This will make more sense if you have Read the earlier parts of Easy’s story
Susan/Chlöe realised she had been a little bit ‘zoned-out’, thinking such strange thoughts about what this job would mean, absorbed in the feelings it caused in her body, when she was abruptly brought back to reality by Norah, standing up, looking at her; she dared not meet the older woman’s eyes, but her whole body nevertheless responded to the look in helpless acknowledgement of the woman’s power; inflecting, almost genuflecting, communicating Susan’s (no, definitely Chlöe’s) absolute acceptance of her inferiority, her subordination, her submission. It felt shaming— at least, she knew it should feel shaming— and indeed it did— but not half as much as it felt like a relief.
Pleasurable, to be noticed, to be worth of attention; slutty, not-up-to-the-required-standards little weakling of a temp that she is, Norah was nevertheless looking at her. Reassuring, to know that she will be controlled, will have some responsibility take away from her.
Then the heat-lamp of attention was gone, quite suddenly— she felt it, rather than saw it, but the feeling was verified after a shy, nervous flicker under her lashes; Norah was now looking at her phone, reviewing something, cool and unhurried.
Was the sensation relief, or disappointment, or was it weak fear?
All; all at once. So worrying, to feel her chest heave so dramatically, over such a tiny thing; a few seconds of a look, then a withdrawal of that look;
Oh but she has made sure the stakes are high for me. Every second could be the second I make a silly mistake and then— BAM! — that’ll be me gone. Back to my drab little apartment and the daily pointless call to the Agency, who’ll have nothing for me but balding paunchy owners of dry-cleaning companies, who put their clammy hands on my arms, on my back, wanting more, making me feel sick.
Or … or if she thinks I’ve done something wrong, it could mean me, spanked, on my bare bum … hit with a whip, even.
How can that feel more acceptable than a fat man touching me a little?
The answer was obvious, though;
Because I want to stay here, more than anything I’ve ever wanted, and because this is what it takes.
And then, trying to be honest with herself;
… and because, in some weird way, it makes total sense for the Partners to treat me like this. They are stars, powerful, high-achievers, and … and if I want to rise on their coat-tails, be in their aura, then I must add to their perfection, serve it, help them be the heroes they are. And … and this is all I’m good for. The only thing I can offer them is my body.
But then these crazy, dangerous thoughts had to be packed away, for Norah was approaching, and she needed to stand, and curtsy, and do all she could to welcome Norah’s hard hands on her, between her legs, effortlessly, irresistibly domineering, demanding she get better at curtseying, and Chlöe found herself automatically helping the older woman work her fingers into the groove of her pussy, controlling her breathing so she could suppress all the funny squeaks and moans she would otherwise be making, utterly unable, though, to control the gush of hot dampness from her sex, the lake of shame that drowned her.
And then the curtsey was done, and Chloë could do nothing but tremble, blush, try to pull herself together, as Norah said;
“Your list may be approaching acceptability, girly; perhaps not totally incompetent, then?”
The older woman almost smiles, putting a hand out to smooth a stray lock of Chlöe’s hair, intentionally belittling, condescending, while Chlöe, knowing herself to be pathetic, could not resist the upwelling of pleasure the backhanded compliment gave her, found herself simpering, almost curtseyed again, then decided to actually do another curtsey, determined that it should be her most inviting yet, slower, more certain about the sexual invitation she was projecting, the acceptance a few minutes before helping her, actually working to make the curtsey a gift to Norah, rather than a task for herself.
She found the experience powerfully affecting; unable to look Norah in the face, she had to be content with the body language, but was then further delighted by;
“That’s better; good girl; you may be able to improve, after all! Perhaps I can be hopeful that you may not be completely wasting my time here.”
“Now, I’ve seen the final entry in your list, and I must say it’s about time; you’ve been shilly-shallying unacceptably on that simple point— which, if you remember, you asked for— for far too long. I need to hear it from you though; do you plan to beg the Partners to take the effort to physically punish you, in order to help you conform to their standards?”
Chloë’s throat closed. She had put it into the list— but that had been marks on a screen, not hands, whips on her flesh. She wants to say ’no’. She should say ’no’. But she cannot bear to risk what seems likely if she does— that she will be told she is no longer wanted.
