Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 2

Story from Roué 16, following the further adventures of St Angela’s alumna Julie Williamson (Room 2D Continued, Episode at St Angela’s and Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 1)

Poor Julie Williamson! Her first day as PA and Girl Friday to Mr Martin, General Manager of Boutts Bank, hadn’t exactly gone as well as she’d wished. She’d misdirected several important letters, jammed the electric typewriter, and accidentally spilt tea all over an important client! Despite all her best intentions everything she touched seemed to go wrong. By the afternoon she was in a hot, blind panic, blushing profusely and nervously brushing stray blonde curls out of her eyes. Mr Martin, from behind his solid oak desk, seemed to be regarding her strangely, almost accusingly. He had a newspaper spread out before him and was supposedly studying a set of figures in it, but she had the distinct impression that he was following her every move out of the corner of his eye. Every time he shifted in his seat or coughed, she dreaded that he was about to make some allusion to her incompetence.

Mr Martin chuckled slightly at the headline in the Financial Times: ‘IS THE DEPRESSION BOTTOMING OUT?’ Julie Williamson’s bottom was certainly doing wonders for his depression! He polished his spectacles with his handkerchief before replacing them on his nose, then scrutinised his new employee once more through narrowing, piggy eyes. Yes, she was pretty — undoubtedly pretty. A slim, graceful blonde with doe-like big blue eyes. Her rose-bud lips quivered slightly every now and then, betraying their owner’s anxiety at being suddenly cast out into the big bustling world. It had been a frightening experience for Julie to enter the imposing portals of this historic old bank for the very first time. But dear Mr Martin had been kindness itself, and had insisted on showing her round personally, introducing her to the rest of the staff, and patting her bottom at every available opportunity.

Julie didn’t really mind him patting her bottom — she naturally assumed he was merely being fatherly and protective. Julie was like that: a trusting sort of a girl — some would say gullible and naive. When he took her down to the stockroom, which housed the dusty old documents that needed sorting, he was sweet and helpful in pointing out that it would be a shame to ruin her smart, black pencil skirt and immaculate white blouse, and that it might be a jolly good idea if she took them off and put on the blue plastic overall he’d so thoughtfully provided her with. She didn’t really mind him staying in the room while she took off her blouse and skirt, though she did think it a bit odd him insisting that she took off her knickers and bra too! Of course that meant that he was bound to notice the marks of the farewell caning that Mr Evans had given her the night before she’d left St Angela’s for good. The thin reddish-blue tracery of weals across her dainty little backside seemed to fascinate him inordinately — she couldn’t for the life of her imagine why. He asked her all kinds of intimate questions. Did her bottom still hurt? Had she had it on the bare? Had she had to bend over a chair, or had Evans made her touch her toes? Had she found it embarrassing, as well as painful, a big girl like her still getting the cane? Julie nodded mutely, and flinched slightly as Mr Martin put his hand on her bare bottom and traced with his fingers the almost geometrical pattern of neat bruise-marks. His hand glided lower and lower until it arrived at regions where no cane could reach. Julie gasped, wriggled, and tried vainly to protest:

‘Oh Mr Martin, sir, he never caned me there! That’s not my bottom, sir, that’s… oooh, Mr Martin, what are you doing? You’re making me go all dizzy! Hadn’t I better put my overall on now?’

Rather reluctantly, Martin ceased what he was doing and helped the girl on with the garment. It was cut a bit on the tight side so Julie really had to squeeze into it. It clung tenaciously to her buttocks and thighs, hampering her movements. It squashed and flattened her girlish breasts, throwing her erect nipples into sharp relief. The skimpy plastic overall was virtually transparent and hid nothing — much to Julie’s embarrassment. She hoped and prayed that no one else but Mr Martin would see her in it — although that in itself was bad enough. Unfortunately for Julie, one of the junior male clerks chose that exact moment to come down to the stockroom to present Martin with a fairly trivial problem. Julie froze when she heard the tap on the door and saw a male form silhouetted against the glass panel. Then she scampered into a far corner of the room and huddled miserably, her hands protecting her pubic regions, while the young man entered and presented his problem to the boss. The discussion only lasted a couple of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to the poor, embarrassed girl. The young man was gaping at her in unabashed appreciation — all the while that he was talking to Mr Martin, his eyes never left her. It occurred to Julie that she’d reveal a lot less of her personal charms if she turned and faced the wall, only then he’d be sure to see the cane-marks on her bottom, and Julie certainly didn’t want to advertise that fact!

