Customer Relations at Boutts
Story from Roué 19, the final instalment in the adventures of St Angela’s alumna Julie Williamson (Room 2D Continued, Episode at St Angela’s, Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 1, Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 2 and Ninth on the Agenda)
It wasn’t until half-past-four, when the books were
balanced, that the twenty-five pounds deficit was discovered. One of the
cashiers must have accidentally overpaid a customer. Twenty-five pounds was
neither here nor there to a prosperous, thriving bank like Boutts dealing in
hundreds of thousands daily — but a deficit is still a deficit: the error had
to be traced and the cashier reprimanded. Ralph Hardcastle, the deputy manager,
decided to look into it himself.
There had been four cashiers on duty that day. Albert
Potts, the senior cashier, was above suspicion: he’d never committed an error —
however slight — in all his forty-seven years’ devoted service, and as he was
now nearing retirement age it would have been unreasonable to hint even
at any blemish on his spotless record. The three other cashiers were all
female. Janet Owen and Hilda Bradbury, staunchly reliable, matronly ladies in
their late forties who’d been at the bank since they were young slips of girls,
were likewise beyond reproach. No minor discrepancy ever escaped their watchful
eyes. Nevertheless, Hardcastle did a quick check on their figures and found
them as impeccable as ever.
That just left 18-year-old Annette. Like Julie
Williamson, Annette was a school-leaver. Unlike Julie, who was slightly better
at typing than she was at adding up figures, Annette was slightly better at
adding up than she was at typing. It seemed therefore a good idea to put her to
work on the cash counters, once her initial training period was over. Annette
loved it. Everything, from doling out the crisp new bank-notes to the
impressive-looking plastic card bearing her name ‘ANNETTE ROBINSON’ below the
grille, made her feel so important — so much a part of the organisation.
Soon she lost her schoolgirl shyness and became emboldened enough to chat and
joke with the customers, particularly the ‘regulars’ — the small traders and
businessmen who came in near the end of the week to cash up and withdraw money
to pay wages. She began to know them all as individuals: the bluff hearty ones,
the timid diffident ones, the dour grumpy ones, the jokey playful ones. Annette
was a pleasant-looking girl — quite tall and leggy with a nice trim figure,
attractive rather than pretty, her straight blonde hair cropped short at the
back and sides, but with an appealing little fringe sweeping down over her big
blue eyes. She had a broad, slightly roguish smile revealing a cute tiny gap
between her two upper front teeth — a slight flaw in her features which many
men found irresistible. The cheekier ones among them — staff and customers
alike — told her openly how much they fancied her. It always made her blush —
and that only made her look even more fanciable. One smooth-talking Casanova of
a customer, bolder than the rest, even asked her for a date — but of course she
refused. Mixing pleasure with business would have been terribly unprofessional!
Hardcastle liked the girl too, but at the same time he’d
studied her long enough to know that her powers of concentration were liable to
lapse now and again; she was quite capable of making the occasional careless
slip. He was convinced she’d committed the blunder — it was just a question of
locating it. He set about comparing the amounts on the cashed cheques with the
amounts recorded in her ledger. He was a fast, scrupulously accurate accountant
and it didn’t take him long to spot the mistake: a certain Mr Lindthrop had
presented a cheque for twenty-five pounds, but in her ledger Annette had
recorded fifty pounds against his name! Lindthrop had either been too
absent-minded to check the money or else too dishonest and unchivalrous
to point out the mistake to the girl. Drawing her closer to him, he showed
Annette where she’d gone wrong.
‘Gosh!’ she exclaimed, ‘I can’t think how that happened!’
Blushingly she apologised. She even offered to repay the
money out of her own pocket, but, as Hardcastle pointed out, that would be
highly irregular and, anyhow, unnecessary since cashiers were not personally
liable for the financial errors they made. Nevertheless he’d have to report it
to the manager, just to keep the record straight.
‘Oh dear!’ she murmured, biting her lower lip. ‘What do
you think he’ll do?’
‘Nothing drastic like giving you the sack — don’t worry
Annette!’ he chuckled, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He’ll probably tell you you’re
a naughty girl, put you across his knee, and then forget about the whole thing!’
Annette giggled nervously at the absurdity of the idea — she hadn’t been
spanked since she was nine, and she naturally assumed Hardcastle to be joking.
