before impact. The slap sounded thunderously loud in the room and I could see her buttocks flatten and quiver under the blow.

When I was one of the senior boys on the Spanking Team, I was well respected for my skill and economy of motion with the paddle. Judges take off points for drawing it back too hard, for stepping forward, using two hands, and so on. My spank was delivered with a level of focus and impact that pulled her head up. As it sprang back and I let it disengage her bottom, I could see the quiver in the skin and muscle.

"Oh!" her cry was surprised, insulted-sounding, and hurt. The quiver stopped and I rested the paddle against her targets again. The same quick, painless 'tap' to let her know it was coming. And WHAP! I landed the second blow just slightly off where the first had struck. I would 'paint' along her buttocks to spread the punishment over them.

Where the drilled holes struck, I could see the prints in the skin. In the mirror her lips were still moving silently: Ow-Ow-Ow-Ow-fuck.

Tap. POW! A smack lower down, the 'sit spot' with a blow that had greater speed but less depth. The ripple moved through her: a sight I quite enjoyed.

"Ah!" The cry left her lips, even as she worked, desperately to bite it back. It was wet with tears and I could see them sparkle in her deep brown eyes. She had that wild look that a spankee gets when the spanking--and I was just three strokes in--has her 'red line' crossed and she's on the brink of useless panic since she can't stop the pain.

I could smell her sex strongly now. If we had judges here, I'd have given a (barely) audible sniff which would inform her of it--and set her into tears immediately--but in the punishment station, I was in no great hurry to have her cry. She would--she really already was--and I had no need to make it worse.

Tap. POW! Tap-SMACK! Delivering two paddle blows in quick succession, I laid them back up. Part of the sit spot, part of the crest--both fell in the same heartbeat and she yelped--loudly. I think the girls out front (and anyone waiting) heard it.

A slight smile twitched my lips.

Tap-SWAT! "Oww! SIR PLEASE!!"

Her voice came out cracked--broken--a teary sob of a much younger girl. She was desperate for me to stop. She was begging, and tears were flowing! I felt warmth at the punishment sinking in.

"Eleven more to go Jasmine," I say softly.

"No--Ohh--please--" her voice actually shook. Tap-POW! Tap-POW! Tap-POW! "Ah! OWW! OWWWW!! OWIEEEE!! FUCK!"

Her cries came out in a gasping rush. She wailed. The swearing... was a problem though. Crying and begging wasn't going to get her extra here--but swearing I couldn't let past. I laid the paddle down and she sobbed, hard, face into the cushioned material. Along the wall, like you'd find in a doctor's exam room, there were cabinets, some equipment, and a sink. I took a bar of soap, small and oval, and held it under the warm water for moments to get it softer and a bit sudsy.

I moved in front of her.

"No swearing, Jasmine," I said, making my voice 'stern.' Really it was just slightly flatter, slightly louder, more 'commanding' as I looked into her wet, blinking eyes. She was hurting, I knew--and in one of the most humiliating, infantilizing ways. I wasn't mad at her for swearing--I knew she was on the ragged edge of self-control. "Open up."

She gave me a pleading look.

"Eight more. If this comes out it'll be worse," I said. "Open up, bite down--sink your teeth in a little, and hold it."

I put the soap in. Her expression was adorable--the disgust at the taste, the quivering under the domination--the humiliation of having her mouth washed out with soap--all of it in a crescendo of punishment.

I moved back around--she was crying now--crying into the bar or soap, tears glistening on her cheeks and chin. Sudds dripping down from her lips. Her mouth stuffed, she had a tiny glint of snot from her nose. As she wouldn't be allowed to clean up, Ms. Laxine would be very pleased with her indeed!

I laid on the next five spanks lighter than I would've if she didn't have soap in her mouth. She cried, grunting through each of them as I spanked her. Sudds dribbled. Her body shook with tears. She quivered. She was crying helplessly now, thankfully concentrating on NOT losing the soap.

For the final three, though, I paused, rubbing the paddle over her swollen buttocks.

"These last three will be a little harder," I said. "Keep the soap in your mouth or I'll have to apply a hot-ointment to your anus and it will make the caning a good deal worse. Okay?"

A moaning, shuddering, gurgling nod. She was awash with punishment now. I knew full well what would happen, but I positioned myself and let a flick of the paddle--dealing identical punishment to her sit spot as the first one explode across her aft.

