Nathan sighed, trying his absolute best to remain calm. A few months ago, his wife had lost her job, and they'd decided that he should employ her as a secretary at his small company. Over time, two things had become clear to him. The first was that a woman who is fired for disorganization and forgetting important tasks, doesn't magically become more competent just because her employer is also her husband. Secondly, when your employee is also your wife, firing her isn't really an option.
"What you're telling me," he said slowly and deliberately, making sure they were on the same page, "is that you have no idea where the Bowman report is."
"It's somewhere around here," Susan replied, waving her hand at the mountain of papers on the desk. "I just don't know exactly were."
"Sure, just give me a little bit of time," she said dismissively.
"And the Devlin file?"
"The what?" she said, a puzzled look on her face.
"The Devlin file? The one I asked for TWO DAYS AGO?"
"Oh. That file."
"Yes, that file." He barely resisted the urge to fold his hands in front of his chest and glare at her. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Well, do you have any idea where that file might be located at the moment?" he said, still using his calmest voice.
"Not as such, no," she admitted sheepishly.
He shook his head, realizing that continuing like this would lead to ruin for the company. Losing the Devlin file was the final straw. He could only think of a single course of action available to him – to treat her like a badly behaved wife instead of a useless secretary. And this solution seemed better every time he thought about it.
"What about your hairbrush, then," he said in a honey-dripping voice. "Do you know where that is?"
"Sure, it's in my purse," she said, clearly confused at the sudden change of subject. "Why do you – oh!" She took a step back, realization hitting her. "Oh!"
"Fetch it," he said, his voice no longer sweet. This was going to do wonders for her working habits – and his stress levels.
She took another step away from him, both hands protectively clasping her jean-clad rear. "Now, listen, honey. I understand you're upset, but -"
"I'm going to count to ten," he said in a quiet, spine-chilling tone, "and if I don't have the hairbrush when the time's up, I'm going to take off my belt as well. One..."
By the time he reached five, she had hurriedly taken the hairbrush out of her purse, and was now presenting it to him, handle first. She was blushing with shame – this was far from the first time her husband had taken it upon himself to discipline her, but that was usually in the privacy of their home. She thanked her lucky stars that the others were out at lunch. She had never taken a spanking quietly yet, and didn't expect to do so this time either, so she was glad she wouldn't have to explain the sounds to the others.
Nathan sat down in her chair and directed her to stand at his right side. His experienced hands began to unbutton and lower her jeans, and she soon found herself being bent over his knee, settling into what was by now a familiar position. He placed his fingers in the waistband of her pink satin panties, and lowered them to reveal a pale, quivering backside.
The first smack of the ebony brush against her left bottom cheek rang out like a gunshot in the silence, followed by a squeal and a plea for mercy. Her begging was ignored as he lifted the brush again and delivered a hard, loud spank to her right buttock. He would often start her spankings slowly, starting off with his hand over her panties, but he was aware that the others would be returning from their lunch soon, and he wanted to give her the privacy of their ignorance. Besides, there was something therapeutic about slamming the brush down on her bare, wriggling posterior, and he could feel his stress levels draining with every smack and squeal.
He moved the brush from cheek to cheek, moving into a fast-paced, regular rhythm. As her backside turned pink, she was kicking her legs furiously as if trying to run away from the pain, and her hissing squeals had turned to howls. He placed one arm around her waist to keep her in place, making sure that every smack landed where he wanted it to.
As the spanking progressed, she lay limply over his lap, and it seemed like all fight had been spanked out of her. But when he moved the brush to her sit spots, delivering a hard volley to the lower parts of her bottom, she arched her back and started to plead again, promising to do anything he wanted if he would just put the brush down and forgive her.
A few minutes later, he placed the brush on her desk, deciding that she had been punished enough. He helped the crying, red-bottomed woman to her feet, and began to comfort her with hugs, soothing words, and gentle rubbing. She soon calmed down. "Tomorrow morning, I want to see both the Devlin file and the Bowman report on my desk," he told her. "I think you can guess what will happen if either file is missing?"
"Yes, sir," she said submissively, hanging her head. She actually wasn't sure what implement he would use – he might decide that this was bad enough to break out the cane – but she had no intention of finding out, so she didn't ask.
"Good." He gave her bottom one last slap before moving onto his own paperwork.
Drying her tears and putting her clothes back on, she started going through the pile of papers. She was only slightly disadvantaged by the fact that she had to do it standing up.
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