But was he? He recalled Julie Williamson on that
memorable day when the two of them had spanked her. Yes — he knew his boss
alright, knew him to be quite capable of dishing out the odd spanking now and
again…
Indeed, at that moment, in the snug, sound-proof privacy
of his inner sanctum, old Martin was discussing the very same topic with his
pretty secretary, Julie — an ex-St Angela’s girl. True, it was she who had
brought it up, but only because she’d just had to suffer a prolonged and
painful walloping across his lap — her punishment for ‘administrative
inefficiency’ as he’d rather vaguely put it. Recently, much to her alarm, the
spankings had increased in frequency until they’d become practically a daily
occurrence. Martin had only to look at her in a certain way and she knew she
was in for it!
‘Sir!’ she’d gasped breathlessly as she bounced and
cavorted in time to the managerial smacks raining down like hailstones on her
cutely feminine little rump, ‘Couldn’t you find someone else’s bum to spank as
well as mine? OUCH! OOH! YARROO!! — I mean it’s not really fair — OW! — the way
— URRGH! — I get picked on all the — CHRIST! — time!’
She did have a point. Even Martin, if pressed, would
have had to admit it: poor Julie had become something of a
whipping-boy in recent weeks. He’d actually begun to find himself running out
of reasons to inveigle the demure, nymph-like Miss Williamson over his knee…
Besides, the idea of extending his disciplinary activities to fresh fields and
bottoms new was certainly not without its appeal.
But where was such a girl to be found? Willing — or at
least non-protesting — victims like Julie didn’t exactly abound. Julie’s
eminent suitability lay in her highly disciplined St Angela’s training —
disciplined because St Angela’s was one of the very few girls’ schools (more’s
the pity!) still to employ corporal punishment, and sadly there were no more
vacancies on his staff at the present time, so he would be unable to commandeer
another St Angela’s girl — excellent though her spanking pedigree would no
doubt be. All of which meant that the victim would have to be found from within
existing ranks. That narrowed the field considerably. He
thought of the flesh mountain called Janet Owen, the scraggy withered haunches
of Hilda Bradbury and shuddered.
Thankfully he returned to the business in hand, and
smiled benignly at the neat little bottom reddening up nicely beneath his
flashing palm. No! — he’d have to go a long way to beat Julie. (Felicitous
choice of words there, he thought to himself.) So meekly compliant, so
long-sufferingly receptive — so transcendentally smackable!
‘Go on, kick and yell as much as you like, my dear!’ he
mused complacently, ‘It won’t get you off the hook!’
But Julie’s frantic struggling and tearful cries were
occasioned by the fact that Martin, deep in reverie, had lost all track of time
and had absentmindedly — but nonetheless energetically — been chastising his
lovely secretary for at least twenty minutes — if not more! Julie was too much
of a brick to complain openly about it, but things were rapidly reaching a
stage where, if she didn’t do something about it pretty soon, she’d be
completely unable to sit down for the rest of the week — and today was only
Tuesday! She had to say something.
SMACK! ’OUCH!
— Sir?’ — SMACK! ’OOOOOH! — Shouldn’t you be preparing for
your interview’ — SPLAT! — ‘AARRGH! — with Miss Brown, the
lady with the big’ — CRACK! — ‘OW! — overdraft?’ Martin paused
in mid-flight, suddenly realised the time, let go his hold on her, and she slid
onto the carpet with a most unladylike PLOP! — grateful only
that her quick wits had managed to extricate herself from yet another tricky
situation. For a moment she lay there gasping and wriggling, bottom upmost,
busily massaging the afflicted area while Martin rang through to ask for an
up-to-date balance on Miss Brown’s account. Painfully, Julie assumed an upright
position, retrieved her knickers from where they’d been flung unceremoniously
by her employer into a far corner of the room, eased them up over her hot,
stinging bum-cheeks — likewise her black straight skirt, slit teasingly up the
back.
‘All ship-shape and decent are we now?’ Martin enquired
of the snuffling, wet-eyed girl, while he carried on studying the figures
pertaining to the customer due to arrive at any minute.
‘Good gracious!’ he cried. ‘Miss Brown is two hundred
and seventy-one pounds, ninety-four pence overdrawn!’
‘If anyone deserves a spanking, then it’s her,’ Julie
muttered sulkily as she exited from the room clutching her smarting rear-end.
The remark didn’t register immediately with Martin, but seconds later the full
significance of it hit him.
‘I wonder?’ he pondered thoughtfully.