With one last toothy leer the clerk departed. Without further ado Mr Martin set Julie to work, picking up bundles of dusty, yellowing documents tied up with string.

‘Don’t pick them up by the string, Julie!’ Mr Martin warned, but it was already too late — the string broke and the documents went flying everywhere, all over the floor. By the time she’d gathered them up they were completely out of order and in hopeless disarray. She heard Mr Martin tut-tutting behind her and realised that once again she’d let him down badly. Oh, but she did try so hard! She desperately wanted to succeed in this job — she hardly relished the thought of swelling the ranks of the unemployed! But she did feel so self-conscious in her little blue overall, having to bend down in front of Mr Martin and pick up all these horrible old papers. Every time she bent down she felt her overall ride up, so that her bare bottom was on full display. No doubt her employer was getting quite an eyeful, and Julie blushed at the indignity. She almost leapt in the air with shock when he leaned across and delivered a loud SMACK to her pert young rump while she was in the act of gathering up the 1937 Macready file. Her reaction was more one of surprise than alarm — after all, her years at St Angela’s had, so to speak, ‘hardened’ her to such treatment — and in response to Mr Martin’s jovial guffaw, she began to giggle nervously. But her employer’s mood of merriment didn’t last too long. With a stern, almost accusatory look, he instructed her to get dressed and to go for her coffee break:

‘That will be all now, Julie. Come and see me at five-thirty, please. There are a few matters relating to your work that I’d like to discuss with you.’

The words were kindly enough, but the tone of his voice had an icy ring to it, uncomfortably reminiscent of her old headmaster, Mr Payne, in one of his most waspish moods. Julie feared the worst! She knew she hadn’t exactly come up to scratch… would he give her a good telling off, or dock some of her wages? Surely he wouldn’t — he couldn’t — SACK her for just a few trivial offences on the very first day?

At five-thirty precisely she was waiting outside Mr Martin’s office. She heard voices within. Should she knock or wait until they’d finished?  Julie was quite a timid girl really, all sweetness and light and peaches and cream. Gathering what courage she possessed, she knocked and entered.

Mr Martin was deep in conversation with his handsome young Deputy Manager, Mr Hardcastle. She’d bumped into him several times that day in the corridor. She stood by the door, feeling rather foolish, waiting for them to acknowledge her presence, but they showed no signs of doing so. With a shock of surprise she realised they were discussing her!

‘Well, she’s made a pretty poor showing for her first day here, Hardcastle.’ Mr Martin’s ambitious young deputy nodded gravely in agreement. He couldn’t help feeling that perhaps his boss was being a bit harsh on the girl, but he had no desire to cross swords with his superior on such a trifling matter as junior staff discipline. Besides, the managership of their branch in Bolton was about to become vacant, and he was relying on Mr Martin to put in a good word for him. ‘Wheels within wheels,’ and all that!

At last they became aware of Julie’s presence:

‘Ah, there you are, Julie. At least you’re punctual, I see — you have that, if nothing else, to your credit. Everything else you’ve done today has, I’m sorry to say it, been nothing but a catalogue of disasters! I’ve just been discussing with Mr Hardcastle here what we should do with you.’ Mr Hardcastle winked knowingly at Julie, who blushed prettily when she remembered how he’d squeezed her tits and pinched her bottom earlier on that day in one of the offices. The senior executives did seem to be given a pretty free hand here, to say the least! Julie coughed self-consciously and nervously shifted her feet. She smoothed down the sides of her skirt and attempted to flick her hair out of her eyes. She began to feel like she used to at St Angela’s, when told to report to 2D to pay the penalty for her misdemeanours. Despite her anxiety, though, she had to smile at the absurdity of the comparison. Here she was, safely launched into the world of commerce — a million miles away from all the torments and humiliations of schoolgirl discipline!

‘What are you smiling at, Julie?’ Mr Martin barked.

‘N-Nothing, sir… nothing at all really.’ Julie’s grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

‘I wasn’t smiling when you emptied that teacup over one of our most valued customers! Nearly lost the Bank a lot of lucrative business, that did! What have you got to say for yourself, Julie?’

‘Oh, Mr Martin, sir,’ Julie wailed miserably, ‘it was an accident! I got all flustered when he started touching up my… my bottom!’ This was in fact the truth, but Mr Martin was having none of it.

‘How dare you attribute such indecorous actions to an eminent businessman like Mr Hankinson — admired and respected throughout the City!’ Mr Martin thundered, while inwardly remarking, ‘so old Hankey’s a bottom man too, is he!’

