Spanking Ms. Whitman (Play at Work)

Also by Kate Richards

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the Playboy

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man Cometh

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At Musa Publishing

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Confessions from th
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Carnivore Club

Spanking Ms. Whitman

Play at Work

By

Kate Richards

DEDICATION

To Starla Kaye, Olivia Starke, Stephanie Beck,
J.M. Madden,
D.L. Jackson,
the fabulous Desiree Holt
, and everyone
who took time from their busy schedule to share their insights on this story. I’m grateful for your expertise, and for your friendship.

Chapter One

She circled the humming toy over her clit, the vibrations taking her higher, her muscles tightening, straining toward the climax just out of reach. His face filled her vision—stern, handsome, the slight shadow of dark, late-afternoon beard. He loomed over her, and she focused on his steel-gray eyes…eyes filled with disappointment. Her heart lurched.

“You understand why I have to do this?” The rough velvet of his voice raised goose bumps on her skin.

“Yes, sir.” And she did understand, even while she drowned in fear and anticipation. No other measure had corrected her behavior. He punished her from love. And she loved his punishments. Every raised welt a measure of his care for her. The crack of his whip the percussion section of their lovemaking.

She flipped the switch on the vibrator to high, gliding it front to back, slipping the tip inside her pussy and out again, so wet for him.

He’d bend her over his gleaming wood desk and slap her with the flat of his hand, his palm warming her skin. Each spank in a different spot, from high on her cheeks to her thighs. Not too painful yet, bringing her to life. Preparing her for flogging, whipping, caning. Whatever he chose to do to her, she would bow to his will.

Then…here’s where it started to break down. In the books she kept in the drawer by her bed, the Dom always had a crop or a flogger. But in an office fantasy, there would be, oh...a stiff wooden ruler. Did people have rulers still? She faltered, distracted for a moment and decided he would have one and would use it to great effect, marking her ass.

“Count.”

She shuddered. “One.” Her belly tightening, she held the smooth end of the vibrator against her clit. “Two.” She clamped her thighs around the base. “Three.” Her spine arched in the throes of orgasm and the buzzing grew louder.
The clock.

He disappeared.

Panting, she fell back, her hands at her sides. Her fantasies had become so real, she was almost surprised to find herself alone.

Nine o’ five.
Shit.

***

Mona squirmed in dismay as the elevator crawled upward. Seven, eight, nine…. By the time she arrived at her office on the fiftieth floor it would be ten o’clock.

Mr. Marks had hinted at unpleasant consequences for her next late arrival. She shivered. His threat had helped fuel the morning’s fantasy—making her late again. Twisted, but true. Every attempt to point out her faults led to another session with her B.O.B.—her battery operated boyfriend. A poor substitute for the BOSS in her bed. Not that he’d shown the slightest inclination to join her there. Still, she couldn’t let it go, her fascination, her fantasies, her crush.

But what if she pushed her boss too far?

When the doors opened, she rushed through the lobby. Maybe she could slip into her chair, click her screen on, and pretend she’d been there since nine.

If anyone asked, she’d been there since five ’til. Sitting serenely at her desk, preparing for a busy day of reviewing insurance claims. Not bringing herself to earth shattering orgasms with fantasies of their sexy if ever so proper employer. If anyone asked.

Past Angie in reception—had she looked nervous?—through the
Employees Only
doorway behind her and ducking down the hall. Closed doors on either side, her office coming up on the right. Almost there…a few more feet and….
Oh, no!

The high double doors at the end of the corridor opened and a tall silhouette filled the space, light from the huge windows in his corner office haloing around him. “Ms. Whitman, you are late.”

She froze, bubbles of panic fizzing through her veins. What could she salvage? She’d take any dressing down he cared to give, as long as she could keep her job. And maintain the slight hope he might one day notice her as more than an efficient—if late arriving—manager.

“Good morning, sir.” She dumped her purse and sweater on the chair inside her office, keeping her focus on her boss standing twenty feet away. A shiver went through her as he stepped aside and fixed her with a steely glare. She tottered past him on shaky legs. He followed her in, closed the doors, and waved toward the armless wooden chair in front of his gleaming, mahogany desk, uncluttered by even a pen or scrap of paper.