Five minutes later Julie buzzed him to say Miss Brown
had arrived. Would he see her now? Yes he would.
The door opened.
‘Miss Brown, sir.’ Julie glanced at the little brunette
provocatively dressed in lacy black top and skin-tight, tomboyish black
corduroy jeans, and she couldn’t restrain a childish giggle at the sight of
Martin’s fishy, lecherous eyes practically popping out of their sockets.
He’d certainly have a field day with that little madam
over his knee! She thought to herself. That bum! Wiggling its way across the
room like two plums bursting out of a bag! Will he or won’t he? She wondered as
she left them to it and closed the door.
Martin deliberately kept her waiting a moment while he
pretended to scrutinise a ledger of figures…
‘Now then, Miss Brown.’
‘Miz Brown, actually,’ she corrected him with a superior
air. His eyes met her coolly insolent challenging gaze.
‘Please sit down.’ Her black corduroyed little rear-end
made discreet contact with the hard surface of the leather-bottomed chair. Ah!
Those naughty, improvident bottom-cheeks — and what lies between them! His
managerial mind seethed with wicked fantasies.
‘I expect you know why I wrote to ask you to call in and
see me. It’s about your overdraft, Miz Brown.’ Martin’s words ran along
well-oiled channels — it was the usual script he adopted with overdrawn
customers and he hardly had to think what to say next, he’d said it all so
often before. Tina Brown’s haughty, impeccably groomed features hardened into
an expression of utter distaste.
‘Yes — well look — I know you must think I’ve been a bit
extravagant recently — but most of the expenses were unavoidable — my Mini
broke down on the motorway and I had to pay to have it towed away, and the
garage had to put a new engine in — then there was my Barclaycard — I got
behind with that and I had to send three months’ payments all in one — ‘
‘Yes, that’s all very well,’ Martin cut in smoothly but
impatiently ‘What I’d like to know now is, what arrangements can you make to
repay the overdraft?’
‘Well — if you can just give me a little time, I’m sure
I can get things straight again…’
‘Ah! They all say that, Miz Brown.’ He retorted
scathingly. There was something about her arrogant manner that annoyed him
intensely.
‘I do feel you’re being a little bit unfair to me,’ she
was colouring up now under the pressure. Traces of irritation were beginning to
show in her voice.
‘Miz Brown,’ Martin explained wearily, ‘I’ve been very
patient with you over the past year. I notice that your account has been
permanently in the red. I must tell you it’s an extremely unsatisfactory basis
on which to do business. We must come to some sort of
arrangement. Today!’
She pouted in annoyance and tapped her dainty foot
against the leg of the chair.
‘Shall I or shan’t I?’ he inwardly debated. He realised
that it all depended on how tactfully he worded his opening gambit: all his
managerial skills would be on trial. But she made it easy for him by her next
remark, which was so injudicious that she fell right into the palm of his hand.
Literally the palm of his hand!
‘Quite frankly, Mr Martin,’ she snapped, her auburn
curls flouncing about prettily, ‘I’m sick to death of the whole thing — and you
and your bloody bank can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. Suggest what you
like — see if I care!’
‘Miss Brown,’ he retorted crisply refusing
to pander any more to her stupid feminist whims, ‘I’m not used to being spoken
to in that way. What’s more, your complete lack of self-discipline when it
comes to money is utterly disgraceful and, I’m afraid, all too typical of your
generation. If I were your father I’d know what I’d do — I’d turn you over my
knee and give you a damn good spanking.’ (There — he’d said it. Now to weigh up
her reaction. Light the blue touch-paper and retire ten paces…)
‘What a thoroughly disgusting, typically male chauvinist
remark!’ she blazed angrily.
But yet she made no attempt to leave. In fact she was
debating whether or not to call his bluff — for she was a cool, calculating
little hussy, was Tina Brown. She’d read of situations like this. Hadn’t there
been a story in the papers a year or two ago about an American bank manager who
spanked his customers when they were in the red — but, by way of compensation,
still allowed them to overdraw? Maybe she could do such a deal with Martin? Rapidly,
cold-bloodedly she compared the two alternatives. Which was the worse: a
drearily stringent, financially crippling series of monthly repayments — or the
temporary discomfort of a sore, stinging bottom? She was too hard-bitten, too
hard-headed to be swayed by considerations of modesty, affronted dignity, or
any such old-fashioned idealistic claptrap as that. Like so many girls around
today, she was a feminist only when it suited her to be. And as for the risk of
him hurting her, she comforted herself that her thick corduroy jeans would
afford ample protection…
Martin, though, had been so deterred by the aggressively
hostile reception with which his proposal had been greeted that he’d completely
abandoned the project, and was now busily calculating the monthly repayments
(including interest) which Miss Brown would have to make in order to clear the
overdraft within six months.
