Laura, having zombied her way through the week, was not looking forward to her next Saturday whipping. She had done a very good, professional job in making herself a very competent, happy zombie, but a zombie none-the-less. The whole time she was dealing with the fact that she had suffered a very painful spanking with a belt, and indeed had seven more coming unless she’d rather risk the jail time.
Greg had the inclination to treat Laura with an extra degree of kindness during the week, having some understanding of the amount of pain he’d put her through when he’d whipped her with his belt. He resisted this impulse, not wanting to draw attention to anything being different between them or to things being different in general within the office.
Wendel, a crushing coworker, had his crush on Laura deepened by something mysterious that had changed in her bearing. She now radiated some kind of romantic sadness that he couldn’t put his finger on. But it was irresistably sexy. There was an air about Laura now that made her less unapproachable and more desirable at the same time – but with a degree of the unattainable, because now the only thing Wendel could think of to do with her was to tie her down and fuck her until he was satisfied. This thought disturbed him to a degree, because he was used to idolizing her, but the fantasy was so delicious to him that he couldn’t bear pushing it out of his mind. He was now becoming obsessed with her, determined to understand whatever it is that happened to her.
Wendel found himself browsing for ropes and handcuffs for no reason…
Saturday came all too quickly for Laura and all too slowly for Greg. Part of him could hardly wait to get her tied over his desk again. He hoped her bruises had all faded so he’d have a fresh canvass. He thought about the word “canvass” and felt a strange kind of guilt in objectifying her like an art project. But it was true. He’d begun thinking of whipping her as a combination of performance art and visual art. Her hips would twist and gyrate. She would cry in that certain way she cried. And somehow it was all perfect; perfect, reasonable, and expected. He felt as if he were fulfilling some destiny by whipping her, but how could that be true?
Laura, in somewhat of a stupor, exited the cab and made her way into the building where she worked again, on Saturday. She signed in with the security guard desk and made her way to the elevator. Not caring anymore who though what, she wore a thigh-length skirt made of a soft, form-fitting cloth that would be easy to pull up over her hips. Underneath it she wore the prescribed french-cut panties. Laura had remembered the uncomfortable feeling of bending over the desk with her pants pulled down. It had felt awkward and undignified. Since she knew he’d semi-bare her bottom either way, she reasoned that it might as well be comfortable and at least project more of a classic spanked-woman look.
Stepping off the elevator and walking into the office suite, both Greg and Laura felt somewhat awkward. The initial respectiver outrage and contrition were both gone at this point, but it seemed somehow wrong to treat this as routine. Greg found himself wanting to hug her or to shake her hand, but neither really seemed appropriate. On the other hand it didn’t seem appropriate to act offended either.
Laura chose to shake his hand, putting her full effort into maintaining a professional demeanor. She then walked right into Greg’s office, hiked up her skirt and bent over the desk, supporting herself on her elbows and forearms. She felt like she just wanted to get on with it and get it over with.
Greg approached the desk and observed, with some degree of admiration, Laura’s bent-over form. She had quite a womanly set of hips and buttocks. Normally a woman who looked like she did would have inspired him to want to pull her panties down and fuck her. There was something about how he felt about her that made that feel wrong. It was almost like he felt paternal towards her. His inner voice told him he should be spanking or belting her, but not penetrating her in any way or playing with her at all in a sexual way.
Greg proceeded to tie her in place over the desk, securing her wrists out in front of her and her legs slightly apart and secured to the desk legs. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled off his heavy leather belt and took his position behind her, measuring the best distance for delivering the belt strokes. He then began whipping her evenly, steadily with that belt.
Contrary to her wishful thinking she had not somehow gotten used to being belted. It still hurt. It still made her want to spill tears almost immediately. It still made her feel sorry for herself as a naughty, punished girl, who could not escape her just desserts.
As he whipped her continually and severely with the belt, she recalled a moment of hesitation that he’d had before when she looked over her shoulder at him. So she tried this again, as a tactic this time. She looked over her shoulder with watery, squinting eyes, and pouted as she cried out.
Seeing this move as an obvious tactic, he began whipping her harder.
“No! No! No!” she exclaimed. “I’m not trying anything! Please don’t spank me harder. Please don’t…”
Greg wanted to spank her harder for many more strokes, but he prudently felt the need to mediate her bruising. With more than 100 strokes remaining to give her, he didn’t want to have to stop due to her need for medical attention. This was punishment, not torture.
He continued spanking her with the belt, lash after steady and reliable lash and listened to her cries turn into steady sobbing. Instinctively he felt that the way you knew you were punishing a woman is when you felt the surrender and desperation in her crying, but you chose to continue anyway, understanding that she can take it, despite what she might think. She won’t break because of a simple belt spanking. This simple truth was the key to true and effective punishment.
As before, he stopped after about 100 strokes to give her water and brush sweat from her forehead. This time he took the opportunity to rub lotion on the exposed skin of her bottom. Laura was grateful for the skin care but realized quickly that the moisture upped the ante in terms of stinging pain.
The renewed belting elicited a series of squeals from her. As each squeal followed a splat of leather against her backside, Greg was put in the mind of old world flogging. As he continued whipping her he wondered if those old judicial floggings were ever given to women on their bottoms rather than their backs. It seemed much more humane this way. Still a terrible punishment if he were using a cat-o-nine, but a woman’s bottom can take it.
Her cries became more throaty and more like grunting as she pounded the desk, determined to get through this with dignity. Ultimately, as the lashes neared 150, she stopped fighting and lay her head down and whimpered until it was over.
Greg wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks and stroked her hair as he loosened her wrist cuffs. Laura sucked the thumb of her left hand as she intermittently shuddered.
When she was free of her bonds he just held her silently allowing her to feel the comfort of his strength and peace. Something had definitely shifted, but neither of them knew why or how.