It didn’t take much to reduce Julie to tears, and both men could see that she was practically on the verge of them already. If anything, she was more vulnerable to words than to smacks! Martin didn’t want the girl bursting into tears before he’d done anything to her, so he eased up on the ‘death-ray stare’ and assumed a solicitous, almost wheedling tone of voice, designed to put the girl at her ease. Mr Martin was pursuing a carefully thought-out strategy originally suggested to him by the ever-helpful headmaster of St Angela’s that would hopefully culminate in Julie coming across his knee to receive a sound spanking. He’d wanted to do it to her ever since he first clapped eyes on her in the Head’s study; ever since Mr Payne had assured him that ‘yes, Julie Williamson was perfectly amenable to being spanked!’ To impart an aura of respectability — if not legality — to the proceedings, Mr Martin had arranged for an impartial witness in the person of his Deputy Manager to be present. And Mr Hardcastle was too concerned with his promotion prospects to kick up a stink about it — Mr Martin knew he had him in the palm of his hand. Besides which, Mr Hardcastle was as red-blooded a male as himself and would, in all probability, thoroughly enjoy the spectacle of seeing a pretty girl getting her bum smacked. Better still, get young Hardcastle to actually assist in the operation — that way he’d have to keep his mouth shut about it! No blabbing to the senior clerks then! With a gleam of optimism in his eye he placed a fatherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was still looking a bit like a frightened rabbit, so he’d have to tread a trifle warily.

‘Relax, Julie, you’re not at St Angela’s now, you know! You’re a grown-up girl, and provided you do your best and carry out my wishes to the best of your ability, you’ll find me kindness itself. If, however, you do happen to fall gravely short of the mark, as you have in all honesty today, perhaps a little… um… encouragement applied to the area of your person to which you’ve grown accustomed might not come amiss.’

Julie swallowed hard and went pale as she took in this most unexpected and highly unpleasant piece of news. She glanced across at Mr Hardcastle, who looked puzzled — he obviously hadn’t fully understood his boss’ meaning, and was still trying to hazard a guess as to what part of Julie’s anatomy Mr Martin had been referring. Well, he plainly wouldn’t be left in a state of ignorance for long! Mr Martin continued, warming to his task:

‘I’m sure you know what type of ‘encouragement’ I’m talking about Julie. It’s what you used to get at St Angela’s — remember, you told me all about that at the interview?’ Julie nodded miserably. ‘I take it that you’re not averse to us continuing in that vein, if and when you fail to come up to scratch, so to speak? Better than deductions from your salary, eh Julie? Better than the sack, eh Julie? You’d never get another job — let alone one in a bank — the way things are at the moment! So what do you say, Julie?’ Mr Martin relentlessly pressed home his advantage.

Poor Julie just didn’t know at all. For a moment she was too shocked and horrified to frame a reply. The very thing she dreaded — the very thing she thought she’d escaped from! Where could she run? Whom could she turn to? She was so stunned that Mr Martin had to repeat his question:

‘What do you say, Julie?’

She looked pleadingly at him with her big blue eyes, silently begging for a reprieve, although knowing full well that none would come. At least, she grudgingly admitted to herself, it would be better than the sack — dammit ANYTHING would be better than the sack!

‘Well… if that’s what you think best, sir… only… only…’

‘Only what, Julie?’

‘Only I thought that when I left St Angela’s all that sort of thing would be behind me!’ she blurted it out in a rush, then, once more, a miserable embarrassed silence overtook her.

‘What would be behind you, Julie?’ A broad smile lit up Mr Martin’s face. ‘If you’re referring to that part of the body which nature has most pleasingly and amply endowed you with, I’d say it’ll always benefit from the right sort of attention, to keep its owner on the straight and narrow, so to speak! If you insist on behaving like a clumsy, careless schoolgirl, we’ll have to continue treating you as one — won’t we, Mr Hardcastle?’

Mr Martin looked across at his colleague for support. The latter nodded vigorously, while gazing at Julie with considerable interest: he had at last tumbled to the fact that the proposed motion on the agenda involved Mr Martin’s hand, Julie’s pertly prominent bottom, and no small degree of physical effort! To say he found the prospect exciting would be an understatement. The idea of a girl being spanked always aroused him — like it does most men, if they’re honest with themselves. Unfortunately none of his girlfriends had shared his enthusiasm for this particular pastime, so he’d never been able to put theory into practice. He was, therefore, delighted to hear what Mr Martin had to say next.

‘I took the trouble to ring up Mr Payne, your old headmaster, this afternoon, in order to complain about your appalling inefficiency, Julie. And do you know what he advised me to do?’

