The Perfect PA

"Bloody Hell, Marcia, what the fuck do you mean you haven't booked my flight to Frankfurt?" roared Miles Anderson.

He was a rather short, sandy-haired man. Whilst not exactly good-looking his angular features were those of a man used to getting his own way, a characteristic distinctly attractive to a certain type of woman. His ferocious temper was much feared by his subordinates.

Marcia Jones, his personal assistant, stood demurely in front of his desk her head bowed.

"Well?" he snarled.

She let out a tiny sob but did not reply.

"Just stop snivelling and tell me why it is that I shall apparently not be flying to Frankfurt tomorrow afternoon for my appointment with Dieter Quester."

"I forgot to book the flight," she almost whispered.

"What!"

Louder now, and slightly hysterical she repeated, "I forgot to book the flight, Miles. I'm very sorry."

There was an ominous pause whilst Miles mentally ran through all the difficulties that her dereliction would cause.

"You realize how bloody inconvenient this is going to be? If I don't go tomorrow I won't be able to meet Dieter until after the board meeting."

"Yes Miles, I'm very sorry." She paused then meekly added, "I deserve a good spanking."

This remark stopped Miles in his tracks. Obviously she did not intend it to be taken literally but, nevertheless, the very word "spanked" held such a powerful erotic charge for him that it brought him up short and caused him to notice, almost for the first time, what a very nice looking middle-aged woman she was. His glance took in her trim waist, neatly tailored close-fitting tweed skirt and shapely legs encased in dark nylon. He knew that she was a widow and it had sometimes vaguely crossed his mind that she might have a bit of a crush on him. Plenty of women of her age did, he thought with satisfaction.

Looking her directly in the eye he thought he detected the slightest trace of a mischievous glint. Or perhaps he imagined it. Too much internet porn maybe? Too many compliant porn stars draping themselves across men's knees? He was losing touch with reality. It seemed wise to proceed cautiously.

"You certainly do and if I had my way I'd give you one. As it is I suppose I shall have to send you back to the typing pool where you came from."

"Please Miles, I beg you, don't send me back amongst those silly girls. Couldn't you punish me in some other way?"

"What do you suggest?" asked Miles, now definitely feeling that he was part of some sort of erotic game.

Marcia blushed deeply and Miles knew instantly that he was not mistaken. But how did she find out about his secret desires? Did she share them? Had she planned this?

"Well," a long pause then hesitantly, "what you said about spanking me. I'd agree to that if it meant I didn't have to go back to the typing pool."

Miles knew enough about employment law to know that he would be crucified if she later reported him but he was by now fairly sure that her desire was as strong as his. This sort of opportunity would never arise again, the chance to make real the fantasies that he had so often secretly lived out in late night sessions on the Internet. He knew he was a fool but he also knew that he was going to take the chance. Definitely.

He moved to the door of his office, shut it and turned the key in the lock. Very deliberately he moved the high-backed chair that he kept for visitors into the middle of the room and sat on it.

"Come here and get over my knee then," he commanded in as stern a voice as he could muster.

Marcia hesitated for a moment then, hanging her head demurely, whispered, "yes, Sir." He was debating whether to order her to raise her skirt when she pre-empted him by hoisting it up to her waist and, stooping awkwardly, laid herself across his knees.

He was surprised, and delighted, to find that she was wearing stockings, not tights. Sheer, dark stockings with a black suspender belt that contrasted with the crisp white panties tightly stretched across the cheeks of her delightfully plump bottom. Exactly what he liked. He didn't think women wore this sort of thing anymore and, once again, wondered whether Marcia had somehow found out about his predilections and had engineered this whole incident.

***

Of course she had!

The previous week, while Miles was sitting-in on a CEO's meeting on the fifth floor she needed to refer to an email which he had sent to the Frankfurt office but had forgotten to copy to her. In order to save time, she went into his office and tapped the space bar of his keyboard in the hope that he had left his computer switched on. He had.

She found the icon for his email programme in the task bar at the bottom of the screen and moved the cursor to it. Inadvertently, however, she clicked on the one next to it, a blue rectangle with a key picked out in tiny white dots.

Not realizing that she had opened the wrong programme she now saw a volume labelled C:\Users\Miles\Personal. As it was highlighted she double-clicked it and it was only when a single folder entitled "Spanking" popped up that she realized she had strayed into a very private area of Miles's computer. Obviously he had forgotten to close down his encryption programme before leaving the office.

Intrigued, Marcia could not resist opening the "Spanking" folder. Inside she found a series of other folders, all neatly labelled with titles such as: "caning", "paddling", "OTK", "whipping" etc.

Choosing at random she double clicked on the "OTK" folder and was confronted with a large number of images of women in various stages of undress. What was common to all the pictures was that every woman was lying across a man's knee and being vigorously chastised.

Marcia was already well acquainted with this kind of image as a result of an obsession which had been with her for most of her life. Until the age of about twelve her own father had been in the habit, when she misbehaved, of putting her across his knee and spanking her. She still remembered not only the pain caused by her father's ministrations but also the secret thrill of having her knickers taken down and the delicious pleasure as a glowing warmth in her nether regions replaced the pain. It was, perhaps, because her father sensed that she was deriving sexual pleasure from these spankings that he abandoned this form of punishment. But it was too late, she was already hooked.

