The Spanking Stories 1 Overtime
- 2 years ago
- 31
- 0
The Spanking Stories - #1: Overtime free porn video
I used to write for a website which specialized in a genre known as ‘spanking-romance’ stories. The format, as the publisher explained to me, was “Boy meets girl, boy spanks girl, they live happily ever after.” I thought I would share a few of those stories here and see how they’re received.
As you can imagine, given the format description, the tone and content of these stories are a bit lighter than my usual writing. More of an ‘R’ rating than an ‘X’, for the most part, and generally more character/relationship-oriented. The theme is still Dominance/submission, just not exclusively focused on the erotic aspects.
For those searching for more hard-core D/s stories I would recommend the ‘Teaching Carol’ series, the ‘Reading Allowed’ series or my short stories.
http://www.sexstories.com/profile328454/zenmackie
If you’re interested in learning more about submission, please see my ad here:
http://forum.xnxx.com/threads/i-will-train-you-in-submission.400651/
--Zen
-------------------------------------
The Spanking Stories - #1: Overtime
by Zen Mackie
Marcia Fischer, Head of Accounting, hated having to work late. She had always prided herself on her efficiency; if there was more work to be done than usual she just buckled down and got it done—even if it meant skimping on her lunch hour--and was out of the office at 5:00 sharp every day. She had run the entire accounting department on the same principles, accepting no excuses or slacking off from her subordinates. She had thought of herself as ‘no-nonsense’—and hadn’t cared what anyone else thought. She’d assumed that her employers appreciated her seven years of zealous devotion to duty and would reward her accordingly.
Until today.
Earlier that week a memo had been circulated confirming the company’s long-rumored merger with SatCorp, a much larger corporation. The memo had gone on to reassure everyone that despite the change in management everything else would continue on as before.
Hah, thought Marcia, her fingers flying over the computer keyboard.
Her supervisor had taken her aside late that afternoon and asked—practically in a whisper, it now seemed to Marcia—if she would mind working late, just this once. It seemed that the financial data involved in the merger was hopelessly tangled up and Marcia, as Head of Accounting, was the only one who could untangle it and we’re really under the gun here and you do understand, don’t you? Marcia, seething inwardly, had managed to smile and agree, with an appearance of graciousness.
Thank God. Oh, I’ll untangle it, you bet, thought Marcia.
They had no idea just how tangled things had been. Marcia sincerely doubted that they had noticed one particular flow-chart: the one illustrating how much the newly merged companies would save by eliminating certain redundancies.
Such as Marcia’s entire department.
A strand of Marcia’s shoulder-length black hair came loose from its clip at the back of her neck and hung in her face. She blew at it impatiently as she continued to type, but when it refused to get out of the way she stopped and with a huff of impatience trapped it under the clip again. No nonsense, she thought grimly, and bent over the keyboard again.
She was doing what she’d been asked to do. Just not quite the way they expected.
It had taken hours—it was now practically midnight—but now all of the financial data was completely organized. It was a thing of beauty, thought Marcia--almost like a symphony; each department a bold theme surrounded by the dancing melodies of cash-flow. Hundreds, thousands of them; a dazzling display.
So dazzling, in fact, that surely no one would ever notice one lowly ostinato in her composition. Not much more than a steady, pulsing beat, really: a penny here, a decimal point there—a counterpoint to each and every transaction the joined companies would ever make in the future, flowing directly to an account she had set up in Barbados.
Which was where she planned to retire—in, say, a month or so. Whenever management got up the nerve to break the news that Marcia and her department were, regrettably, no longer needed. She planned to have no regrets.
Almost done. Pull this file over here; bury that line of credit under there. Just a few more keystrokes and… Marcia had a sudden vision of herself at a podium, raising her baton to begin the performance of her magnum opus—and nearly began to giggle, something she hadn’t done since junior high school. She brought herself up sharply. No nonsense! She rubbed her eyes wearily then checked her work one more time. Then once more. Satisfied at last that there was not the slightest hint of any flaw that could give her away, she raised her hands from the keyboard, pointed one finger downward…and hit ‘Enter’. Her symphony had begun.