I watched the soap arc out of her mouth in a loud howl as her buttocks fled, quivering around the paddle blow. Her eyes lit with horror, contriteness, and little adorable flecks of anger. Her mouth drooled suds.

"First swat," I said, shaking my head. Her crying was loud now, unrestrained. It wasn't the pain that had broken her, it was the humiliating vulnerability and the shame. She was now an emotional wreck. "Well, we'll have a bit of the ointment."

Tap. Pow. "OHHHHHHHHHH!! SIRR!!" her cry--a cry for help. I rubbed the paddle on her buttocks.

"Last one, Jasmine."

"Ohhhhh--" her moan rose as I rubbed. Tap-POW! "Ahhhh!! IEEE!!"

Her blubbering yell filled the office. I lay down the paddle and walked around to collect the soap. Her buttocks were rising slowly, like bruised bread.

I wet a washcloth and rubbed the soap bar in it, getting the soap thick and lathered on the surface.

"Open your mouth, Jasmine," I said standing before her. Miserably, she did. I used two fingers to push the soap covered cloth into her mouth and run it over her teeth and tongue. I let it gag her slightly, testing the suppression of her natural reflex. She did well: she had some experience.

I knew getting the thick cake of soap in her mouth was adding yet another insult to injury as I worked, which was the point. I left the cloth in. "Close--hold it in your mouth."

"Mmmnph." Her grunt of disgust was wonderful.

I moved back around behind her. She was watching me through her tears, the sudsy wash cloth sticking out from her lips. I knew from experience it was very unpleasant in her mouth right now. The taste working her over each moment. I took a small circular pad from my pack and squired some orange paste from a metal toothpaste-like tube onto it. Affixia Anal Stimulation. A product from one of The Method groups--a bit exclusive, but very effective.

Being careful not to get any of the orange paste on my skin, I pressed it into her exposed anus, and rubbed it there. The results were immediate and impressive. Jasmine went rigid at the touch, her eyes wider and blazing. As I rubbed, she made a soft keening sound through the wash cloth 'gag.' The stimulant isn't so much agonizing as it is insidious. I watched her sex clench and quiver. Her clitoris, now erect and jutting from its hood, shook slightly as I rubbed her anus and her entire "saddle area" quivered.in.spasmed as I smoothed the cream into her anus. The overwhelming stimulation made her muscles clench and seize in what I knew to be smouldering, ruining discomfort. It made her private region dance in distress--poor Jasmine!

The bite of paste is like a fairly severe hot-sauce applied to the anus. However, as it ebbs, it turns into a stinging itching that actually rises in intensity. I'm told it has something to do with the chemical reacting to the oils in the skin. I enjoyed the rapid, whimpering breaths and muffled throaty moans as I made sure the entire ring and delicate, clenched skin was smeared with it. I'm careful not to get any on my fingers and I can hear Jasmine's quick whimpering breaths as I rub it in. I took take the pad back and heardhear little squeals of distress as the goop started tostarts it work on her exposed anus. When the application was thorough and complete I put the pad and tube away, as I listened for her soft, wretched sobs suddenly turn into a sharp gasp, and then a whining little cry of heartbreaking urgency!

She'd imagined that the punishing burn was to be her torment and had felt it was more than bad enough, but now she was starting to understand what the urgent really did, and I knew I was hearing a panting wail of desperation.

Sorry, Jasmine. Should have kept the soap!

I ignored the increasingly miserable noises the strapped-in girl was making them and assembled put together the cane. It has three pieces of sheathed Lexan coated with black rubber. One end has a flange that serves as a hand grip. They snap together with micrometer tolerances and form a striking implement just under 3 feet in length. The cane is whippy--the internal structure is designed with stacked joints so it'll bend slightly under force. It's about as big around as my pinky.

I stood behind her.

"I'm going to start. The punishment will last three minutes. It'll actually help with the burn and stinging a little." I could see her sphincter clenching as she suffered the effects of the goop. I set the timer on my watch and brought the end of the cane down to her anus.

An anal caning is more like a rapid tapping than the kind of strikes one would use on the buttocks. The taps start off as unpleasant and quickly get worse and worse. As I began, I could hear her whimpers and complaints turn to gasping whines--then low, soft cries--wails.