Imagine, therefore, his astonishment when Tina Brown
calmly announced: ‘Look here, Mr Martin. If I let you smack my bottom — will
you forget about my overdraft?’
He dropped his pen in stunned amazement: it fell on the
desk with a clatter — had he heard right?
‘Er — would you mind repeating that, Miss Brown?’
She did.
He thought long and hard before replying.
‘I might — just might — be prepared to consider your
somewhat unusual request, although I hasten to add that it hardly conforms with
official banking procedure. And I warn you in advance that there’d be
conditions.’
‘Such as?’
Martin felt an invigorating sense of power surge through
his veins. Tina Brown was helplessly trapped in a web of her own fashioning.
The fact that she was also a haughty, petulant little madam would make taking
her down a peg or two all the more satisfying. He wanted to savour to the full
the poetic justice of the situation, so he lit a cigar, leaned back comfortably
in his executive swivel-chair, and studied her keenly through the aromatic
smoky haze.
‘You owe the bank precisely two hundred and seventy-one
pounds and ninety-four pence, don’t you?’
She nodded, tight-lipped.
‘My conditions,’ he went on, ‘are these: firstly that
you make nine appointments, over a period of time, to see me here in order to
pay off the amount in the currency of two hundred and seventy smacks on your
bottom (I’ll let you off the one pound and ninety-four pence) equally divided
among the nine appointments, at the rate of thirty smacks per session with a
wooden clothes brush which I, er, just happen to have here in my desk drawer,’
— and, so saying, he produced the solid, hefty-looking implement which had so
effectively reddened his secretary’s bum four months earlier.
Tina gulped and wriggled involuntarily in her seat,
imagining just how costly those sessions were going to prove in terms of
sitting down afterwards. Still — he had intimated that the
spankings would not merely postpone but actually pay off the debt, at one pound
per smack. That was more than she’d dared to hope for!
‘My second condition,’ he went on gravely, ‘is that you
receive these spankings on your — er — with your trousers and pants down — ‘
‘No!’ she rose from her chair mutinously. ‘Now that’s
going too far! I can’t accept that — think of the pain.’
‘Is it the pain that’s bothering you — or the indignity?’
he asked, his curiosity awakened.
‘The pain! Sod the indignity.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Alright then, Miss Brown,’ he presented her with the
alternative. ‘Repayments of fifty pounds per month for six months — that’s with
interest. Don’t forget the spankings would have been interest-free.’
She sat down again and stared thoughtfully at the
carpet. This called for a reappraisal of the situation.
‘How long would the intervals be between the — er —
smackings?’
‘Let’s say a month. That would give your bottom plenty
of time to recover before the next appointment.’
‘What if I decide halfway through the whole thing that I’ve
had enough?’
‘I shall simply subtract the number of smacks you’ve
already had from the sum total, and whatever’s owing you’ll have to pay off in
pounds — with interest, of course.’
‘But how on earth are you going to square it with the
bank?’ she demanded sceptically: ‘the overdraft, I mean — not the other thing.’
‘Leave all that to me.’ He dismissed her incredulity
with an impatient gesture. ‘There’s ways and means of doing these things, I
assure you, Miss Brown.’
‘Miz Brown,’ she corrected him.
‘Now for my third condition,’ he resumed, totally
ignoring her last remark. ‘We begin today — right away — with the first
instalment of thirty smacks. Any objections?’
‘Oh! — does it have to be now?’ she grew pale and
started to stammer. ‘C-couldn’t we d-do it tomorrow, please?’ a plaintive note
had crept into her voice.
‘What’s wrong with now?’ Martin persisted, relishing her
discomfiture.
‘Well — er — nothing really, I suppose. Only —’
‘Only what?’
‘I’d just like a bit of time to get used to the idea,
that’s all.’ The confidence was draining out of her like water from a sieve.
‘Anyway, tomorrow’s completely out of the question,’ he
told her impatiently. ‘I’ve got meetings all day — which are a lot more
important than smacking your bottom. Now hurry up and decide, Miss Brown.
I’ve no use at all for people who waste my time.’