A few seconds later, however, a message window appeared on her computer screen. It read: Barbados IS lovely, Ms. Fischer. Perhaps they’ll let you put up a travel poster in your jail cell.
Marcia recoiled from the screen in horror. No! Who…?
Additional words appeared: CEO Suite. Now.
Marcia had taken the elevator to the top floor many times for meetings but this time the ride seemed both glacially slow and much too fast to allow her to marshal her thoughts. Who was it? What would happen to her? What possible explanation could she come up with to prevent being arrested, never mind fired? Think, she told herself. Think!
The elevator opened on the top floor and Marcia stepped into the world of top-level management: spacious, richly carpeted rooms; tastefully expensive furnishings and a subtle fragrance she sometimes thought of as ‘the sweet smell of success’. The CEO Suite, like a royal throne room, was at the opposite end of the floor so that supplicants to power would have to travel the maximum distance and have plenty of time to consider their own insignificance—as Marcia was doing at that very moment.
She knew everyone on the Board of Directors, of course, at least to say hello to, and as she approached the elaborately carved doors leading to the suite her mind whirled with possibilities. The actual CEO was out of town, she was pretty sure, conducting the final negotiations of the merger. So were most of the board members. Then who? Only one way to find out, girl, she told herself. Get on with it.
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and knocked on the door, firmly, before opening it and stepping inside.
To find herself confronting a complete stranger.
He was seated at the CEO’s desk with a portable laptop in front of him. He looked up as Marcia entered and she had the additional shock of discovering that he appeared to be nearly the same age as she, or possibly a little older-in his early thirties at most. But she had no doubt that he belonged there; despite his boyish, curly brown hair and liquid, almost innocent-looking dark eyes there was an unmistakable aura of power about him and his first glance seemed to go through her defenses like an x-ray. She felt that in that one instant he had already considered and thrown aside any possible explanation she might have to offer. Still, she kept her spine straight and walked up to the desk with deliberate steps.
He rose from his chair and greeted her with an ironic bow of the head as she approached.
“Ms. Fischer.” His voice was low--iron wrapped in velvet—and it unnerved her. She began to speak before she was ready, three different speeches crowding into her mouth at once, and she found herself stuttering incoherently. He held up his hand to silence her.
“Please. First of all, allow me to introduce myself: John Narducci--president, CEO and owner of SatCorp, which pretty much makes me your new boss. And yes, to answer your unspoken question, I am rather young to be holding such an exalted position. But since I founded the company no one seems to mind.
“Second—we both know what you were doing, Ms. Fischer. I’ve been watching your screen for hours. I suspect I even know why, and I can’t really say that I blame you under the circumstances. Your supervisor—and his supervisors—were very careless indeed, and I can promise that they’ll be unemployed well before you are.
“Which brings us back to the purpose of our meeting, doesn’t it? What are we to do with you, Ms. Fischer?”
He fell silent and leaned back in his chair. Once again his gaze locked on hers. But it seemed to Marcia that it felt different this time. Less like an x-ray…and more like a laser beam.
“You’re very intelligent and obviously quite resourceful, Ms. Fischer—two qualities that are rare enough so that I’d hate to lose you as an employee. Still, there is the matter of your little juggling act…”
He paused again, and this time it seemed to Marcia that his glance flicked quickly up and down the length of her body before he continued, “Do you think you can undo everything you’ve done?
The question caught Marcia completely by surprise, but she forced herself to remain calm and not speak until she had thought out her reply. “Ye-esss,” she said slowly, not daring to hope. “It would take some time, but…”
“You have one hour.” He glanced at his watch then back up at her before scooting his chair back from the desk. He remained seated but indicated his laptop with a wave of his hand, then arched an eyebrow at her as if to say, yes or no, Ms. Fischer?
