I walk into your office, legs already trembling. I have never been called in front of the Manager before. Usually, my misbehavior is dealt with at a much lower level.

My supervisor and my Head of Department are already there. I stand waiting while you make notes on a file before deigning to notice me. You stand, going to the door, and closing it, before returning to your desk. A flick of a switch and your secretary replies on the intercom. 

"Yes, Mister Williams?"

"No calls until I tell you, Shirley," you tell her, "this could take a while."

"Yes, Mister Williams."

I can hear the smirk in her voice, even in that short phrase. Stuck-up bitch. She has never liked me. Not since she caught me in the stationery room with her boyfriend at the last Christmas party.

You do not ask me to sit, so I stand, nervously waiting.

"Miss Taylor," you say, looking at me at last, "I have had some rather disturbing reports from your supervisor, Mister Banner, about your conduct."

I say nothing, but my supervisor nods emphatically.

 "You had a recent interview about the matter with your Departmental Head, Miss Roberts, I believe," you continue, "but I gather that you are still not complying with her instructions, is this correct." 

"Yes, Sir," I reply. 

"May we know why?" you ask, "it seems a perfectly reasonable thing from where I sit."

"Because, how I dress, and what I wear, are not her business," I state, "I do my work and nobody has ever complained about the quality of my work, that surely is what matters." 

"What matters, is the effect you have on the rest of the staff," my supervisor interjects, "it is disruptive." 

"Quite, Mister Banner," you tell him. "Just what is the problem?" 

"You can see for yourself," Mr. Banner tells you, "look at her. No bra, nipples showing clearly through that blouse, which is always half unbuttoned, skirt much too short, and slit high up the leg, showing stocking tops. And I hear rumors from the younger lads, that she never wears any panties, so they get a good eyeful if she has her legs open, or if she bends to look in a low drawer." 

I see a spark of interest in your eyes as you hear this. 

"Bend forward," you order, "from the waist, down towards my desk." 

I do so, feeling my blouse fall away from my body, giving you a clear view inside it. I feel myself blushing as you look, knowing what you can see. 

"Sit down," you tell me, "legs open slightly please." 

I comply, knowing my skirt is short enough so you will see what you are expecting to see. 

"Now turn round and bend," you order, " as though you were looking in a low file drawer." 

I do as you tell me, bending from the waist, feeling my skirt ride up over my buttocks. I stay in that position for what feels like ages, until you finally tell me to stand up. 

After a while, you turn to Mr. Banner and Miss Roberts. 

"You two may go now," you tell them, "I will deal with this matter, and let you know the outcome." 

They look disappointed but leave reluctantly. You lock the door after them. 

"You are giving me a problem, Miss Taylor," you tell me, "I assume you like this job, and need this job?" 

"Yes, Sir," I reply, "I enjoy working here." 

"You do know I can sack you with no problem at all," you ask, "and I am tempted to do so, but I would prefer it if we could find a mutually attractive alternative." 

"Thank you, Mr. Williams," I answer, eyes down and head slightly bowed. 

"Suppose you agree to accept punishment from me?" you smile, "and try to be more compliant in the future?" 

"I will accept any punishment you want to give me, Sir, anything at all," I murmur, "and would I have to come to you for further punishment if I slip again in the future?" 

"Let us see how this punishment goes, before talking about more." you state, walking to the blinds on the internal windows, and closing them.

"Bend over the desk," you order, once you are sat in your chair. 

I do so, watching as your breathing gets heavier. 

"Take off the blouse," you command, "let me see what the fuss is all about." 

I stand up, undoing the remaining two buttons, then slipping it off, leaving me topless. 

"Now the skirt," you tell me. 

 I unclasp it, pull down the zip and let it fall unheeded to the floor. I am left in just white stockings and suspender belt. You clear your throat as you gaze at my secret parts. 

"Any punishment?" you ask. 

"Anything at all, Sir," I reply, looking straight at you for the first time, and smiling, "anything." 

You go to your desk drawer, then come and stand behind me, a hand stroking my bottom. 

"Bend over the desk," you growl, "far over as you can reach." 

I comply, bending from the waist as expected of me. You go around to your side of the desk and clip pink furry handcuffs onto my wrists. A cord is tied to the joining chain and led under the desk, where you tie it off, holding me in place. You return to stand behind me, stroking my bum again, now it is being displayed so prominently. 

"Open your legs wide," you demand, "I said wide, wider than that," 

I force my legs as wide as I can get them, and you tie cord to each ankle, then tie the other ends to the legs of the heavy desk. My belly is pressed onto the desk top, and you move papers and files from under me.

Then you walk behind me, seeing how wide stretched my legs are and how open my pussy now is. Your hand traces a path up my inner thigh, forcing a wriggle and a soft moan from me. I do not know if it was the wiggle or the moan that encouraged you, but both hands start slowly creeping up my inner thighs, rubbing softly, and stopping fractions of an inch before touching me on my wet and hungry pussy.

Time and time again the stroking is repeated, until I am squirming for you, hoping for more, and moaning softly. You switch your attention and caresses to the cheeks of my bottom, rubbing and squeezing, fingers tracing along the stretched open crack, and teasing the tightly puckered bum-hole. 

You stand, your crotch brushing against my ass. 

"I think a spanking is in order to start with," you inform me, "You will count each stroke and thank me after each. You will receive ten strokes, and if you forget the count, we will start again from one. Is that understood?" 

"Yes," I answer, getting a sharp smack in return. 

"I said, is that understood?" you repeat. 

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir." I give as my corrected response. 

I tense, expecting a hand to make contact. Instead, burning pain across both cheeks of my stretched bum.  

"One, thank you, Sir," I remember to say, just in time. 

I catch a glimpse of your hand holding what looks like a carpet slipper, just before the next stroke. 

"Two, thank you, Sir," I say, my voice shaky. 

Another smack, spreading the fiery stinging. 

"Three, thank you, Sir," I manage to get out.

 I wait, tensed. Nothing. Then smack!  

I scream briefly, before reciting, "Four, thank you, Sir." 

Fingers rubbing gently, checking there is no damage, then...Smack! 

"Five, thank you, Sir," I sob. 

Another smack, not as hard, but still enough to sting. 

"Six, thank you, Sir."

 Another smack, not as bad. Oh God, how many, think, Six? No, more must be more. 

"Seven, thank you, Sir," I remembered just in time.

That was close. Must focus. SMACK! Harder than any other, you must have changed hands. I yell loudly. Then,

"Eight, thank you, Sir," I gasp, tears falling down my face. 

SMACK! 

"Nine, thank you, Sir."

Now feeling the wetness between my outstretched legs. 

SMACK! 

"Ten, thank you, Sir." I manage to keep my voice level as I complete the count.

My backside is on fire, burning stinging pain spread across both cheeks, competing with a fire starting in my pussy demanding my attention. 

You drop the slipper, running hands over my tortured bum, then down between my legs, feeling the wetness already starting to run down my legs.