A bell-like tinkling from Marie’s phone announced the arrival of a text as she pulled into her space at Kindling & Associates. Marie felt a tinge of sadness when she read the message. It was from the postal service and said her package would be arriving today.

Marie sighed. It had been a little over a week since Ben had moved out. This package was supposed to be a gift for his birthday next month. She’d found it on eBay: a vintage wooden paddle. It was a relic from a high school, and it was being sold by a retired principal who had used it to swat dozens of teenage fannies back in the day. A foot long, half an inch thick and covered with signatures. The tradition had been that each recipient of a few swats across the rear was invited to sign the paddle to mark the occasion. Ben would have loved it. He would have savored each of the feminine names nestled among the names of boys who’d taken licks. There was a Debbie and a Becky and two different Elizabeths. Ben would have wondered about each of them . . . what they had done to find themselves bent over the principal’s desk . . . how they reacted when the wood smacked their taut young bottoms. Then he would have turned his attention to ’s ample backside and offered her to chance to add her name to Debbie’s and Becky’s and Elizabeth’s and Elizabeth’s.

Suddenly frustrated, Marie shoved the phone back in her purse and went into the building.

Marie forgot about the paddle as she sank into the spreadsheets on her PC. Her thoughts were consumed by the tedious details of the endless columns of numbers on her screen. Periodically she would have to pick up the desk phone and call another department to complain about a discrepancy.

She only emerged from the numerical swamp when a small stack of envelopes landed on the edge of her desk with a slap. Suddenly she remembered . . . the package. She had had it delivered to work so that Ben wouldn’t see it until his birthday.

“Lucas,” she hailed the intern delivering the mail. “Is this all you have for me?”

“I think so. I’ll check.” Lucas fumbled through the other items on his cart. Marie scanned the cart for anything that might be her package. She found a few, but they were addressed to other people. He started to walk away, then stopped. “Y’know . . . .“ He seemed uncertain whether he should continue. “Mr. Kindling took a package out of the mail room this morning.”

“Mr. Kindling.” Marie’s heart dropped into her stomach. Alistair Kindling was the founder of the firm, its chief executive officer, and the chairman of its board. He was a tall man with black hair slowly turning iron gray. She had been close to him only a few times, and she had never seen him smile. Even when he had wished her a Merry Christmas last year. But why would he take her package?

“He comes into the mail room every morning when I’m sorting the mail,” Lucas continued. “Doesn’t want to wait to get his, he says. I tell him I’ll bring it straight up to his office, but he likes to get it himself.”

“Lucas,” Marie tried not to shout. “The package?”

“Yeah, anyway, he notices this package in the stack I hadn’t sorted yet. He stares at it for a moment, then picks it up. He turns it over a few times, then slides it under his arm, picks up his mail, and leaves.”

“But you didn’t see who the package was addressed to?”

“No, but it must’ve been for him. Why else would he take it?”

“Why else?” Marie tried to sound nonchalant, but that question worried her deeply.

“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for your package, Marie.”

“Thanks.” Marie tried to return to work, but her mind couldn’t resist contemplating the bizarre possibility that dour Alistair Kindling had taken the paddle she had bought for her boyfriend, that it was in his office, that he was examining it even at that moment.

As she struggled to remove her attention from such speculations and attach it to the figures lined up on her screen, Marie had no idea how much time passed before the phone rang. She picked it up eagerly, grateful for the distraction. “Hello.”

"Is this Marie Samuels?” She recognized the low, gravelly voice immediately. It was the voice that could make “Have a Merry Christmas” sound like “I’m sorry for your loss” . . . or “You’re fired.”

She tried to answer but found her mouth completely dry. The voice again, “Hello, is someone there?”

“Y-yes.” She swallowed hard. “Yes, Mr. Kindling, this is Marie Samuels.”

“Miss Samuels, I’d like to see you in my office after you finish your shift today.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be there.”

Marie fought the impulse to cry. It’s just a coincidence. He probably just has questions about this month’s staffing reports. Yeah, that’s it. Just because you’ve worked here three years and he’s never asked you to his office before doesn’t mean that this is not just a routine meeting. At the end of the day. When people get fired. Marie fumbled in her purse for a tissue to dab her eyes. There would probably be a security guard in his office. After Mr. Kindling chastised her for having her filthy sex toy sent to his place of business, the guard would march her back to her desk and watch her gather her knick-knacks into an empty Xerox paper box and then lead her out the front door for the last time.

