The Penalty for Being Tardy

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!"

"And why," he spoke coolly as she calmed down, "would your pussy juices be on your thigh? Are you turned on right now?" He asked with mock surprise.

"Yes sir," She whimpered, "Oh yes sir, I'm on fire."

"My goodness, Ms. Welsh," he mocked, "You must be quite the slut."

His words stung a bit, but they stung like the lash, a tinge of pain followed by a rush of excitement and desire. She moaned her dismay (or was it her approval?) but she moaned like a whore when without warning or prelude, she felt two fingers probe her wet cunt in search of her clit.

"Ms. Welsh," he began as he stood behind her, working his able fingers in circles over her most sensitive flesh, "you are embarrassingly wet." She writhed and pushed back against his touch. "And your clit is intensely swollen. Were you going to cum from being flogged?"

"No sir!" she gasped as she tried to protect a shred of her decency, but her quick response only made public her lack of confidence in the answer.

"Oh," he tormented, fingers probing inside her, "so you weren't even close to cumming? Well then you shouldn't have any trouble NOT cumming now."

It was his rule, common enough, but a rule so insidious and controlling. She wasn't allowed to cum without his permission. No matter how hard he pushed her, no matter what his fingers did, no matter how good it felt to have him finally rub her aching clit.

If she broke the rule, as she had the first time she introduced it, that meant only one thing: the cane. And as much as her clit ached with the delightful burn of the flogger, the thought of her first experience with the cane and the way its sharp sting cut into her soft flesh made her mind flash red with its image. She had made the mistake of not controlling herself once, and she had regretted it.

But he wasn't making it easy to obey. Expertly his fingers ran circles over her aching clit. The sound of her sloppy wetness was broken only by her occasional moan. Her thighs tensed, and she breathed deep and steady, trying hard to keep control.

"You see, pet," he said, "I suspect that you are big enough of a slut that just being bitten with the leather would have gotten you off. Sure you don't want to change your mind about that?"

She whimpered as much at his insinuation as his touch, but she just couldn't admit that being flogged alone was enough. "I'm not that big a slut," She protested even as she stuttered and cooed. Bent over her boss's desk, skirt hiked up over her waist, her boss's fingers inside her.

"Oh no?" He mocked. "You think lots of secretaries find themselves in this position? My goodness, I didn't even have to tie you down, you offered your ass up to me like a common whore."

Her entire body shivered at his word, her legs began to shake violently as she fought off the building orgasm, but she knew she was losing, a meeting with the cane growing ever closer.

"Please," she whimpered, "I can't... please..."

"Please?" he teased, rubbing her clit harder.

Breathlessly she babbled, "Please sir... permission... don't make...me disobey... oh please Sir."

She grunted as she gritted her teeth trying to fight off the coming explosion. It felt so good. It would be so good to let go. Maybe even worth the cane? No, not worth the cane. But maybe...

He gripped her hair with his free hand and pulled it back tight, stretching her neck and arching her back. Growling in her ear he chastised her, "I am not making you disobey. If you cum, then it is your fault alone for being a weak-willed little slut. Understood?"

She whimpered, tears in her eyes as she felt herself slipping, not knowing what else to say. His hand in her hair had momentarily allowed her a respite from focus on her throbbing clit, but now, the added stimulation was too much, she was on the verge of disobeying.

Suddenly she cried out, "NNnnnnooooo!" but it was too late, her cunt spasmed and her legs quivered and her entire body went into convulsions against his hand as the power of the orgasm she had been holding back washed over her.

She whimpered and cried as tears flooded her eyes, the delicious feeling of release tempered by the knowledge that disobedience is always punished. Still, determined to get every last ounce of pleasure, she ground back against his hand like a whore as the sound of her tormented joy flooded his ears.

For his part, as soon as he felt her release, he merely held his hand still against her, her bucking hips doing all the work of getting her over and through her ecstasy. He suppressed a smug smile as he watched her give in to the pleasure of his touch despite herself.

Letting go of her hair, her head fell forward, cheek pressed against the cool material of his desk, eyes closed, panting and mewling as her hips still ground out the last of her orgasm. She had expected him to pull his hand away as soon as she was done, but he hadn't and the involuntary rotation of her hips saw a new wave of pleasure rising over her. More quickly this time as she didn't fight against it, and instead eagerly pursued it.

Like a hard wave the second orgasm hit her and she cried out into the room "Ffffuucckkk," as it crashed over her lithe body. Her pussy having soaked his hand and wet her own thighs, she wasn't thinking of the permission she lacked. Instead she was thinking only of how delicious it was to cum, how no one had ever made her cum quite like he had. Her face contorted as sigh and gasp and moan escaped her red lips. And through it all, he neither moved, nor said anything.

When she began to settle with only the occasional twitch from her hips to push herself back on his hand, he removed his touch. He pulled an expensive silk handkerchief out of his pocket andused it to wipe off the juices that had drenched his hand.

Suddenly feeling very exposed and aware of her transgressions, her eyes darted open and she guiltily fixed on him without moving from her position bent over the desk, cheek pressed against it. She saw that he was shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Ms. Welch," he began evenly, "you have proven that you are a weak-willed little slut. And I cannot abide weak-willed little sluts."

She raised her head slightly off the desk, "But Sir, you..."

In an instant his hand had forced her head back down against the desk, the hard material slapping into her cheek and cutting off her speech.

"I think," he said with an edge of hostility, his hand pushing her cheek into the desk, "I think it is best if you stop speaking."

He brought the handkerchief he had used to wipe his hands to her mouth. It was thick with her scent which flooded her nostrils. When he simply said, "Open," she did not hesitate to obey, at which point he shoved the soaked rag into her mouth.

She whimpered into the cloth and her eyes moistened. She knew she was in trouble, and she dared not move even when he finally removed his hand from the side of her head.

She watched as he moved away from her to his closet where he kept all of his implements. The sound of his shoes moving in slow purposeful steps filled her ears. A chill ran over her entire body. She thought about running away, quitting, and never coming back. He had told her she was free to do that at any point. But if she did, she couldn't be his anymore, and more than anything she wanted to be his.

As he took his time inventorying the closet, he laid out her transgressions. "So, Ms. Welsh, after being late this morning, you disobey me while being punished and let yourself cum not once, but twice." Looking over his shoulder at her bent form and fearful eyes, "And then you tried to blame me for your failure."

Unable to speak, by instinct she shook her head "No," with pleading eyes. She should have known better.

Immediately he said, "Still correcting me? Still thinking you know best?" He turned back to the closet shaking his head in disappointment.

"Have you ever heard of the phrase," he began again, seemingly ignoring her latest transgression, "'rule of thumb' Ms. Welsh? Do you know its origins?"

Unable to speak, she did not respond, but when he turned back toward her with what appeared to be a long thin stick her eyes went wide with fear of what she already knew was coming.

"You see, Ms. Welsh," for effect, he slashed the cane through the air a few times, making the room fill with the high pitch sound. "In less advanced times simply being married gave a man permission to discipline his wife. But," he continued as he closed the space between them, "he wasn't allowed to use anything thicker than his thumb."

She tried hard to keep her composure as he held the thin piece of wood up in front her eyes and let her compare it to his thumb for herself.

"In all honesty," he continued, "that story may not be correct, but just in case, I can follow rules. Maybe soon you will learn how to follow rules as well."

She whimpered as she stayed bent across the desk. Her eyes wide with fear, her heart racing in anticipation of the punishment to come. She debated whether she should say anything, but the words bubbled up to the surface so quickly she couldn't stop them.