Julie reddened and looked down at the floor. ‘No, sir… but I can guess.’ She knew Mr Payne’s predilections of old — many times her poor bottom had borne witness to that!

‘He advised me to give you a good strong dose of what you used to get at St Angela’s. In other words a damn good spanking, my girl!’

Julie flinched and bit her lip at the awful thought. Mr Hardcastle gaped at her in unabashed delight. Mr Martin’s eyes sparkled — he’d pronounced the word ‘spanking’ with gusto and relish. He’d felt good when he’d said it, even more so when he noticed the look of horror it brought to poor Julie’s face. By George, he’d got the lass where he wanted her now! There was no way she could wriggle out of it. It had been a stroke of genius, that bit about pretending he’d phoned Payne. He knew that Julie was gullible enough to believe him, and also that she was sufficiently in awe of her old mentor not to want to defy his wishes.

But Julie was in no state to argue anyway. The news that she was about to be spanked yet again, and this time by her new employer, was causing her deep distress. Even more distressing was the realisation that the painful, humiliating experience was going to be witnessed by a good-looking younger man.

Mr Martin took her by the wrist and led her over to his chair. She went demurely, without struggle or protest, like a lamb to the slaughter. She felt weak at the knees, her mouth had gone dry in nervous anticipation, and she thought she wanted to pee — but it was too late for that now. Mr Martin sat down and eased the trembling girl over his lap. There was something immensely satisfying — not to say exciting — about upending sweet, timid little Julie, so that her hands and dainty feet touched the floor on both sides of him, and the tight seat of her skirt presented itself before his eager eyes — a vulnerable yielding target. He could hear Julie whimpering before he’d even laid a hand on her! He remembered the advice that Mr Payne had given him at the interview about the girl.

‘Just be firm with her, Mr Martin. Don’t give her any alternatives. Get her accustomed, as soon as possible, to the idea of you smacking her bottom. Don’t procrastinate — just get the cheeky little madam over your knee with her pants down, double quick. That way, believe it or not, she’ll actually come to think of you as her moral guardian. Someone who cares enough about her well-being to want to spank her when she’s done wrong. London’s a lonely, frightening place, and Julie’s bound to feel like a rudderless ship when she first arrives. Especially as she’s been used to the peace and tranquillity of St Angela’s. Fatherly spankings from you will provide her with just the sort of emotional security she’ll need.’

Mr Martin couldn’t but reflect that Mr Payne’s advice had certainly paid dividends, more handsomely than he’d ever dared to expect. Julie, on the other hand, was entertaining far less pleasant thoughts. She was embarrassingly aware of her bottom sticking up in the air, and of how closely her employer must be studying it. She had been spanked while fully clothed often enough to know that, knickers and tight skirt notwithstanding, she was about to suffer a good deal more than loss of dignity. Her bottom actually felt as though it was growing in size and prominence. She felt mortified at its plumpness. She clenched her cheeks as if to lessen its erotically saucy swell; but all to no avail. She blushed to think of the tempting target she was presenting — the epitome of ripe, but innocent femininity. She felt Mr Martin’s hand exploring her full, rich curves. He patted, prodded and poked in exactly the same way that her tutors at St Angela’s had done. He pulled her further across his lap until her bottom stuck out at an even more oblique angle, and she was obliged to grasp his ankles to prevent herself from sliding head-first onto the floor. To provide additional anchorage he placed his left hand against the small of her back and pressed her so firmly against his thigh that she was pinned like a butterfly in a showcase. With his right hand he smoothed down the seat of her skirt, tested her buttocks for resilience, and finally made sure that her suspenders would not get in the way. Previous ordeals at St Angela’s had taught Julie how some men love to linger over the preparatory pre-spanking stage, to an almost ritualistic degree. She found it almost more demeaning than the spanking itself, and she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and silently prayed he’d get on with it — because then at least there’d be a light at the end of the tunnel. An end to the torment!

Mr Hardcastle gazed in mounting excitement as Mr Martin raised his arm above his head and brought the flat of his palm down smartly across the centre of poor little Julie’s well-rounded, prominent behind.

‘OW!’ she yelled, more in embarrassment than pain. It was, after all, a most embarrassing business, getting spanked. Being draped across some man’s knee, the blood rushing to one’s head, obliged to study the pattern of the carpet or the tiles, all too shamefully conscious of the helpless vulnerability of one’s bum.