Marcia stared at him in disbelief. A test, obviously…but an impossible one. It had taken her hours—there was no way she could… Unless…
A series of patterns formed in her head then superimposed themselves onto her original design. If the data could be gathered into larger groups and then reformatted…
She was mumbling to herself, almost forgetting where she was as she hurried around the desk. She glanced quickly at Narducci to see if he would give her his chair but when he failed to rise simply stepped between him and the desk and bent over the laptop, her hands leaping to the keys. All right, let’s work backwards…transfer funds back to the company, close the account… Damn it, what’s the account number? Right: 975-87264…
There was a sudden, shocking pain on the right cheek of her behind, accompanied by a loud crack, jerking her upright. He had slapped her on the ass!
She whirled to face him, her eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you’re…”
She stopped. He wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at his watch. When she fell silent he glanced up at her, his eyes questioning, and Marcia understood: He was making up the rules and she could either play by them or take the consequences. She glared at him for an instant then turned and bent over the keyboard again. 975-87264-40056. Never mind about closing the account, just get the funds back—drag this file over here…come on, come on, move! Alright, now Accounts Payable—start with office supplies, how much was I…
The second blow fell on her left cheek, harder than the first. She grabbed the edge of the desk with both hands, her head jerking back, her breath hissing through her teeth. Christ, that hurt! She stamped her foot, hard, and forced her attention back to her task. Put that decimal point back where it was before…
Another blow—followed immediately by another, one on each cheek. Waves of pain that seemed to rise, tingling, up her spine like the mercury in a thermometer. She wrenched her mind away from what her body was experiencing and focused on the numbers. She would show him. Let him slap her ass…he can kiss it for all I care, she thought grimly, placing her hands firmly back on the keyboard.
After a while, by dint of enormous concentration she succeeded in imagining that her mind was separate from her body; that the slaps and accompanying pain were distant distractions, like a noisy office—irritating but possible to ignore for someone with real powers of concentration. She was utterly focused. She was making real progress. She just might make it!
She was startled for a moment when she felt his hands on her hips, tugging her backward, but quickly realized that he wanted her bent over further and thought, fine—whatever. She took a step backwards--then another, at his urging--without missing a single keyboard stroke. She was now bent over the desk at a nearly 45-degree angle—and she didn’t give a damn.
Not, at least, until she felt him lifting her skirt.
She couldn’t help it—her hands clenched into fists above the keyboard and she bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Not because she cared whether he swatted her behind through two layers of clothing or one--but because of what he was about to discover. As she felt her skirt being bunched up over her hips and heard his sharp intake of breath she saw in her mind’s eye what she knew he was seeing…
…That beneath the skirt of her conservative, navy-blue pin-striped suit, Ms. Marcia “No Nonsense” Fischer was wearing stockings, a garter-belt and red, lacy, high-cut panties.
Marcia hadn’t had a boyfriend since getting her M.B.A. degree eight years ago—by choice. Time enough for that later, she had told herself—after you make your mark. And at first she had given her entire attention to achieving her goals. When she wasn’t at work she was studying business journals, taking night classes, networking and planning. Especially planning: she had an achievement timeline all mapped out and pinned to the wall above her desk at home. She knew exactly where she was going and she knew how and when she was going to get there.
Except that it hadn’t worked out that way. In her self-confidence and naivete she had believed that glass ceilings for women no longer existed or were so fragile as to be easily broken through. Marcia wasn’t at all ashamed of what she had achieved…but it was so much less than she had expected.
And time had kept going by. Marcia was tenacious; she was focused, even driven. But no amount of work, none of her incremental successes could disguise or compensate for the fact that she had become lonely.
She had friends, certainly—mostly women making the same hard climb as Marcia, a warm circle of support and commiseration. But it was another kind of warmth that was missing from her life, and eventually she admitted to herself what it was. Even then, however, she would not allow herself to deviate from her goals. Not…now! She told herself over and over, trying to ignore the small, pathetic-sounding voice within, which kept replying, “But when?”
It was when that small voice became too loud to completely ignore any longer that Marcia had started to buy lingerie. At first it had been unconscious—replacing her plain, worn-out underthings, one at a time, with something just a little bit fancier or more colorful. But over time it became the way she rewarded herself for any small success, or after a hard week or when she was feeling down. Her friends would be shocked, she knew, if they had any idea how much money was spent by no-nonsense, no-time-for-boyfriends Marcia Fischer on frills and flutters and lace—and on strappy shoes with mile-high spike heels that she would never dare to wear in public.
