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Chelsea Moran stands nervously before Mr. M. in his office. She missed her last deadline, and Mr. M. is having none of it this time. Her mouth drops nearly to the floor at his command to disrobe. She sees the steely determination in her boss's eyes, however, and slowly removes her clothing piece by piece until she is wearing nothing but her jewelry and a very hot blush. One hand ineffectually tries to cover her generous breasts while the other attempts the same thing with her clean-shaven sex.
He beckons her with one finger and pats his lap. Groaning with embarrassment, she tiptoes across the room and sits on his lap, feeling her nudity all the more acutely because he is fully clothed and quite handsomely dressed. He takes her chin in his hand and commands her to listen carefully.
He proceeds to give her a strict deadline for the piece she's working on, and tells her what the penalty will be for missing it. Her eyes widen: it is no ordinary punishment he is promising her!
He asks her if she understands, and she nods vigorously in the affirmative. Then he pulls her over his lap. She squeals in protest, saying that she does understand; why is she being punished? He replies that she needs a taste of what will come should she fail in her task. His large, hard hand crashes into her naked backside; she squeals and kicks in response to the rapidly-escalating sting.
When her behind is a fine shade of hot pink, Mr. M. releases her to do a little post-spanking dance, her palms rubbing her hot, inflamed bottom. He lets her make a spectacle of herself for several moments; then he grasps her elbow and leads her to a nearby corner with the command to put her hands on her head and stand still. After what seems like forever (but is in fact only 5 minutes), he calls her over to him.
Miss Moran stands naked before her boss, her face aflame and her eyes on her bare toes. He tells her that, if she misses another deadline, both her spanking and corner time will be double what she just received. Eyes wide, her head jerks up. She replies with a chastened little, "Yes, Sir," biting her lip and looking back down at the floor. Mr. M. stands and hands her just her panties and the little camisole she'd been wearing under her work clothes, saying, "Now get dressed like a good girl, I expect to see that cute little behind at your desk until the piece is ready to hand in."
She continues to blush deeply as she "gets dressed," all too aware of the fact that she's going to spend the whole day in a newsroom sitting on a sore bottom and wearing just her purple boy shorts and a tiny white camisole. Mr. M. is one editor who knows how to hold a writer to a deadline!
* * *
Still No Compromise
Mr. M. Revisited
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It was a long, difficult day indeed for the well-spanked Chelsea Moran. Her bottom remained tender throughout the day, and hers was a job that required protracted sitting. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair for the rest of the day while she struggled to get caught up.
Much worse than the physical discomfort, though, was the embarrassment that kept her blushing throughout the day. In a newsroom filled with smartly dressed professionals, she had to endure the humiliation of being dressed in a white camisole, purple boy-short panties, and nothing else. There were catcalls, whistles, and falsely solicitous questions about whether she was “sitting comfortably.” After a full day of being red in the face, Miss Moran made a covenant with herself: never again would she miss a deadline, under any circumstances.
Three weeks have passed, and Mr. M. is pleased with young Miss Moran’s performance. Her recent 100% on-time submission of articles proves to him the efficacy of his workplace discipline methods. He knows that Miss Moran has a rare talent, one that he sees as his responsibility to nurture and enable.
Going over the submissions and reports on his desk this early Friday morning, however, he notes with grave displeasure that the young lady has backslid during the past week. One story got in barely under the wire, and another was in fact a few hours late. Not only that, but Mr. M. reads a report that the headstrong young beauty was involved in an exchange with her direct supervisor in which she stopped just short of outright insubordination. This will not do; strong countermeasures are clearly called for.
Chelsea is told by her supervisor Ms. Reynolds--with a hint of a self-satisfied smirk--that she is to report to Mr. M’s office immediately. Chelsea immediately has a lump in her throat and feels her stomach drop. She knows precisely what she is being called to account for, and (significantly) remembers clearly what she was promised the last time. She wishes she could banish the hot blush that lights up her face, that she could avoid giving this woman the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed. She silently curses her milky white complexion and complete lack of a poker face, which together give everything away. Ms. Reynolds watches with barely-disguised pleasure as the flare-faced girl makes her way to Mr. M.’s office.