He keeps this company afloat, works so hard…but never seems to have anything left undone.
Almost superhuman.
She brushed the stray thought aside and settled on the hard seat, just wide enough to accommodate her curvier-than-she-liked rear end. Mr. Marks marched to his high-backed maroon leather chair and sat, tugging the bottom of his suit coat to smooth out a crease.

An uncomfortable silence lengthened. Not even a bit of chatter from the employees going about their business in the hallway penetrated the paneled inner sanctum of the man responsible for their livelihood. Her breathing rasped in her ears, her heartbeat thumping frantically. The tiny noise when she shifted and her skirt slid against the wooden seat made her jump.

She glanced at her hands in her lap, folded together and pressed tight against her thighs to steady them, then swallowed and raised her eyes to meet his cool gray stare. She’d long since memorized his features, but if—when—he fired her she’d never have the opportunity to be this close to him again, so she drank in the sight of the distinguished, handsome man who played the lead in her most erotic dreams. His brows sharp black slashes, lashes the same dark color, almost too long in such a masculine face. His other features were sculpted in classic lines, right down to his mouth, where rare smiles appeared, lifting her heart.

Office gossip said he used a tailor in London frequented by several members of the British royal family and the impeccable fit of his suit did nothing to belie the fact. His jacket outlined his broad shoulders and trim waist with never a wrinkle and when he removed it and rolled up his sleeves—as he often did in late afternoon meetings—his forearms were smooth muscle sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair.

At the meetings, those rolled up sleeves made her look past the suits, wondering what other delights lay underneath the perfect attire. While Power Point presentations filled the screen at the front of the conference room, she focused on the way his collar fastened at his neck, the button tight at his throat, the white cotton covering his wide chest. She hungered to loosen the Windsor knot and open the shirt, slowly revealing the toned chest beneath. To press her lips to each inch of skin and feel its warmth.

When he stood to make a point, her attention usually dropped to his trim waist and focused on the slim leather belt with its discreet silver buckle.

The belt… wide, smooth leather doubled in his grip. Brought down over her bare backside in firm strokes. Counted off as in the novels she loved. Strong men, and the women they cared for.

Too many times she’d squirmed in her seat,. She tried to focus. Budget, next year, profit margins….

His hand lay on the conference table, long, tapered fingers and broad palm. She mentally cleared the room—no, yes, just the two of them—and saw him drawing her across his lap. She cursed her tight skirt, but he pulled the zipper down and reached inside to rub circles on her ass cheeks.
In the fantasy, she wore a thong and thigh high stockings revealing a few inches of perfect, creamy white thigh. In the fantasy, she was perfect for him.

“Miss Whitman?”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, returning her full attention to his calm, steady regard. Overwhelmed, she smoothed her hair and gathered her courage.

“Mr. Marks, I—”

He silenced her with a sharp look. “I am not interested in explanations or apologies, Ms. Whitman.”

“But I…”

He sighed and his nostrils flared on the exhale. “Please, stop.” Rising, he came around the desk to tower over her, tall, straight, so serious, sudden tears blurred her vision.
I should quit and save him the trouble of firing me. Only….

“Why you were late this morning is not important.” He spoke low, his deep tones rumbling, a turn on despite her despair and panic. “My concern is that you have been warned on numerous occasions tardiness is not acceptable at this firm—yet you continue to ignore the rule. How many times this week…?”

He paused and as the silence rushed to fill her ears again, a single tear spilled over and trickled down her cheek. His focus seemed to follow its progress as it rolled to her chin and dropped off onto her white button-up. “T-twice?”

Steely eyes surveyed her, and she shrank into the chair. “Maybe three times, sir. But I’ll never be late again, I swear.” She hated the way her voice broke as the words rushed out.

“I believe you have promised this before, am I correct?”

“Y-yes, I did.” Lips trembling, she buried her hot face in her palms, hiding her shame.

“Look at me.”

She shook her head, afraid to see his disappointment.

“Now.”

Startled, she sat up, tears shaking loose one by one and rolling down her cheeks.

He reached out and wiped them away with his thumb, giving her an indecipherable look that sucked all the air out of the room. She leaned into his touch….

A sharp ringing startled her. He cursed low and pulled his phone from a jacket pocket, still watching her. “Yes? I’m in a meeting.” He listened a moment and walked around the desk, his dark silhouette turned toward the bright daytime city backdrop. “Yes, fine. Have him wait. No, don’t send him here. The conference room…fine.”