And what would they think if they knew how Marcia spent most of her evenings?
If they knew that when she had completed the tasks she had set herself she would shower, comb out her straight black hair to her shoulders--or in certain moods pile it up elaborately on her head--and then select the lingerie, footwear and jewelry she would wear for the rest of the evening…
That she would then walk--slowly, sensuously—from room to room in her apartment, back and forth, stopping occasionally to strike a sexy pose, displaying herself for the man she hoped one day to meet…
That these walks always ended in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom; that there she would softly speak to herself the endearments and appreciations she longed to hear from someone else…
That sometimes she said other things to the woman in the mirror: filthy, nasty things; things so crudely sexual and exciting that she would fall to her knees and thrust her hand into her panties as she continued, staring into her own eyes while stroking herself to orgasm…
That often she would burst into tears afterwards, remaining on her knees and weeping into her hands…
…And that she always wore her sexy lingerie to work, so that she would never forget she was a woman, even if everyone else had. It was her private, most precious secret. And now…
“Ms. Fischer, you continue to astonish me.”
…Now, here she was, bent over a desk with her skirt up over her hips and her lace-covered ass in the air—exposed, in every sense of the word, to this complete stranger, who was spanking her.
Except that he wasn’t any more. What was he doing, Marcia wondered--aside from drooling over my panties, the sick bastard. She shook her head, forcing her thoughts away from her humiliating situation and her hands back to the keyboard. Nothing that jerk did, or saw or thought mattered, as long as she finished the job in the next—she glanced at her watch and gasped—twenty-five minutes! Oh, God!
Her fingers became a blur of speed. These files to that folder--drag to the desktop, re-label, drag-and-drop onto the company upload site. Grab the next set, put them…uh, mmmm…
He was tracing the edges of her panties with a fingertip on each side of her--starting at the points of her hipbones…moving delicately over the lower curves of her behind, the skin still hot and tingly from spanking…to the tops of her thighs…across, then…ohhhhh…slowly inwards towards her—
No! Marci clamped her thighs tightly together. Not…now! My entire future is at stake here, and I will not be distracted! She set her jaw. All right, Accounts Receivable—damn it, which department did I take this from? It must have been…oooomigod…
He had slipped his fingertips under the elastic of her panties, just at the tops of her thighs, and was now gently tugging the elastic upward, pulling her panties tightly between her legs. She felt the fabric sliding over her buttocks and into the cleft between them; felt the cool air on the newly exposed skin, felt…Mmmmm…
…His hand—warm, smooth…palm, fingers—Oooooo…caressing one cheek of her behind with sensual carelessness while with his free hand he was slowly, rhythmically tightening and releasing the elastic of her panties—which, she suspected, were becoming more than a little damp.
Oh Christ, my nipples are getting stiff, she suddenly realized, feeling them pressing against the fabric of her brassiere. NonononoNO! I…AM…stronger than this. Concentrate! Password, what’s the goddam password here…’mynah-bird’, that’s it. M…Y…N…
She completed typing the password and hit ‘Enter’. Nothing happened. She looked frantically up at the security window and saw that she had typed mynipples. Oh, God—she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t do it! She leaned on the desk and hung her head, defeated. She could master the pain, but the pleasure…the pleasure she had so desperately longed for… Oh God, the sweetness of it… And now she felt the sandpapery roughness of his unshaven cheek there, the tip of his tongue…Ahhhhh….
Suddenly she raised head and called out, “Mr. Narducci!”
Everything stopped. She heard his voice, sounding almost as dazed as she felt: “Huh? What?”
She reached behind her, hooked her thumbs into her panties and swiftly pulled them down past her thighs before allowing them to drop around her ankles, the fabric making a barely audible whisking sound against her stockings. Without looking around she said, enunciating carefully, “Would you please spank me some more? It helps me to concentrate, and I want to finish this job for you.”