Miss Moran knocks and hears a gruff voice bid her enter. Still wearing that blasted blush, she asks, “You wanted to see me, Sir?” She is told to close the door and be seated-- this in a tone that dashes any hopes she may have held out for a reprieve.
When the details of her transgressions are spelled out, she is dismayed to find herself unable to mount any substantive defense of herself. In fact, she is forced to agree--grudgingly--that she has indeed earned the consequences she was promised should she fall back into habits that fall short of Mr. M.’s exacting standards. Next comes the dread order to disrobe.
Mr. M. spares her no embarrassment. He watches her like a hawk as she removes first her pastel blue blouse, then her leather shoes, then (with greater effort) her conservative black skirt. She stands with her right hand covering her generous breasts under the frilly white bra she wears, and with her left over the scant panties that just barely cover her below. Deploying her most pitiful doe-eyed expression, she implores her boss for a reprieve. Having none of it, he crosses his arms across his chest in a gesture of impatience. Sighing audibly, Chelsea turns slightly and liberates her milky white, pert twin mounds from their brassiere; she then swiftly divests herself of her one remaining garment. Mr. M. is treated to the sight of the ample white fesses upon which he is about to paint in pink and red hues.
Turning back around, hands held strategically, Chelsea tries to face him. She finds this quite impossible until she hears a firm order to place her hands at her sides and look him in the eye. She literally groans as the entirety of her nudity is once again on display to a man determined to properly discipline her. Perhaps the worst of it is the command to repeat the details of the punishment she was promised three weeks prior. Haltingly, her face burning hot, she manages to get these out. When Mr. M. asks if she can offer any reason he should not deliver on his promise, she finds herself quite without words. Accordingly, he comes around the big mahogany desk, sits in the armless chair, and pulls the young lady over his lap.
The preliminaries out of the way, this handsome, well-dressed man begins slapping the hindquarters of the naked young lady on his lap. He starts off slowly and without much force, choosing to build up to higher velocity and greater force by almost imperceptible degrees. It is not long before the unfortunate Miss Moran begins to kick her long, slender legs in response to the mounting sting.
When he switches his concentration to the sensitive flap of skin where the girl’s beautiful bottom overlaps with her athletic thighs, the effect is immediate and irresistible. Her resolve not to give those outside the office the satisfaction of hearing her muffled cries is gone in an instant, replaced by the imperative to keen and howl. Hands become fists; they ineffectually pound the air as tears form in the girl’s blue eyes and spill over. Mr. M. keeps his word, he spends a great deal of time on the spot upon which Chelsea will sit for the rest of the day, ensuring that it will be a salutary and memorable experience.
Once the girl’s entire bottom and upper thighs are the same bright shade of red--and she is actually hoarse from her spirited vocal responses--he slows his tempo and gradually brings the epic spanking to a close. The girl is blubbering, keening, and quite unable to form words: he marks this as all to the good.
Once she has achieved a modicum of composure, he hands her several tissues with which to wipe her face. At his command, she shakily regains the vertical, her hands flying to massage her outraged rear end. He indulges her for several moments; then he asks if she thinks this lesson will be sufficient to keep her on the straight and narrow. She replies with heartfelt earnestness, promising to be a model journalist in perpetuity. He cannot help but chuckle slightly. Perhaps, perhaps not, he thinks. He then asks her if there was anything else he had pledged to do several weeks ago.
A look of horror crosses the girl’s features. She begs him not to apply this final bit of the promised punishment, assuring him that nothing further is required to make the lesson “sink in.” He asks her if she could respect a boss who reneged on his commitments to his staff. As much as she wishes to, she finds it impossible to answer in the affirmative. But natural resistance to this proposal manages to assert itself momentarily in the girl’s consciousness; a cross look transforms her features and she stamps one bare foot ineffectually on the plush carpet.
“Oh, I see; you wish to serve those thirty minutes attired as you are at present.”
At this statement, all defiance--and most of the blood--drains away from Chelsea’s face. Her hot blush is replaced with a pale expression of pure dread. (Mr. M. has no intention of putting the young woman on display in her birthday suit, but she has no way of knowing this.) He allows himself the indulgence of a small smile, and tells her to “get dressed.”