Mr Martin smacked Julie’s wriggling bottom slowly, firmly, and very thoroughly. It wasn’t often that he managed to persuade a pretty secretary to go across his knee — so by golly he was going to make the most of it! He displayed boundless enthusiasm for his self-appointed task of drastically dusting down the seat of Julie’s black pencil skirt. It clung to her buttocks, making them appear cheekier and more prominent than they were. If the skirt hadn’t been made of good quality jersey material, five minutes’ exposure to the punishing onslaught of Mr Martin’s heavy male palm would have worn it positively threadbare. The two ripe melons of Julie’s cheeks were clearly outlined beneath the fabric, and Mr Martin smacked them vigorously, each in turn.

Mr Hardcastle watched spellbound as the spanking proceeded. Julie must by now be really feeling the smacks, since she had started to writhe and kick the floor with her threshing legs. Her blonde hair hung down in dishevelled disarray over her face, but when she jerked upwards each time Mr Martin’s hand landed on her bottom, the under-manager could see how she was biting her lip and frowning, in an attempt to fight back the unpleasant stinging sensations. She was, albeit unintentionally, treating the two men to a veritable feast of sensual bum-wiggling, and Mr Hardcastle couldn’t help but wonder if she was as demonstrative as that in bed. He wouldn’t say no to the opportunity of finding out.

Meanwhile his boss was concluding Julie’s first disciplinary instalment with a dozen or so real walloping smackeroos right across the crown of her seat that had her mewing like a distressed kitten. Then the hot, flustered girl was told to get up from over his lap and walk across to the window while he had a brief consultation with his under-manager. Julie did as she was told and stood there, rubbing her sore bottom, grateful to have got off so lightly — or so she thought. She felt very guilty about letting down the Bank and Mr Martin. She was well aware that such carelessness and incompetence on her part richly deserved punishment — and at least Mr Martin had taken it out on her bottom, rather than out of her wages. She’d still be able to buy that dress she’d seen in the boutique a few doors up from the Bank.

The two eminent executives, having embarked on a policy of momentous decision-making, had reached the inescapable conclusion that the punishment would continue with Julie minus her skirt. They were, in truth, both eager to get to the bottom of the matter, and had both been at pains to point out to each other that the baring of Julie’s bum would be both aesthetically pleasing and of great practical help, since they would then be able to study the effects of the spanking and gauge how much more additional chastisement would be appropriate.

When Mr Martin broke the news to Julie she nearly burst into tears on the spot. She went all hot and cold at the very idea of having to take off her skirt in the presence of the two men. It hadn’t been so bad at school when asked to remove one’s outer clothing prior to being walloped, because St Angela’s girls, early on in their school career, came to associate the wearing of gymslips with corporal punishment. They knew from the moment they got up in the morning, donned their gymslips and pulled their navy-blue knickers up over their swelling young rumps, that they were sitting ducks for liberal applications of the strap, the cane, or if lucky, a mere hand-spanking. But Julie had graduated from school uniform, with its shameful associations. She was now wearing the elegant, sophisticated garments of a personal secretary; all the accoutrements of mature womanhood — far, far removed from the world of schoolgirlish pranks and painful penalties exacted on hot, blushing, teenage bottoms. Besides, tight pencil skirts were so awkward when it came to removing them, and the particular skirt Julie was wearing was very tight indeed. It showed off her nether charms to perfection — Mr Martin had seen to that when he’d taken her measurements in the headmaster’s office.

She remembered too the difficulty she’d had removing it in 2D, for Mr Evans to get at her bottom. She felt sick with embarrassment at having to go through all that indignity again. At least she’d known Evans throughout her formative years, whereas these two men were virtual strangers. Mr Martin, stern yet quite kindly and avuncular. He was rapidly assuming the role of moral guardian formerly played by Mr Payne — Julie didn’t really mind that, since she’d always felt the need to look up to someone in her life. But Mr Hardcastle was an entirely different matter — young, good-looking, in fact decidedly dishy. Julie had to admit she found him attractive. He had longish dark hair, a rugged, very masculine appearance, and beautiful strong hands — girls always notice things like hands, especially girls who get spanked! They become almost connoisseurs of male palms. Nevertheless, it was going to be awfully demeaning for her to have to undress in front of him for a spanking, and she wished fervently that she was wearing less revealing knickers.

But she did as she was told and began tugging her skirt down over her thighs. She had long, coltish legs and the black seamed stockings set them off to perfection. The stockings were held up by a lacy white suspender belt. Skimpy white nylon panties did little to hide her modesty. Her blonde pubic bush peeped over the top of them. When she turned round to lay her skirt neatly over the back of the chair, her bottom-cheeks, rosy-hued from the spanking Mr Martin had just given them, wobbled engagingly.