‘Oh dear!’ she saw there was no getting out of it. ‘I —
I suppose I may as well get the first instalment over and done with before I
lose my nerve entirely.’ She rationalised, trying to convince herself that she’d
made the right decision.
Martin buzzed his secretary: ‘Julie, I want no interruptions
for at least the next twenty minutes, understand?’
Julie understood alright. So that snooty little cow,
Tina Brown, was going to get her bum smacked after all! Julie
was delighted to think that someone else, besides herself, was going to get it.
‘Bout time an’ all. Hope he makes her cry — stuck-up little bitch.’ She added
with uncharacteristic vindictiveness.
Meanwhile, tight-lipped, sullen-faced and ashen-pale,
Miss Brown prepared herself for punishment: unbuckled her chic little red belt,
then unfastened the zip to her trousers. She made a valiant attempt at
flippancy: ‘Do you do this to all your customers who overdraw, Mr Martin?’
But the bravado was only skin-deep; she was dreading
what was to follow, but she tried to cheer herself up with the thought that the
ordeal would at least soon be over — with a month’s blissful grace before the
next time; whereas those ghastly repayments and interest charges would have
stretched out into infinity…
She tugged repeatedly at her trousers. They were so
clinging that she had quite a job to pull them down over her saucily prominent
little behind. Intimate regions of pale, maidenly flesh started to appear, as
well as the scalloped waistband of her pink nylon knickers. Her jeans were
still proving obstinate — they stuck to her thighs like a second skin. Feeling
extremely awkward and foolish, she eventually managed to peel them right down
to her knees. She looked up blushingly at Martin, seeking his approval — but he
still wasn’t satisfied.
‘That’s no good! You’d better remove them completely, Miss Brown — they’ll only get in the way!’ To do this she had to first kick off her high-heeled shoes, because of the narrow, drain-pipe bottoms of the jeans. Without her high heels, Tina Brown looked every inch the teenage reprobate that she felt. Martin seemed to tower above her as he moved about the room, dragging the chair she’d sat on away from the desk and into the middle of the office, so as to allow plenty of room for the punishment. He took off his jacket, rolled up his right shirt sleeve, picked up the long-handled clothes brush and stood there waiting impassively for Tina Brown to finish undressing herself below the waist. She slipped her little pink knickers down with an almost indecently enthusiastic haste — to have done it slowly, she thought, would have made her feel rather like a vulgar stripper, and she felt bad enough already without adding to her misery.
Her near-nakedness intensified her sense of awful
vulnerability. All she had on now was the black top that finished well above
her waist (it wouldn’t get in the way, so he couldn’t possibly ask
her to take that off, too!) and a dinky pair of white ankle
socks that fitted to a tee the erring schoolgirl role that she was so
reluctantly having to play.
But, for her, the most excruciatingly humiliating part
of the whole exercise, so far, was having to go over this greying,
impeccably-dressed man’s knee. After all, it was supposed to be a bloody
punishment! But there she was with her genital region pressed ever so tightly
against his (she could feel him stirring down there, too) and with her
exquisitely dainty white bum sticking up rudely, obscenely, all too accessible
for his inspection and delectation. She felt as though she were undergoing some
sort of bizarre medical examination! She wouldn’t have minded if he’d
actually been a doctor (she liked doctors, as do most women)
but a bank manager — ugh! Old enough to be her father, too!
She felt silly, uncomfortable, and embarrassed, hanging
over his knee — like a piece of unwanted flotsam. The blood rushed to her
upside-down head, her expensively coiffure curls trailed untidily in her eyes
and tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze, and her hands encountered only
thin air — the floor was a good six inched below. Then Martin did something
that he always did when just about to spank Julie (the two girls were very
similar in build — if not in temperament). He put his hand underneath Tina
Brown’s waist and pulled her even further forward across his lap, so that her
feet parted company with the floor and she felt suspended in space, hanging
limply like a little rag doll. This added an even more vulgar touch to the
business, since Martin could now closely study what lay between her legs:
cherished female anatomical equipment that only her lovers were allowed access
to.
‘I suppose that at this stage you’re going to say
something pompous and cliché-ridden — something like ‘This is going to hurt me
more than it hurts you’!’ She was still gamely trying to make a joke of it all,
but her voice sounded small, muffled, frightened. Martin didn’t reply, he was
trying to prevent himself from touching her bottom with his hand, for that
might have seemed inappropriately like a lover’s caress. He felt himself throb
with mounting excitement — the truth was he dared not speak in case his voice
shook and betrayed the fever in his blood. He reached behind him and picked up
the clothes brush from the desk.