“I…” Her voice fractured. Norah’s eyebrow arched, waiting, and Chlöe heard herself say;
“I think… if it pleases the partners… I should accept their…guidance.”
The euphemism tasted bitter, weak, pathetic. Pointless, too; it is done now, obviously; no way back. They are going to beat her. Norah is going to make her ask them to beat her. Her blood roars in her ears, her knees, her lips, her hands all trembling.
“Oh, Chloë— I expect better of you. Just when I’d hoped you were shaping up. Perhaps I was wrong.”
“It’s very simple now, girl; you must be clear; ask— beg, in fact— for exactly what you want. This is a serious step, serious for everyone; I will not permit you to be silly about it, to waste the Partners’ precious time. We’ll go and see D2 in a minute— he has a free half hour, but before that, you must rehearse.”
Chloë felt dizzy— she wilted, bending slightly at the waist, catching herself on the desk. Norah tutted, impatient, and Chlöe forced herself to take control, straightening hurriedly.
“Yes, Madam. I— I will beg the partners to discipline me. Physically. When I— when I fail.” Each word burns her tongue. “Please.”
“Pathetic. Calm yourself, girly, if you can, and compose an actual sentence which is clear; remember what I told you in the taxi— how they will want to punish you— beg for that, too.”
Chloë’s buttocks clenched involuntarily as she recalled Norah’s crisp voice in the taxi— you’ll be spanked, hard, for even minor slip-ups— that will help you keep you up to the mark, you’ll find. There’s a riding crop, too, and a dog-whip, for more serious transgressions. She had to force a breath through clamped teeth to relax enough to speak.
“I beg…” The words wanted to stick in her throat;
“I beg the partners to…to spank me properly when I fail. On my…my bare…” She squeezed her eyes shut. A hot tear splashed onto her blouse, then another onto the upper slope of her breast;
“… on my bare bottom. And—” Her voice dropped to a whimper, “—to use the riding crop, or … or the dog-whip. If they…if they find it appropriate.”
“Very well. Let’s try and say it all at once, without prompting, shall we? A bit of pretty fear and embarrassment can be entertaining, but too much becomes annoying. Right now please, the whole ask— drop a curtsey for me, and say it while showing me your panties.”
Chloë’s breath froze as she sank into yet another curtsey, her trembling fingers lifting her skirt hem almost automatically, the cool office air kissing her exposed thighs, her overheated crotch as she managed;
“I—I beg the partners to discipline me with spankings on my bare bottom when I fail them, and to use the riding crop or … dog whip if they see fit.”
Her voice cracked, her expression mortified, eyelids fluttering, teeth sinking into her lower lip, unable to believe what she was doing, but knowing there was no longer any way out.
“Well, I suppose that’s the best you can do, though it was barely satisfactory. Follow me, then girl, and we’ll see if D2 is minded to grant your wish.”
Norah set off, then turned her head;
“Physical punishment is a serious step, pretty. You need to sound deeply, deeply sincere, or D2 may not judge that you are ready for it. You are actually begging here. This is for your benefit, you must understand— not for theirs. If they say yes, they’ll be doing you a favour.”
Norah strode towards the door and Chloë hurried after her as best she can in the crippling heels, nearly tripping on her own feet, her knees wobbly, her pulse trembling in her throat.
Doing me a favour— by spanking and whipping me on my bare bum?
It was impossible to ignore the tingling between her legs, though, as the pictures came unbidden into her mind again, as in the taxi, of herself, bent over a desk, skirt up, panties down, legs wide apart, waiting for a spanking.
After knocking and seeing the green light appear at the handle, Norah entered, Chloë following as elegantly as she could manage behind (I am going to need those deportment lessons).
“Sir, Chloë here has a humble request; she asked me herself, earlier today, whether there was something which could be done to help her have the best chance at being kept on here. I took it upon myself to suggest that she ask to be kept on a very tightly monitored regime, with strong physical disciplinary punishment as feedback for her behaviour. Will you hear her, Sir?”
D2 grinned— relaxed, entertained;
“Well, given that she seems to have forgotten to curtsey on entering my room, I think it may well be a necessary aspect of her training. But you know, Norah— and I hope that you have advised our little Chloë here, that asking for a physical discipline regime is a serious step— one from which there is no going back. Physical discipline can be extremely challenging— as well as time consuming for us. We’ll need to be sure that the Chloë really wants it.”