But Julie was becoming troubled by other considerations — namely that she was starting to react in the same way as when Mr Evans had punished her the day before. She was growing aware of a hot, sticky sensation invading her loins. The prospect of another spanking — this time over her thin nylon knickers — was causing her to dampen herself in excitement. She just couldn’t understand it. Why on earth did being spanked affect her in this way? True, she’d lost her virginity to Mr Evans the night before, in 2D. That had certainly been some leaving present! She had at the time been left with the vague feeling that Evans’ urgent desire to do it to her had partly been engendered by the furious bout of activity on his part, his need to metamorphose her lily-white bottom into something approaching a well-boiled beetroot.

Nevertheless, that hadn’t altered her basic philosophy about corporal punishment — namely that it was administered to the bottoms of naughty girls like her, by high-minded men with nothing but the most altruistic of principles. (‘Corrective Training’ had been the title given to it in the St Angela’s curriculum.) Julie, as we’ve said before, was a rather naive girl, who never questioned the motives of men in loco parentis over her; nor, for that matter, did she doubt the integrity of bank managers and their deputies. If they, in their wisdom, had decided that she merited another spanking, she was quite resigned to gritting her teeth and presenting her bottom for chastisement. What she couldn’t reconcile herself to was her own equivocal attitude towards the business: on the one hand, a heavy heart, a sinking tummy, a general feeling of dread and trepidation; but on the other, a sticky wetness in her knickers — getting stickier by the minute, a growing mood of excitement, and a fatalistic, almost perverse conviction that for what she was about to receive she should be truly thankful, since she no doubt deserved everything she was going to get.

Mr Martin called her over to them, where they were seated by the boardroom table. Julie, her heart beating furiously, approached her manager’s chair, and once more prepared to ease herself across his lap. Mr Martin put out his arm to forestall her.

‘No, Julie, this time it’s Mr Hardcastle’s turn. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t organise this on a job-sharing basis.’

Julie shrank back in sudden alarm at this appalling revelation.

‘Go on! Bend over his lap, Julie!’ Mr Martin ordered brusquely. ‘I’m a firm believer in delegating my powers. I’m sure Mr Hardcastle is just as capable of warming your bottom as I am.’

Mr Hardcastle was seated directly behind the trembling girl so that her bottom was pleasingly displayed to him in all its pert pulchritude. He leaned across and deftly planted a crisp SMACK right where she’d feel it the most. Her little knickers were drawn up into the deep division between her cheeks — besides which they were virtually transparent, so he could study the reddening effect of the slap, as well as hear the startled exclamation from Julie.

She was horror-struck at the thought of having to go across the younger man’s knee.

‘Oh, Mr Martin, sir, I’d rather you did it, really I would.’

‘Come come, Julie. Don’t you like Mr Hardcastle? It might prove a serious stumbling-block to your career if you displayed unwarranted animosity towards one of your senior management staff. We can’t tolerate that sort of attitude here at Boutts, you know, Julie!’ Mr Martin’s voice had assumed a harsh, hectoring tone. Tears of bitter humiliation welled up in Julie’s eyes. How could she possibly explain? Not like him? On the contrary, she liked him, if anything, too much — even if he had pinched her bum in the corridor just before lunch. She didn’t object too much to being spanked by a man old enough to be her father, but Mr Hardcastle was scarcely that. He was young, eligible, drove a sports-car, and obviously had a keen eye for the ladies. If he spanked her she knew she’d lose control of herself. There’d be no knowing what she’d do!

‘No, Mr Martin, it’s not that. It’s not that at all. I… er… that is… I think Mr Hardcastle’s very nice indeed!’ She blushed and stammered, feeling utterly ridiculous without her skirt. She was taking great pains to keep her legs tightly together. ‘It’s just that… just that… well, I’d find it awfully embarrassing to be, you know… spanked by him!’

‘Why?’ Mr Martin persisted mercilessly.

Awkward silence from Julie. More blushes and bottom-conscious manoeuvres. The poor girl just couldn’t bring herself to admit to the unspeakable. Instead, she tried to evade the issue.

‘I don’t really mind you doing it to me, sir. If that’s the official policy of the Bank.’ Mr Martin nearly chuckled out loud at the girl’s gullibility.

‘Please, sir! Spank me, sir! I’d much rather it was you!’ Julie was almost falling over herself in unseemly haste to go across the older man’s knee again! An almost farcical element was creeping into the proceedings. But Mr Martin turned a deaf ear to all her please.

‘Julie, in view of what you’ve just said, I really do think that it would be a most salutary experience for you if Mr Hardcastle did continue your punishment.’ More wails and protests from the mortified girl.