Tina Brown winced and uttered a little groan of despair
as Martin tentatively measured the cold wooden back of the large, oval-shaped
implement fully against the twin melons of her arrogant, pampered behind.
Elsewhere, her lissom body was deeply tanned — witness to many expensive hours
spent in the solarium (more extravagance, Martin fumed!) But her
soon-to-be-spanked bottom was white — white as the driven snow. Not for long,
though. A ‘tanning’ of a very different nature awaited it!
Martin raised the clothes brush high above his head,
then brought it down sharply upon Tina’s swelling buttock crowns. CRACK! They
tightened urgently, and she began to breathe hard and rhythmically to try to
curb the unpleasantly stinging smart.
‘Count them, please, Miss Brown!’
She breathed out deeply as the initial pain ebbed away.
‘One,’ she said.
CRACK! —
high up on the right cheek! Tina twitched with the sudden impact.
‘Uh! — Two!’
CRACK! —
ditto on the other cheek! Silky sibilance as she rubbed her legs together,
testing out all manner of bodily ploys to dampen down the ever-growing ache
that was beginning to plague her …
‘Th-Th-Three!’
‘Stick your bottom up higher please, Miss Brown!… That’s
better!’ He wanted the target area to be as prominent as possible. CRACK!! —
harder than the others, and like the very first one, fairly and squarely aimed
at those infuriatingly saucy summits of both bottom cheeks:
‘OW! OOH! That one hurt! Can I rub it, please?’
‘Certainly not, Miss Brown! It’ll interfere with my
rhythm!’
‘BUGGER YOUR RHYTHM!’ she swore insolently at him, like
any vulgar street tart. But retribution fell swiftly and abundantly.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Upon the delicately sensitive area just above the
tops of her thighs.
A miserable wail of dismay from the girl greeted this
concerted attack upon her soft feminine charms. She kicked and rolled, trying
her utmost to extricate herself from the iron grip he maintained around her
waist.
‘Miss Brown! — Miss Brown! Control yourself! —
Struggling won’t do any good — I can assure you! I’m not going to let you get
up now until I’ve finished! Remember our agreement? Kindly recommence counting
— or else I’ll have to start all over again.’
‘Oh Christ — it stings so!’ she mewed and gurgled
incoherently, but by some miracle (or maybe just luck) managed to count out the
correct number of strokes: ‘Four! — Five! — Six! — Seven!’ then went rigid in
fear, remembering the remaining twenty-three.
The first eight strokes with the clothes brush had already imparted a scarlet glowing blush to Tina Brown’s bum-cheeks. An impartial observer would have been hard put, if asked, to forecast the colour they would attain on completion of the bum-smacking exercise. Thirty whacks with a clothes brush was, after all, a pretty hefty sentence. Tina was already wishing she’d never embarked upon this painful enterprise. How on earth was she going to be able to sit still for long enough to drive home? Still, some perverse devil within her counselled stoicism and endurance. She had little option, in view of what Martin had just said — he certainly wasn’t going to allow her to back off now!
----//----
In her tiny office, Julie had ceased typing and, with
unabashed delight, was drinking in the sounds of the hearty spanking coming
from the next room. Even with the dividing door closed she could hear it quite
clearly: the rhythmic, fleshy-sounding CRACK! (she guessed
correctly that Martin was using the clothes brush on Miss Brown — she’d
recognise that distinctive slap of wood on bottom anywhere!), the muffled cries
and garbled pleas for mercy. The more she listened, the more excited she became…
If she closed her eyes she could picture the scene quite vividly; that dainty
little bare bottom shuddering and twitching — all the time getting redder and
redder and redder!… If only she could be allowed to watch!… She felt herself
going all hot and sticky between the legs, and she was just in the act of pushing
her hand up her skirt to play with herself when the other door opened (her
office was like an ante-room between Martin’s inner sanctum and the rest of the
bank) and Ralph Hardcastle, the young Deputy Manager, walked in. Hastily Julie
rearranged the front of her skirt and crossed her legs, guiltily aware of the
spreading wetness in her knickers. Fortunately Hardcastle hadn’t noticed a
thing — he was too wrapped up in the piece of news he was bringing.