Chloë, who had by then belatedly curtsied, was blushing fierily, and trembling. Clearly, this physical punishment thing was an even bigger deal to them than she had understood from Norah. D2 is no longer smiling, but looking straight at Chloë, his face hard now.
“A late curtsey is better than no curtsey— come here now; no, don’t you dare drop your skirt! If we do agree to punish you physically, I can tell you that you’ll be eating standing up this evening! Come here and let me feel your little puss while you beg.”
Chloë stepped forward, her skirt still raised, and gasped as D2’s fingers slid beneath the lace edge of her panties. His touch was clinical, probing— investigating the state of her pussy like a mechanic checking oil levels;
“Hmm, well. Maybe you’re ready for this, pretty; Let’s hear you then.”
She bit back a whimper when his thumb pressed cruelly against her clit, her mind incapable of remembering the correct phrasing, desperately scrambling for words— almost any words; “I—I need correction, Sir,” she choked out, knees buckling. “Please discipline me—properly—so I can…so I can be good.” The words tasted like ash, but the heat coiling low in her belly terrifies her more.
“Tsk, stupid girl” Norah sounded genuinely irritated— “we practiced this. Do it again. Get it right!”
Chloë’s legs were trembling violently as D2 withdrew his fingers—but not before giving her a sharp, stinging slap between her thighs that made her yelp.
“On your knees,” Norah snaps. “Properly.”
Chloë crumpled to the floor, skirt still held up since she had not been given permission to let it go, her panties damp and visible where the fabric clung, tears stinging her eyes, though she struggled not to let them fall, blinking rapidly, lips wobbly, heart racing, mind in total disarray.
D2’s polished loafers came into view as he leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Beg properly now, pretty Chloë; show me that you mean it.”
The carpet bit her knees as she her throat worked. Only after a little, agonising trouble did the words erupt; hoarse, uneven;
“Please—please discipline me physically, Sir. On my bare—” a hiccuping breath; “—bare bottom. With the crop or … or the whip if…if I deserve it.” Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades, soaking into the silk blouse.
Chloë knew, deeply, that this had all been a cruel charade— that there had never been any question but that she would be spanked and beaten— but the knowledge did not help at all with the deep and permanent-feeling knock to her self-image that the episode has delivered. She would never not be the girl who begged her boss to spank and whip her for the slightest infraction of a long list of petty and subjective rules.
She would never not be the Chloë, who, straight away, had been told to turn around, lift her skirt high, and bend over the desk, spread her legs, the girl who had obeyed, as prettily as she could, while D2 loosened his belt. The sound of the buckle clinking free sent a shudder through her— he was slow, unhurried, enjoying the anticipation, enjoying her terror.
“I don’t have either the crop or the whip to hand so, for expediency’s sake, you’ll be getting the belt today. Three, at least, from when you came in— " he turned to Norah, an eyebrow raised in enquiry, to which the response comes; “Two sir, from my room”
Chloë realised she would not be told what these numbers are for, nor be given any chance to argue them; she was about to be beaten, properly physically disciplined— for the first time since she was seven. And she had asked for it.
D2’s hand was between her legs, pushing the gusset of her panties into her slot, then yanking her panties down util they were taut on her spread thighs;
“Little hussy seems to be somewhat aroused. Let’s see if that survives this!”
The first lash cracked across her bare cheeks before she’d even registered the movement—a hot stripe of pain that shocked her with its violence. Chloë’s entire body jerked urgently, her choked scream muffled against the desk blotter. D2’s chuckle was low, entertained. “One,” he counted, letting the belt whisper against her welted skin before snapping it down again with precision. This time she kicked out involuntarily, a sob tearing from her throat as the second stripe blossomed crimson on her pale skin.
Norah clicked her tongue. “Keep still, Chloë— unless you’d like extra strokes for squirming.”
Her voice held clinical detachment, but Chloë caught the faintest rasp of arousal beneath it.
They really are sadists! They want to hurt me, for kicks, and I’m letting them have me and it’s too late!
The belt’s third strike landed diagonally across the first two, splitting the pain into fresh geometries. Chloë bit down on a scream— her vision going white— before collapsing against the desk, shuddering.
“Two more, pretty, just two more to take,” D2 murmured; he tapped her throbbing flesh as Chloë whimpered— then stepped back, giving himself room for a bigger swing; “Then we’ll consider this instalment paid.”