‘Pride goes before a fall, Julie!’ he added sanctimoniously. ‘You’ve got to learn from your mistakes the hard way. Here, at Boutts, we always start our female employees off at the bottom, if you see what I mean.’ Unfortunately Julie did not see the joke. She was so terribly shy about having to go over nice Mr Hardcastle’s lap that she didn’t even dare look at him in the face. She stood as if in a trance, trembling by his side, her eyes firmly closed. In this condition she launched herself over his lap, with the result that she tumbled, none too gracefully, into the required position. Unfortunately, in doing so, she fell onto Mr Hardcastle’s fully erect male member, causing him considerable discomfort. It took him a few painful seconds to regain control over the situation.

Despite the dreadful indignity of it all, Julie was so excited to discover his erection that she grew wetter by the second, and her mind flooded with erotic images of Mr Hardcastle slaking his amorous desires in her. He pulled her right across his thighs until her hands rested on the carpet and her long blonde hair hid the growing blush on her face. She felt completely defenceless, an almost comic spectacle of blossoming girlhood reduced to abject submission across a strong, muscular male lap. Mr Hardcastle paused, momentarily transfixed by the soft rich curves of Julie’s bottom that now lay before him, like an untasted box of delights. Pinioning her by the small of her back as he’d seen his senior colleague do, he placed his right hand directly across the swell of both cheeks, her little knickers offering her no concealment or protection whatsoever. Then he began to spank her — rather half-heartedly at first, not quite knowing how hard to make the slaps. But he quickly realised that Julie’s bottom, like all those of her sex, was remarkably absorbent of pain; and soon he was laying into her for all he was worth, the room resounding to the impacts of hand upon flesh. Mr Martin beamed complacently, lay back in his chair and lit a cigar.

Now Julie’s bottom was stinging like mad, and she began clenching and unclenching her cheeks in a vain endeavour to cushion the blows. Then she tried squirming sensuously, and attempted to shield her belaboured derriere with her hand, until Mr Hardcastle grabbed it and pinned it behind her back, once more leaving the writhing, twisting target area exposed and vulnerable. For a novice at the game he was learning fast! Mr Martin offered words of encouragement. He commented on the deep scarlet hue that Julie’s bum was beginning to take on. He congratulated Mr Hardcastle on his zeal, perseverance and perspicacity:

‘A most impressive performance, old boy! Remind me to recommend you for the managership of our Bolton branch.’

This latter remark inspired the younger man to spank the girl with even greater fervour, and he let loose a volley of stinging SMACKs right across the lower, sensitive part of her bottom and upper thighs that immediately had poor Julie wriggling and squealing madly. Mr Hardcastle really began warming to his work, and soon angry blotches began to appear, superimposed upon the already reddened behind. Julie was getting perilously near to tears. Her well-spanked bottom was positively throbbing. She no longer cared what she did or said, or however much of her private person she was shamelessly exhibiting to her tormentor. If only he’d stop smacking her! Perhaps she ought to stop jiggling it about and keep it still… no, that didn’t work, dammit, it only enabled him to concentrate the smacks on one area. What grim quirk of fate had cursed her with such a slappable, smackable bottom? She hadn’t asked to be born with it. Why couldn’t she have been given a flat unattractive one that no man would look twice at, or else a sagging, mountainous one like the fat old counter clerk, Mrs Owens, who had an arse that none but Edmund Hillary would want to scale!

Julie was dying to go to the loo — if he didn’t stop soon she’d surely wet herself! But Mr Hardcastle had no intention of stopping. He was enjoying himself far too much. Julie’s animated vocal refrains bore striking testament to this:

SMACK!

‘OH!’

SMACK!!

‘OUCH!!’

SMACK!!!

‘PLEASE STOP! THAT’S ENOUGH!!!’

SMACK!!!!

‘OOOH! IT HURTS SO! MY BOTTOM’S ON FIRE!!!!’

Mr Martin addressed the grizzling girl sternly:

‘Nonsense, Julie. It’s meant to hurt. That’s the whole idea. It’s all part of my new staff development plan. I’m seriously considering implementing it in all our branches throughout the country — the perfect medicine for lazy, uncooperative typists. Right, Mr Hardcastle, that will do very nicely, thank you! I think she’s had enough for the moment, haven’t you, Julie?’

