Office Punishments  

I am Italian and came to England about two years ago to work
for a firm which imports artificial furs from Italy, so my
ability to speak and type both languages is a great help. 
Shortly after I had started I was very silly.  I started to
cheat the stamp money - taking some for myself and writing in
that some more had been used - sometimes I took œ5 or œ6 a
week.  

My boss found out what I was doing because he thought we could
not be sending so many letters.  He told me I would have to
go.  But if I lost the job I would have to go back to Italy, I
thought, as it was conditional on you having a job.  So I
begged him to let me stay.  He was fairly easily persuaded -
efficient bilingual typists are not so easy to replace - but
insisted on an alternative punishment.  I finally agreed to
let him cane me.  

He explained to me that in England naughty little boys and
girls were punished with a cane either on their hands or their
bottoms.  I said that I was not a little girl.  Mr Greene
looked at my large bust and said: 'No, I can see that, Maria!'
He said he was bearing that in mind and would punish me much
more severely than he would his schoolgirl daughter.  He said
he would give me one stroke for each year of my age.  He asked
me how old I was.  I said 18, which was the lowest I dared to
go, but unfortunately he checked my job application letter
which he had filed away and which showed my date of birth.  I
was 24.  

Mr Greene seemed quite amused but was determined.  I was to
get twenty four strokes of the cane.  He said that he thought
that number was too much to be given on one occasion,
especially as I'd never been caned before, but he said that
the next day would be a convenient time for the first
instalment, as we would then be the only people in the office. 
He said that he would give me half then and the rest next
Monday, when he would arrange for us to be left alone again. 
I was quite worried now about what I had committed myself to,
but I knew that if reported I would almost certainly be
deported.  I asked him whether he would cane my hands.  He
said that he wanted me to type so it couldn't be on my hands
and must be on my bottom.  He told me to wear my rust-brown
trousers to work the next day.  They were tight-fitting and I
had noticed Mr Greene eyeing my behind admiringly the last
time I had worn them.  

That evening I told Tony, my boyfriend, what had happened and
what I had agreed to.  He said that I deserved it and that it
would teach me a lesson.  He had been to school in England and
had had the cane.  He had never got more than six strokes and
the last time was when he was fourteen.  He was obviously
excited at the prospect of me getting the cane.  Then he
became more sympathetic and kissed me while his hands ran down
my back to caress my soon-to-be-caned bottom.  He told me to
be brave and that it would hurt but it would soon be over.  He
said he would rub cold cream onto my bottom afterwards to ease
the sting if I wanted it.  

Next day I arrived for work early, very apprehensive and
wearing the brown trousers as Mr Greene had told me.  Lying on
the typewriter when I arrived was the cane.  It was brown,
with a bent handle.  I picked it up to examine it.  It was
quite heavy and was surprisingly flexible for its thickness. 
I measured it and it was 77cm from its tip to the beginning of
the handle.  

Mr Greene came out from his office just as I was looking at
the cane trying to guess just how painful it would feel.  I
had imagined the caning would happen after work, but he had
other ideas.  He said: 'Right, let's get this over, Maria.' He
said he was glad to see I had decided to accept his punishment
and had put the trousers on as he had asked.  I was surprised
when he asked me what I had on underneath, and did not answer,
though I felt myself blushing.  He said I could only have one
layer of clothes and must go to the Ladies, take off my
panties and put my trousers back on with nothing underneath.  

When I came back he asked me to show him the panties as proof
and then he picked up the cane and told me to bend over the
chair, holding onto its seat.  I felt the cane rest across the
middle of my bottom, then it was drawn away and I waited for
the first stroke.  I was terribly embarrassed as I fidgeted
nervously, waiting for the punishment to begin.  But when it
did I forgot that and could only think of the pain in my poor
bottom.  I had not even come close to imagining the intense
biting sting of the cane.  I wanted to be brave but I couldn't
help jumping upright, clutching my bottom.  Through the thin
material I could already feel a weal already forming.  Mr
Greene allowed me to rub myself for a few seconds and then
told me to bend over again.  

