Work Text:
“So, do you have any questions about what this signifies?” She says, holding up an ‘Employee Corrective Action Form’ in front of your face. You scoff. “It’s a write-up. You’ll tell me that I must sign it ‘OR ELSE’ and I’ll sign it like a good little boy even though we’re never actually told what that entails. So what if I don’t sign, huh?”
Her eyes darken. “I haven’t gotten to give out a punishment in a long time. Please, go ahead and test me. Don’t sign and see what happens.”
A silence passes. “Are you… threatening me?” You ask, a little scared. You scoot back in the stool provided for you. “I’m not signing that fucking document, you scare me!” As you try to step away, she rises from the stool across from you and shoves you up against the counter. Thankfully, the store is empty, and even though she’s shorter than you, she seems larger than life, looming over you. Pressed against the cold, marble-laminated counter, she leans down to whisper in your ear, “Turn around.”
Out of fear, you turn around, as she presses a hand into your shoulders and slowly pushes you down onto your stomach, your body hunched over the counter. She slips your pants down your legs a bit, freeing your posterior to the conditioned air. You clutch at the edge of the counter in desperation, as you feel her poke and prod at your hole. A deafening slap is heard, and you jerk involuntarily against the cold unfeeling material, realizing you’ve just been spanked. It’s everything your addled brain wants.
She speaks into your ears, “This is your punishment. To be publicly broken, taken over a countertop.” Another smack. Only two spankings in, and your eyes are already rolling back into your head. Your toes curl in your socks, somehow having lost your shoes on your way to bliss. Between every smack is a gentle fingering of your hole, the only stimulation on your aching cock the rocking of your body as you’re shaken by the force of your spankings. It’s torture, but you’re leaking all over the pristine surface.
Another smack. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth uselessly, as you realize why everybody who’s worked here is so docile and happy. They’ve all had their brains pounded out with the paddle that’s slowly wiping your mind away. The gentle prodding at your prostate drives you mad, drooling uselessly all over the table. People are staring now, but your manager shoos them away. She knows you’re shy. She knows you.
A fourth smack, and that smooth voice comes back into your ears. “I want you to cum by the fifth spanking, okay? And then we’ll discuss if we need further corrective action, yes?”
You nod uselessly, mumbling out useless affirmations, not really understanding the words flowing from your mouth. Your balls are drawn full and tight, aching and begging for release. But she told you you’re expected to release on the fifth, and you must please your superior. Your toes curl again, and you feel soft lips to your neck as she gently places kisses up and down your clavicle. Soft hands gently come to press their thumbs into your wrists, gently massaging your aching hands. You feel strangely loved, even as you’re being punished.
“Are you ready for the fifth, my little good boy?” She asks, readying one final strike with the paddle. Both of your know you’ll be useless after this next smack, and you’re both ecstatic at the prospect. For you to submit, and for her to gain a new, brainless worker. Your legs shake, wanton moans spilling from your lips as your body readies to submit. You’ve made nearly a puddle on the now warm countertops, both with drool and precum. The prodding at your prostate is insistent, gentle and soft. “Ready, lovely boy?”
You feel the paddle connect with your backside one last time, as your brain pops like a balloon and you cum harder than you ever have, making a mess over the counter. Your cock rubs against the hard surface, the feeling making you cry out. Heat coils tight in your belly, whiting out your mind as you lay there, spent and panting. “You’re such a good boy!,” She calls to you, condescendingly. You feel submerged in water as she asks, “Would you like some more spankings,
?” You brokenly nod a yes, and she obliges you. The paddlings start again, every strike making your worries ease and your desire to serve greater. The slow prostate abuse is threatening to drag another screaming orgasm out of you, and you’re helpless to resist. What was your name, again?
Does it matter? Did it ever matter?
No.
All that matters is that soft, condescending voice, and the sting of the paddle against your backside.