The blood comes rushing back to Miss Moran’s face as she dons her frilly white bra and matching panties, the only covering she will be allowed for the rest of the day. Mr. M. says he very much hopes these issues will not need to be revisited. In a quiet voice, staring at her bare toes, Chelsea assures him that will not be necessary.
Corner time comes next. But as promised, it will occur not in the relative safety of Mr. M.’s office, but outside it, beside the door. Mr. M. gallantly opens the door for his prize writer and bids her stand facing the wall with her hands on her head until he sends her back to her desk. Overwhelmed by embarrassment, the bright redness of her swollen bottom on display to all and sundry through her white panties, Miss Moran cannot fully appreciate Mr. M.’s motivation. Although he will not tell her in so many words (for fear it might go to her already-strong head), he considers her the rising star of his newsroom. He has singled her out for particular pruning and discipline precisely because he knows extraordinary talent when he sees it. If this lovely young lady can endure thirty minutes standing on display in her underthings--followed by the rest of the day in the same--she will have proved beyond all doubt that she possesses toughness and staying power to match her outstanding talent. The first two attributes are as essential to a successful career in the newspaper business as the third.
Mr. M. believes in her.
Much worse than the physical discomfort, though, was the embarrassment that kept her blushing throughout the day. In a newsroom filled with smartly dressed professionals, she had to endure the humiliation of being dressed in a white camisole, purple boy-short panties, and nothing else. There were catcalls, whistles, and falsely solicitous questions about whether she was “sitting comfortably.” After a full day of being red in the face, Miss Moran made a covenant with herself: never again would she miss a deadline, under any circumstances.
* * *
Three weeks have passed, and Mr. M. is pleased with young Miss Moran’s performance. Her recent 100% on-time submission of articles proves to him the efficacy of his workplace discipline methods. He knows that Miss Moran has a rare talent, one that he sees as his responsibility to nurture and enable.
Going over the submissions and reports on his desk this early Friday morning, however, he notes with grave displeasure that the young lady has backslid during the past week. One story got in barely under the wire, and another was in fact a few hours late. Not only that, but Mr. M. reads a report that the headstrong young beauty was involved in an exchange with her direct supervisor in which she stopped just short of outright insubordination. This will not do; strong countermeasures are clearly called for.
Chelsea is told by her supervisor Ms. Reynolds--with a hint of a self-satisfied smirk--that she is to report to Mr. M’s office immediately. Chelsea immediately has a lump in her throat and feels her stomach drop. She knows precisely what she is being called to account for, and (significantly) remembers clearly what she was promised the last time. She wishes she could banish the hot blush that lights up her face, that she could avoid giving this woman the satisfaction of seeing her embarrassed. She silently curses her milky white complexion and complete lack of a poker face, which together give everything away. Ms. Reynolds watches with barely-disguised pleasure as the flare-faced girl makes her way to Mr. M.’s office.
Miss Moran knocks and hears a gruff voice bid her enter. Still wearing that blasted blush, she asks, “You wanted to see me, Sir?” She is told to close the door and be seated-- this in a tone that dashes any hopes she may have held out for a reprieve.
When the details of her transgressions are spelled out, she is dismayed to find herself unable to mount any substantive defense of herself. In fact, she is forced to agree--grudgingly--that she has indeed earned the consequences she was promised should she fall back into habits that fall short of Mr. M.’s exacting standards. Next comes the dread order to disrobe.
Mr. M. spares her no embarrassment. He watches her like a hawk as she removes first her pastel blue blouse, then her leather shoes, then (with greater effort) her conservative black skirt. She stands with her right hand covering her generous breasts under the frilly white bra she wears, and with her left over the scant panties that just barely cover her below. Deploying her most pitiful doe-eyed expression, she implores her boss for a reprieve. Having none of it, he crosses his arms across his chest in a gesture of impatience. Sighing audibly, Chelsea turns slightly and liberates her milky white, pert twin mounds from their brassiere; she then swiftly divests herself of her one remaining garment. Mr. M. is treated to the sight of the ample white fesses upon which he is about to paint in pink and red hues.