‘Julie, there’s been a slight balls-up by one of the
cashiers. Annette Robinson overpaid a customer by twenty-five pounds — complete
accident, of course. She’s a good little girl, but occasionally careless. I
told her I’ll have to report it to Mr M. Shouldn’t be at all surprised if the
lecherous old goat tries to put her over his knee and smack her bum — if she’ll
let him! You know his sexual preferences, don’t you, sweetie!
Sampled them at first hand, haven’t you, too!’ He chuckled, and Julie blushed
at the memory of that fateful first day at Boutts, when she’d ended up over
both men’s laps (Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 2).
‘Not half I don’t!’ she grimaced ruefully.
To be honest, her relationship with the Deputy Manager
was not solely confined to a business level. She’d been out with him several
times — even been to bed with him. She’d gone through a brief period of wild
infatuation for him, but once he’d made it clear that the last thing he wanted
was a steady monogamous love affair — cramp his style too much — she’d cooled
off considerably, until now they were good friends as well as occasional bed
partners. (Julie had come a long way since her naive, romantic St Angela’s
days!) Besides, Ralph was patently more into breasts than bottoms and, not
surprisingly, considering her formative years spent at St Angela’s, Julie
Williamson had become so conditioned to having her bum thoroughly warmed before
being bedded that she somehow missed it when it wasn’t there. So maybe she and
Ralph weren’t ideally suited — at least that was her interpretation of things.
He came up behind where she was sitting and cupped her
breasts in his hands, giving them an affectionate squeeze.
‘I’d better go in and break the news to his lordship!’
he said, and with a parting tweak to each nipple, he made for Martin’s door.
‘Oh no, Ralph!’ Julie warned, ‘you can’t go in there
now. He — he’s busy — with a customer! I’ll tell him later, if you like?’
‘No — it really ought to come from me,’ Ralph said.
Then he heard it too. Those unmistakeable sounds coming
from next door.
CRACK!!
‘OOH! OUCH! — MY BUM! MY POOR BUM! — TWENTY-FOUR!’
CRACK!!!
(Momentary silence, signifying that pretty owner of
bottom under duress was temporarily stunned by shock, until… CRACK!!!! —
a punishing follow-up delivered with blistering force upon the other carmine
cheek put her frantically into full flight again.)
‘ARRGH! OH I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! — URRGH — TWENTY-FIVE!
— TWENTY-SIX!’ (Sounds of feet thumping the floor and violent struggles
ensuing.) ‘I’M SORRY! I AM SORRY! — I DO TRY
TO KEEP STILL!’
‘My God!’ Ralph Hardcastle whistled between his teeth. ‘Who
on earth’s the old devil got in there? He isn’t half giving her what for,
whoever she is!’
And, grateful for any excuse, he returned to the firm
promise of Julie Williamson’s tits, while the shrieks of the severely chastised
Miss Brown reached an almost sexual pitch of frenzy.
‘Coo, Ralph!’ Julie whispered confidingly, ‘I’m ever so
wet — do you think? — could we? — would you?’
‘Bit irregular, old girl, ‘within these hallowed portals’
and all that! Still — don’t really see why not!’ (The vicarious delights of the
overheard bum-smacking were starting to affect him, too.)
‘Lock both the doors, just in case — there’s a good
girl!’ and he patted her neat little bottom as she got up to do just that.
CRACK!!
‘TWENTY-NINE! — OOH CHRIST! MY BUM! IT’S ON FIRE!! I’LL
NEVER SIT DOWN AGAIN!!’
A hot, perspiring, purple-bottomed young lady was
meanwhile raising the roof next door. All the arrogance, the calculating
insouciance had been well and truly spanked out of her system — for one month,
at least. She’d learnt humility, the sore-bottomed way…
Back in the adjoining office, spread-eagled on the
carpet, underneath her under-manager, a likewise bare-bottomed Julie was
learning a very different sort of lesson. She was writhing and wriggling about
just like Tina Brown — but the end product was an orgasm of such intensity that
she had to bite Ralph’s shoulder to prevent herself from yelling out and giving
the game away to those next door.
‘I say — steady on, old girl — that hurt!’ Ralph
exclaimed indignantly.
‘Oooh, Ralph!’ Julie moaned, ‘we must do this again
some time!’
‘What about tonight — my place?’ he suggested helpfully.
‘No! — That’s no good! I mean we must do
it again here — while he’s — you know — smacking another girl…
When are you going to tell him about Annette?’
----//----
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