Julie was sobbing unashamedly now. The spanking over, she stumbled up from MR Hardcastle’s lap, clutching her painful rear with both hands, and made a frantic dash — boo-hooing all the way to the en suite executive loo. In her haste to relieve herself she momentarily forgot how sore she was — a fatal error of judgement — because a piercing yell followed by a loud repentant ‘OUCH!’ greeted the ears of her superiors as her carmine, tender behind made sudden unwelcome contact with the unyielding toilet seat.

Once she’d got over the stinging discomfort, she was able to abandon herself to the temporary bliss of satisfying the call of nature. Oh, but her bottom hurt DREADFULLY. Would it ever get better? Would she ever be allowed to possess a pure, white, unsullied behind? Or would there always be a stern chastiser, a Payne, an Evans, a Martin, a Hardcastle forever waiting in the wings to take her in hand? How could she ever entertain the idea of a boyfriend if her bottom was permanently red? He’d be bound to notice sooner or later. Some opportunity would no doubt present itself for him to take her to bed — and how ashamed she’d be to slip down her knickers and disclose the awful truth about her bottom and the regular spankings it received.

‘Don’t bother to pull up your knickers, Julie. Take them right off and come back in here!’

‘Oh Christ!’ she thought. ‘What fresh torment are they concocting for me? Surely I’ve been spanked more than enough for one day.’

In a mood bordering on total despair, Julie re-entered the office, minus her knickers. Mr Martin was brandishing a large wooden clothes brush. Julie eyed it with total incredulity — they weren’t intending to smack her with that? She’d never sit down for a fortnight! She burst into fresh floods of tears and, on a sudden impulse, ran across to Mr Hardcastle and buried her face in his chest.

‘Oh, sir!’ she sobbed and hiccupped. ‘PLEASE don’t let him smack me with that horrid thing! I couldn’t BEAR it, I know I couldn’t! My b-bottom’s all used up — I can hardly sit down as it is!’ And she blushed to remember that Hardcastle must have heard her loud exclamation of pain when she’d plonked herself down so indiscreetly on the toilet seat.

‘There, there, Julie,’ he comforted her. ‘We’ve reached the last lap! Just a mere ten smacks with the brush and then we’ll call it a day.’

Julie wailed at the mere idea of that loathsome brush attacking her burning derriere. With one hand Mr Hardcastle tenderly stroked her golden hair; with the other he carefully explored every inch of her chastised, throbbing bottom, patting each cheek gently in turn, then switching his attention to the oozing wetness down between her thighs. She ceased to sob, and began to pant as his fingers explored further. Her eyes took on a far-away, dreamy expression, and her tongue peeped sensuously out between parted lips.

Brazenly, too far gone to care, she wriggled and squirmed her way towards climax. Mr Martin, standing behind her, wished he had a movie camera to record the erotic vulgarity of her gyrating, spank-stained buttocks.

‘Ten hard stingers with the clothes brush, Julie.’ He sternly reminded her. ‘Bare-bottomed, across my knee. You’ll be bawling like a five-year-old before I’ve finished with you.’

The full significance of the remark was not lost on Julie, as she bumped and grinded on the road to orgasm. In fact it probably provided the piquant frisson needed to finally push her over the edge.  She came noisily, greedily. Afterwards Mr Hardcastle patted her bottom affectionately and led her over to where Mr Martin was standing waiting, brush in hand.

All of a sudden the enormity of what she’d just done burst into Julie’s consciousness. She’d actually had the bare-faced — and bare-bottomed — gall to seek out and achieve sexual relief in the presence of her two bosses! How could she ever look them in the eyes again? How wickedly sinful she’d been! She glanced again at the clothes brush Mr Martin was holding. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all? She’d no doubt yell the place down — but it would definitely help her square up to her conscience. And had her ears deceived her, or had Mr Hardcastle, before handing her over to Mr Martin for her final bottom-smacking that day, whispered something about a dinner date that evening? Julie had mumbled inanely, ‘As long as I can eat standing up’ and Mr Hardcastle had gently rumpled her hair, assuring her that the ‘patron’ of the exclusive little French restaurant he intended to take her to would doubtless be able to provide her with an extra soft cushion.

‘So maybe things aren’t so bad after all.’ She thought philosophically, as she settled herself across Mr Martin’s lap for the second time that day. But when the heavy brush began to assault her upturned, defenceless rear, the tears welled up all over again.

‘Just wait till I write to Hazel Lysle about all this!’ she thought amidst her tears. ‘She’ll never believe a word of it! Three bottom-smackings AND a dinner-date with the under-spank-manager — all in one day. She won’t half be jealous!’

The further adventures of Julie Williamson are detailed in Ninth on the Agenda and Customer Relations at Boutts.