Time moved slowly, and Marie got little done. It seemed cruel, making her wait until the end of the day just to get the last penny’s worth of work from her before tossing her out.

What the hell had she been thinking, having personal mail—very personal mail—delivered to work. Still, the waiting was the worst part. He could have just sent the paddle back down with a post-it saying, “You’re fired.” Quick and to the point.

When 5:00 finally dragged itself to the present, Marie continued to stare at her screen as her co-workers left. One by one, they trickled out, a few saying goodbye and offering her a little wave. She waved back without taking her eyes off the screen. She wanted everyone to think she was staying late because she was hard at work. She wanted them all to leave, so no one would be there when the security guard made her do her perp walk, with a wooden paddle and a picture of her family sticking out of a cardboard box.

When the area where she worked in was empty, Marie stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the elevator. She told herself that it would probably be alright even if she were being let go. He’d explain that she’d been an excellent employee, but rules were rules. No personal phone calls on the company dime. No personal mail. Period. He’d say it was a shame to have to let her go, and he’d shake her hand. She’d thank him for the opportunity and apologize for violating the rules. All simple and professional.

But as the elevator doors closed in front of her, she imagined Alistair Kindling’s thin, serious lips forming the word pervert. That’s what she’d seem like to him. A pervert. He’d never understand someone being excited by being spanked. Why her heart would race as she lowered her panties and let Ben slap her rear end bright red. Or give her a taste of his belt. Or the ping-pong paddle. She slipped into some warm memories until the trance was broken by the bing of the elevator arriving at the top floor.

There was no one around the executive suite. Kindling’s secretary was gone. The heavy wooden door of his office loomed before her. She fought the urge to turn and run. She struck her knuckles against the door, then opened it at his invitation.

No security guard, just Alistair Kindling seated behind his large mahogany desk. On the desk, there was a long, slender package wrapped in brown paper. As she neared the desk, she saw that the eBay seller had scrawled PADDLE in black Sharpie across the paper.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Samuels. I’ll get to the point. I found this package in our mail room today. It has your name on it.” He paused, as if waiting for her to respond. She remained silent as he’d asked no question. “What is this?”

“It’s personal, Mr. Kindling.”

“Personal? That seems odd. Would you mind reading the second line in the address, the one under your name?”

“It says, ‘Kindling and Associates,’ sir.”

“I see. But that’s my name, isn’t it? Kindling?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If this is your personal mail, why is my name on it?” Marie did not know what to say. “Miss Samuels, I asked you a question? Are you going to answer me?”

“Mr. Kindling, if you’re going to fire me—“

“I haven’t decided what to do with you yet. That means that, at the moment, you are still my employee, so I would appreciate it if you would answer my questions. Now, young lady, why is my name on this package that you claim is personal?”

“It’s a present for someone. I had it sent here so he would not see it.”

“I see. You know there’s a rule against receiving personal mail at work, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, and it won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Miss Samuels, I am not concerned at the moment with whether it will happen again but with it having happened now.” He had picked up the package and examined it closely. “What’s in it?”

She considered pleading privacy again but resigned herself to humiliation. “It’s a paddle, sir.”

“A paddle? What kind of paddle? Too small for a canoe. The wrong shape for ping-pong.”

“Spanking,” she blurted out before he could list any more examples. “It is the kind of paddle used for spanking.”

“Really. And you bought this as a gift?” She nodded. “For whom?”

“My boyfriend.” She almost added an “ex-,” but the issue seemed complicated enough.

“You’re giving your boyfriend a paddle for spanking? Does he have a lot of unruly children?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what would he want a paddle for?”

“For me. The paddle is for me. For him to spank me.”

“Are you so terrible a girlfriend that you not only need to be spanked but that you need to send away for a paddle?” There was an uncharacteristic wistful tone in his voice. “No, I suppose this is more of a . . . what’s the word?”

He paused, so she offered, “Fetish, Mr. Kindling. I bought the paddle because I have a spanking fetish.”

“Well, that’s that, then. You’ve had a sexual aid delivered to my business. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.” Here it comes. “Begone, foul pervert.” Marie began to study the carpet in front of her toes.

“Miss Samuels, I take you at your word that this will not happen again.” Marie’s eyes and her spirits sprang up . . . until he continued. “But that does not address your serious breach of company policy and professional conduct. Miss Samuels, what you do in the privacy of your own home is your business, but I have a right to expect that your”—he savored the word—“fetish won’t interfere with my business. I can’t just let this go. I will have to discipline you. Please step around the desk.”