The belt whistled— her breath stopped mid-sob— before the fourth lash landed with excruciating deliberation, lower this time, where her thigh met the curve of her buttocks. Her legs buckled; she barely registered Norah’s grip hauling her hips back into position.
“Steady,” Norah murmured— cold, amused. Chloë’s fingers scrabbled at the desk edge, needing to hold on to keep herself from running from the room.
The fifth strike seemed not to be coming, until, without warning, D2 snapped it against the underside of one upthrust buttock cheek. The pain bloomed differently there— hotter, deeper, sharper— and Chloë’s knees gave way entirely, her forehead pressing into the desk as she dissolved into shuddering, silent tears.
D2’s hand was immediately back at her pussy, and his tone was approving; “Hotter, wetter. Little slut enjoys this. Not much of a deterrent, then— we’ll have to consider something sharper, perhaps; but that’s all for now. Consider yourself on a very tight, narrow tight-rope, Chloë— one of your own devising. Any sidestep will get you more like that. Off you go, now, and think about how you can do better.”
D2’s belt buckle clinked ominously as he refastened it, while Chloë remained bent over, her breath hitching in uneven gasps. Norah’s heels clicked closer, her hand suddenly gripping Chloë’s hair, forcing her head up.
“You heard your master, girl— let’s go. Never need telling twice.”
Norah’s grip tightened in Chloë’s hair, forcing her upright despite the stinging protest from her welted flesh. Every movement sent fresh waves of pain radiating through her buttocks— yet beneath it, an undeniable pulse of slick heat almost made her want to vomit. She stumbled forward on legs seemingly made of cooked spaghetti— it was that or be dragged along by the hair.
D2’s chuckle followed them to the door. “Mind you don’t sit before dinner, pretty— you’ll need to let those welts breathe. Norah will get you some cream.”
Norah marched her down the corridor at a punishing clip, Chloë’s stocking seams catching between her thighs with each step—the damp friction another humiliation layered atop the burning stripes. A new face— presumably some junior associate— paused mid-stride to stare— Chloë yanked her gaze downward but not before catching his smirk.
“Eyes forward, Chloë,”
Norah murmured, without breaking stride, her grip shifting from hair to elbow—a veneer of professionalism masking the cruel twist of fingers against nerve as they rounded a corner and halted before a small, unassuming door— like that for a store cupboard. Inside, there was no decor— everything plain cinder block and concrete; a WC, a bidet, a shower hose but no tray— only a drain set into the concrete floor, a basin with a large mirror, punishing lights around it, a shelf with a few basic products— Norah identified a large plain white tube as the cream she should apply to the welts on her buttocks— some simple clothes pegs and hangers.
“Where you repair yourself. You have five minutes. Now you know why you kneel at your desk, hm?”
“We’ll go shopping in an hour. I don’t want any more trouble from you today. Curtsey as required— pretty, eager and inviting, otherwise, at your desk memorising your requirements, thinking about your failings, how not to repeat them.”
Chloë’s knees almost buckled again— this time from relief— as Norah released her arm with a dismissive flick. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving her alone with the mirror’s glare. Her reflection showed a wreck: smeared mascara, swollen lips bitten raw, blouse translucent— at the armpits with sweat, at her breasts with tears— the nipples stiff and showing pink. When she twisted to examine the damage, the belt’s impact made her gasp— five raised welts crosshatching the pale swell of her ass, the lowest one frighteningly close to her pussy, making it seem certain that, one day, she would be hurt there, too.
The bidet water was icy— cold only. She hissed through her teeth as it stung her overheated skin, scrubbing with trembling fingers until the worst of the sweat and tears were gone. The mirror forced her to watch— how her hands shook pathetically while blotting her face, how her hips canted forward instinctively to relieve pressure on her stinging buttocks.
She saw that the rest of the earlier shopping was in a bag on the shelf— there would be fresh panties, a new blouse. Clearly, she would be changing several times a day; this explained the multiple purchases Norah had made. She rapidly arranged everything on hangers, sure that failing to do so would be the excuse for another punishment.
The thought came unbidden: They planned this. They knew.
The thought was sinister in origin, but her unbidden emotional response was a queasy surprise; I’m so lucky, that they chose me.