After less than satisfactory relationships with a number of boyfriends, none of whom were dominant enough for her taste, she finally met Bill, a confident extrovert who one day during an argument had no hesitation in settling it by putting her across his knee and delivering a sound thrashing with his leather belt. The unrestrained intensity of the sexual intercourse that followed convinced them both that they must get married at the earliest possible opportunity. During the three years of their marriage they derived much pleasure from their joint exploration of the links between pain and pleasure and it was, in fact, whilst speeding home one rainy November afternoon, intent on the imminent Friday night spanking session, that Bill was killed when his BMW hit an articulated lorry that had jack-knifed in front of him.

A young widow is often thought of by a particular type of man as "gagging for it" and in the years following Bill's death there was no shortage of men eager to date Marcia. The outcome, however, was invariably unsatisfactory. When, as it usually did, sex followed an evening out Marcia found herself unable to achieve an orgasm and the relationship petered out. With one man she engineered an argument and, when he became infuriated by her perverseness, suggested to him that perhaps she deserved a spanking. He did actually comply but with little enthusiasm and even less aptitude.He never contacted her again.

Since then she had confined herself to regular perusal of images such as those she now found in front of her on Miles's computer and to such satisfaction (considerable in her case) as may be derived from the use of one of Mr Hitachi's excellent vibrating sex toys.

Upon examining Miles's secret collection Marcia was able to analyse in some detail exactly what aspects of the spanking fetish he seemed to enjoy most. Unlike many spankophiles he did not seem interested in images of schoolgirls (or adults masquerading as such) with pert bottoms, long white socks and dark blue knickers around their knees. Indeed his taste definitely seemed to veer toward the older woman (this was encouraging) and he clearly had a taste for stockings, suspender belts and sheer underwear. Like most spankophiles his attention was concentrated on the bottom - whether bare or tightly encased in thin nylon. He did not seem to be interested in breasts and many of the women depicted were wearing bras.

As regards implements of choice the overwhelming majority of his images depicted hand spanking, mainly over the knee, although he also clearly enjoyed the use of the paddle, a punishment device widely used in America and usually shaped somewhat like a games bat. There were comparatively few pictures in the "caning" folder and most were clearly included for the obvious eroticism of the pose rather than the sometimes bloody results which that implement is capable of producing in sadistic hands. The folder titled "whipping" contained only two images.

By the time Marcia returned the computer to the state in which she had found it a clear plan was already forming in her mind and she was confident that she would be able to create a scenario that would generate the maximum excitement for Miles whilst fully satisfying her own long-thwarted desires.

***

And now at last she was lying across a man's knee, as she had once lain across Bill's. Lying completely under his control, her stomach churning with the familiar mixture of dread and excitement that made the cheeks of her bottom tremble and her knickers become moist. She knew that Miles was examining her closely and that he could see the damp patch spreading between her thighs. She knew it and she revelled in the humiliation of it. She felt him gently smoothing the thin material then, with a suddenness that surprised her he raised his hand and brought his open palm down hard on her right buttock. She squealed, more out of surprise than pain as he again raised his arm and brought it down a second time, then a third. A pause. The initial sting was replaced by a warm glow as the blood flowed to her nether regions. She felt his thumb slip under the waistband of her knickers. Having them pulled down to her knees seemed to emphasise her loss of dignity in a way that removing them altogether would not have done; the restriction in movement of her legs underlining the fact that she was completely under his control.

With her bottom now bare he settled into a rhythmic pattern of hard slaps. She was aware that she was letting out a shriek as each stroke fell but, in truth, this was more a release of pent up desire than because the pain was very severe. She was afraid that her screams might make him stop out of concern for her but, on the contrary they seemed to spur him to greater efforts. She could feel that his penis was now very hard and she wriggled about on his lap in an attempt to stimulate herself against it. This, too, seemed to intensify his efforts.

Marcia could not afterwards remember how many strokes she had endured but she reckoned that it must have been in excess of fifty before Miles finally tired. She knew that her bottom must be rosy red. Her whole lower body was engorged and throbbing with desire and her juices were flowing freely. As she rolled off his knees Miles stood up. Kneeling in front of him, she scrabbled at his trousers but he was already frantically tearing them off and within moments had pushed her to the floor and forced himself deep inside her. This was no gentle lovers' coupling but the visceral release of primitive forces in an atavistic reversion to male dominance and female submission. Marcia revelled in the violence of his thrusts and as she felt the hot spurt of his ejaculation she found herself engulfed in an orgasm the intensity of which she had never experienced before. Better even than Bill. The best, the very best.

***

As she emerged from the little en suite washroom attached to their adjoining offices Marcia, having removed her suspender belt and put on clean underwear and tights, was once again the very exemplar of the efficient, well-groomed personal assistant. Miles had pulled up his trousers and was once again sitting on the chair. He looked rather crumpled and Marcia guessed that, for once, he was faced with a situation that he did not quite know how to deal with.

Clearly life would never be the same again. They had discovered in each other complimentary desires, which when catalysed, as they had just proved, could produce an explosive result. Marcia envisaged a long and enjoyable relationship - based on need rather than love - which would satisfy their mutual fantasies. But all this was for the future. In the meantime what she really wanted was to get home, put her feet up, enjoy a glass of wine and bask in the afterglow of the episode she had so cleverly engineered.

"If that is all, Sir, I'll be getting off home", said Marcia (who never called Miles "Sir").

Miles picked up her tone and said, with a relieved glint in his eye, "thank you Mrs Jones, yes, that is all."

Marcia paused at the door then added as an afterthought, "Oh, and by the way Miles, the tickets for your flight to Frankfurt tomorrow are in the top drawer of my desk. Have a good trip."