Marie obeyed without thinking. Normally the word discipline would be a trigger for her, but she just assumed it was time for the sorry-to-let-you-go handshake. Then he gave her another command, “Please pull your skirt up to your waist.”

Suddenly the situation was excitingly familiar if incredibly unexpected. There was a frozen moment as their eyes met. His gaze was steady, serious. She bent down and pulled up her skirt, wrapping it around her waist. As he reached for the top of her pantyhose, she regretted her dull granny panties. Mr. Kindling pulled both down to her thighs.

He didn’t need to say anything more. He indicated his lap with a wave of his hand, and Marie lowered herself onto his legs. Her bare bottom was the peak of the V she formed. She expected the paddle—at that moment still wrapped in brown paper—would appear. Instead, Mr. Kindling slapped her right cheek sharply with his palm. Even under the circumstances, the spank took Marie by surprise. Ben had always been rather hesitant at the beginning of a session. His first slaps always seemed to be asking permission to spank her. By contrast, Mr. Kindling spanked with authority, asserting his right to discipline her.

The slaps continued to fall, first alternating one cheek, then the other. Then Mr. Kindling began to focus his efforts, administering five hard slaps to the same spot on the right cheek, then giving the same treatment to the left. Back to the right, five more stingers right on the tender spot. Left. Right. Left. Then five became ten. Left. Right. Left. Both sides of her ass were burning now.

Marie was clenching her fingers and her toes, breathing heavily, starting to squirm as her butt got more and more sore. Ben had never spanked her this hard with his hand. A man like Mr. Kindling hardly needed a paddle. She began to feel heat growing in body parts other than her rear.

Suddenly, it was over. “Stand up.” She could feel her ass glowing red. She began to pull up her panties and hose, but Mr. Kindling stopped her. “Leave them down, we’re not finished yet.”

Filled with a sudden thrill at the command, Marie did not take her hands away from her underwear. Instead, she pushed them down to the floor, stepped out of them and her shoes. Then she unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall. Silently she waited, naked from the waist down.

“Step around the desk.” When she did, Mr. Kindling offered her a pair of scissors. “Open the package.” She unwrapped the paddle, spent just a moment admiring it, then slid it to her boss.

Mr. Kindling stood and took off his suit jacket. He laid it across the back of his chair. Then he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up. His arms were slender but taut. Marie recalled someone saying that Mr. Kindling played racquetball three times a week. Her sore rump could testify to the effects of regular exercise.

“Bend over the desk.” She leaned over onto her forearms. He went behind her and slid the tail of her shirt up with both hands, caressing her sides firmly. For a moment, his fingertips were just below her breasts.

After preparing her, Mr. Kindling turned his attention to the paddle, picking it up and admiring it. “Well, this seems to have quite a history. Debbie! My, my. And Becky! Oh, and Elizabeth! And Elizabeth again—no, wait, this is a different one. This paddle has had quite a bit of fun. And now Marie.”

Marie waited, soaking in the moment. This was what she loved, submitting herself for punishment. Being exposed, submissive, awaiting a firm masculine hand to lay down the law.

Seconds moved with the agonizing pace of honey pooling then beginning the plunge from the edge of the jar. On the wall across from Marie hung several pictures of Mr. Kindling at work and play as well as framed commendations from civic groups. She realized that she could see his reflection in the glass. She watched as he took a moment to admire her bottom. As he did so, he smiled, an expression she had never seen from him before. The warmth of the moment ended as his expression turned cool and business-like again. She watched him assume a stance at the edge of the desk that would allow him to swing the paddle with maximum force. She gripped the edges of the desk as terror gripped her stomach.

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.

No matter how many times she was spanked, Marie always felt an instinctual swell of relief when the paddle cracked against her butt with force but no pain. There was always a moment when she thought that it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would, didn’t hurt at all, in fact. There was always just enough time for that thought before it was burned away by the sudden spread of fire across her rear. The sudden rush of pain made her bite down. It was made all the more intense by an explosion of tingling excitement throughout the rest of her body.

A second crack forced a yelp through her clenched teeth.

A third squeezed tears from her eyes.

As she rocked with each swat, her hardened nipples rubbed against the desk. As her eyes moistened, so did her pussy. As her butt burned and throbbed, so did her heart. Excitement and pain crashed into each other furiously, blending together and becoming one overwhelming wave falling over her again and again. She had reached a state where nothing in the universe existed but her body and the paddle.