Without waiting for a reply she returned her hands to the keyboard and began typing furiously.
She almost screamed aloud when she felt one of her wrists being seized. Then she was pulled upright and spun around by the shoulders—almost stumbling because of the panties tangled around her ankles—to find herself almost nose-to-nose with her tormentor.
Those eyes--those deep, magnetic eyes--probed hers for an endless moment. Then he slowly began shaking his head from side to side. “Unbelievable,” he said. “You are one determined woman.” Then he released his grip on her shoulders and began to back away from her, smiling and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender as he said, “All right, Ms. Fischer--game over. You win.”
Marcia would never in her life understand what possessed her at that particular moment—what she saw in his eyes that made her grab him by the shoulders, pull him to her and kiss him passionately for a few seconds, then release him to stare directly into his eyes and reply, “Not yet, I don’t. I still have…”--a quick glance at her watch—“twelve and a half minutes.” But she always wished she could have seen the expression on his face when she kicked her panties off, turned back to the computer and then bent over it in the exact same position, pulling her skirt back up over her hips as she added, “And so do you.”
She had done it, of course—had there ever really been any doubt? And she had done it with a good three or four seconds to spare. Everything was exactly the way it was before.
At least, as far as the computer records were concerned.
Marcia smiled to herself as she walked into her office—exactly on time, as always—and sat in--or, more accurately, crouched over--her desk chair. She wouldn’t be actually sitting on anything harder than a pillow for several days yet.
They had both outdone themselves in those last few minutes: he standing over her, giving her heavy, open-handed slaps on her bare behind, she discovering that in some strange manner it really did sharpen her focus—the figures and data flying ever more quickly into her mind and out through her fingers with every blow even as she was moaning out loud, tears streaming down her face. Both of them knowing what was going to happen the moment she was through and both of them struggling to restrain themselves until that moment.
And what a moment it had been: At the very instant she had punched the ‘Enter’ key for the last time and sobbed, “Done,” he had reached past her, shoved the computer aside and without ceremony or regard for her aching behind flipped her onto her back on the desktop and roughly spread her legs. Then he had literally popped the button on his pants in his haste to get them open--and probably ruined the zipper as well--before, with a loud cry, he had plunged into her.
Interestingly, she had noticed no pain in her nether region at the time…
Or the second time—on her hands and knees on top of the desk, with his hips slamming against that same delicate area of her physiology…
Or the third time, when he’d…
She was snapped out of her reverie by the arrival of the interdepartmental mail. Among the usual forms and folders was an oddly bulging manila envelope, which Marcia immediately tore open. Inside it was a letter, printed on official company stationery…and the red lace panties she had been wearing on the previous night.
Marcia blushed to the roots of her hair and quickly stuffed the envelope into a drawer before turning her attention to the letter. There was little doubt about whom it was from…but she began to frown at the formality of the language.
Ms. Fischer, it began,
As I believe you are aware, the impending merger of our two companies has made your department redundant. Please be advised that your services as Head of Accounting are no longer required, effective immediately.
Marci stared at the letter, her mind a complete blank. He had promised…well, not exactly promised, but after last night—after everything that had happened, everything they’d…he couldn’t possibly be such a cold-hearted, unfeeling…could he? She shook her head and forced herself to read on.
However, the letter continued, due to other restructuring caused by the merger there is a new position being created: Vice-President in Charge of Financial Planning—a position for which I believe you would be ideally suited.
If you are interested I would like to discuss the parameters of the job in more detail with you at your earliest convenience. My schedule is extremely full today however, so please meet me this evening at 8:00 in the CEO Suite. Sincerely…
Below was his signature, followed by a hand-written post-script:
FYI: Your first assignment will be to assist me in finding a suitable venue for this year’s corporate retreat. We leave this Friday to do on-site research in Barbados. I trust you’ll be able to sit down for the duration of the flight by then. See you tonight… –J.
Marcia Fischer, Head of Accounting, hated having to work late.
But Marcia Fischer, Vice-President in Charge of Financial Planning, absolutely adored it. -->
Vicky
- 28.10.2022
- 26
- 0