Turning back around, hands held strategically, Chelsea tries to face him. She finds this quite impossible until she hears a firm order to place her hands at her sides and look him in the eye. She literally groans as the entirety of her nudity is once again on display to a man determined to properly discipline her. Perhaps the worst of it is the command to repeat the details of the punishment she was promised three weeks prior. Haltingly, her face burning hot, she manages to get these out. When Mr. M. asks if she can offer any reason he should not deliver on his promise, she finds herself quite without words. Accordingly, he comes around the big mahogany desk, sits in the armless chair, and pulls the young lady over his lap.
The preliminaries out of the way, this handsome, well-dressed man begins slapping the hindquarters of the naked young lady on his lap. He starts off slowly and without much force, choosing to build up to higher velocity and greater force by almost imperceptible degrees. It is not long before the unfortunate Miss Moran begins to kick her long, slender legs in response to the mounting sting.
When he switches his concentration to the sensitive flap of skin where the girl’s beautiful bottom overlaps with her athletic thighs, the effect is immediate and irresistible. Her resolve not to give those outside the office the satisfaction of hearing her muffled cries is gone in an instant, replaced by the imperative to keen and howl. Hands become fists; they ineffectually pound the air as tears form in the girl’s blue eyes and spill over. Mr. M. keeps his word, he spends a great deal of time on the spot upon which Chelsea will sit for the rest of the day, ensuring that it will be a salutary and memorable experience.
Once the girl’s entire bottom and upper thighs are the same bright shade of red--and she is actually hoarse from her spirited vocal responses--he slows his tempo and gradually brings the epic spanking to a close. The girl is blubbering, keening, and quite unable to form words: he marks this as all to the good.
Once she has achieved a modicum of composure, he hands her several tissues with which to wipe her face. At his command, she shakily regains the vertical, her hands flying to massage her outraged rear end. He indulges her for several moments; then he asks if she thinks this lesson will be sufficient to keep her on the straight and narrow. She replies with heartfelt earnestness, promising to be a model journalist in perpetuity. He cannot help but chuckle slightly. Perhaps, perhaps not, he thinks. He then asks her if there was anything else he had pledged to do several weeks ago.
A look of horror crosses the girl’s features. She begs him not to apply this final bit of the promised punishment, assuring him that nothing further is required to make the lesson “sink in.” He asks her if she could respect a boss who reneged on his commitments to his staff. As much as she wishes to, she finds it impossible to answer in the affirmative. But natural resistance to this proposal manages to assert itself momentarily in the girl’s consciousness; a cross look transforms her features and she stamps one bare foot ineffectually on the plush carpet.
“Oh, I see; you wish to serve those thirty minutes attired as you are at present.”
At this statement, all defiance--and most of the blood--drains away from Chelsea’s face. Her hot blush is replaced with a pale expression of pure dread. (Mr. M. has no intention of putting the young woman on display in her birthday suit, but she has no way of knowing this.) He allows himself the indulgence of a small smile, and tells her to “get dressed.”
The blood comes rushing back to Miss Moran’s face as she dons her frilly white bra and matching panties, the only covering she will be allowed for the rest of the day. Mr. M. says he very much hopes these issues will not need to be revisited. In a quiet voice, staring at her bare toes, Chelsea assures him that will not be necessary.
Corner time comes next. But as promised, it will occur not in the relative safety of Mr. M.’s office, but outside it, beside the door. Mr. M. gallantly opens the door for his prize writer and bids her stand facing the wall with her hands on her head until he sends her back to her desk. Overwhelmed by embarrassment, the bright redness of her swollen bottom on display to all and sundry through her white panties, Miss Moran cannot fully appreciate Mr. M.’s motivation. Although he will not tell her in so many words (for fear it might go to her already-strong head), he considers her the rising star of his newsroom. He has singled her out for particular pruning and discipline precisely because he knows extraordinary talent when he sees it. If this lovely young lady can endure thirty minutes standing on display in her underthings--followed by the rest of the day in the same--she will have proved beyond all doubt that she possesses toughness and staying power to match her outstanding talent. The first two attributes are as essential to a successful career in the newspaper business as the third.
Mr. M. believes in her.
Hi Carla. So happy to see you back and safe. Excellent story! Mr. M is a stern but fair taskmaster who only wants the best for Chelsea.
ReplyDeleteThank you kindly...good to be back!
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteMichael, I wonder if any of my readers surmised that you were the inspiration for the character of the editor in these stories! ;)
ReplyDelete