She slowly returned to reality when the gap following the last swat widened and widened, not to be followed by another collision of wood and flesh. Marie felt melted, as if her white-hot skin had begun to flow across the desk and drip over the sides. Her bottom was sorer than she could remember. She would be feeling this for days. Every time she sat down—when she took off her shoes tonight or put them on in the morning, when she drove home or back to work, when she plopped down on her desk chair dozens of times the next day—she would feel a bite of pain that would remind her that she had been a naughty girl, that she had deserved to be punished, and that a firm but forgiving hand had taught her a needed lesson.

Mr. Kindling touched her bottom gently. His fingers slid over her burning skin, awakening the embers in their wake. Marie gasped as his fingers slid down between her bottom’s reddened hills and down deep into the warm, wet valley under them. She neither encouraged nor resisted. She was a puddle of melted butter, unable to move. His middle finger pushed its way into her most private package.

“You do enjoy being paddled, don’t you?” Her only response was a moan as her attention was preoccupied with his probing digit. “No answer? You’re still insubordinate? Is this how you ask for more? Will I have to spank you all night?”

“No! I’m sorry. What was the question?” She was more afraid of Mr. Kindling removing his hand than of that hand taking up the paddle again. His middle finger had been joined by its neighbors, and Marie could feel an orgasm brewing like a storm moving steadily toward shore.

Mr. Kindling’s right hand continued to toy with her pussy, but his left slapped her ass hard. The sudden strike on her tender flesh combined with the pleasure radiating from between her thighs made Marie scream. With pain or pleasure, even she didn’t know. Mr. Kindling enjoyed hearing her shriek, so he gave her several more slaps, as hard as he could manage with his left hand. She squealed and cried with each one.

“Do I have your attention now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think your boyfriend will mind that I’ve used his present?”

“No, sir.”

“Really, not even with my hand inside you? He’d mind that, wouldn’t he?” Mr. Kindling’s fingers were moving quickly now inside her pussy and one was flicking her clit. Marie’s mind was sinking in a flash flood of pleasure. “Answer me or I’ll stop what I’m doing.”

“We . . . broke . . . up,” Marie gasped just before an orgasmic wave drowned her voice in moans and squeals.

Mr. Kindling asked no more questions. He withdrew his hand from her pussy only when he was certain he’d wrung every bit of pleasure from her. Then he sat down at his desk and waited for sense to return to Marie.

As her orgasm receded, Marie was again aware of where she was: half-naked, sprawled on her boss’ desk. She had been spanked and masturbated. The situation seemed totally insane. Raising her head and looking over at Mr. Kindling took a great effort. She wasn’t sure what any of this meant or how she should feel about it. Somehow it comforted her to find that Mr. Kindling was occupied with admiring the paddle and not looking at her.

Standing, Marie saw that she had knocked everything off the desk. She set each item back in its place. Her boss was still ignoring her.

“Mr. Kindling?”

“Yes, Marie.”

“May I put my clothes back on?”

“Yes.” While Marie was bent over, picking up her skirt, panties, and hose from the floor, Mr. Kindling smiled at her glowing rear. As she dressed, he said, “Marie, I think I’ll keep this paddle. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, sir. The package had your name on it, after all.”

“True. I’m going to keep it in my desk. I’m also going to keep a close eye on you. Who knows what other rules you’ve violated.”

“I understand, sir.” It seemed the right thing to say, but she didn’t understand anything that was happening.

“In fact, I think you should plan on staying late a few nights a week so that I can review your work.”

“I will, sir. Thank you for taking an interest in me and for letting me keep my job.”

“And . . .”

“And for teaching me a much-needed lesson.”

“You’re welcome. There’s only one more matter to deal with.” Marie’s heart stopped beating. She couldn’t take any more. “I need your signature on this.”

He handed her the paddle, and she took a marker from the pen holder on his desk. As she looked for a space for her name, she wondered about young Debbie all those years ago. And Becky. And Elizabeth. And Elizabeth. Did they feel a thrill as they bent over for this paddle? Did they leave the principal’s office with a secret glow that they didn’t share even with best friends? That night, as their raw bottoms rubbed against their mattresses, did their young fingers rub their clits? Did they cum so hard that they feared waking their parents?

Marie admired her signature on the paddle. She was officially a naughty girl, justifiably chastened. She handed the paddle to Mr. Kindling, who placed it in the middle drawer.

“That will be all, Miss Samuels. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Kindling.” Marie left his office with a warm glow that started on her backside but enveloped her whole body.