Now I knew better what to expect and I gritted my teeth and
tensed myself.  I managed to remain bent over for the next few
strokes but yelled at each one and I was crying.  He paused
along time before each stroke and each time took careful aim,
resting the cane across my bottom first.  After six strokes he
had covered the whole area of my bottom and I felt as though I
had sat in a bowl of sulphuric acid.  

Then he started to concentrate on the lower part of my bottom. 
The pain as the cane landed over existing welts was unbearable
and once again I jumped up and twisted round and tearfully
begged Mr Greene to stop.  But he was determined and
eventually I had to bend over again.  I straightened again
several times - I wanted any respite I could get - and Mr
Greene had to hold me down for the last three or four strokes
which were probably not as hard as the others but still hurt
like hell-fire on my weal-covered bottom.  

When Mr Greene told me I could get up I was sobbing like a
baby.  My hands went to the seat of my trousers as I
instinctively tried to abate that terrible pain.  But even the
gentlest touch on my tender bottom sent spasms of excruciating
agony coursing through my body.  Mr Greene folded me in his
arms as I stood there trembling, sobbing my heart out and
hardly knowing where I was and gently kissed my cheek.  Then
he went back to his office, taking the cane, and left me alone
'to pull myself together.'  

For more than a quarter of an hour I stood there leaning on my
desk crying my eyes out.  My bottom was a blaze of fire and my
whole body ached.  My throat was sore from shouting and my
eyes from crying.  I felt quite sick.  Apart from the constant
agonising sting in my bottom there were sharp bursts of
increased pain from time to time which caused me to bite my
lip to stop myself from crying out loud.  

Eventually I dried my tears and tried to tidy my face and hair
up and get back to normal.  I took deep breaths and tried to
think of anything but the pain in my bottom.  

Mr Greene came out and gave me some work to do, and in the end
I started to type - standing up! It was very slow but I tried
to concentrate to take my mind off the stinging.  At lunch
time Mr Greene told me to take the rest of the day off.  The
Tube was relatively empty at that time, but I remained
standing! At home I threw myself stomach-down on my bed and
just sobbed into the pillows.  I stayed there a long time and
then, when I was feeling a little better, got up and made
myself some sandwiches to eat.  

Then I summoned enough courage to take off my trousers and
look at my poor bottom.  I carefully eased the tight trousers
down over my swollen bottom cheeks and gasped at the sight of
my bruised and wealed behind.  I changed into a skirt and made
myself up ready for Tony, who was due at eight o'clock.  I did
not put any panties on, however.  

As soon as Tony saw me he could obviously tell that I'd gone
through with it.  He came in and hugged me tightly saying:
'Oh, you poor baby.' He had remembered the cream.  He sat down
on the bed and told me to lie face down over his knees.  Then
he turned up my skirt and 'inspected the damage'.  He was
impressed.  'Wow! He really laid that on hard, Maria!' Then,
slowly and rhythmically, he rubbed the cold cream across my
bottom, covering the whole area very tenderly and carefully. 
I could feel his 'horn' rising as he did this and soon we were
in bed rather than on it and what happened then almost made up
for the caning!  

The next day my bottom was still very painful but Mr Greene
thoughtfully provided me with a cushion to sit on and the
other people in the office did not seem to notice anything
unusual, although I wriggled and squirmed constantly and
muttered Italian swear words under my breath.  

Next Monday was a repeat performance, but even more painful as
my bottom was still tender and wealed from the first caning. 
Once more Tony provided some comfort afterwards.  Later that
week Mr Greene told me that I'd been very brave and offered me
a large increase in salary on condition that I would accept
corporal punishment for any future misbehaviour or negligence,
though never again so severe.  After some thought, and
discussion with Tony, I agreed.  

Since then I have been caned on several occasions.  It has
only been six strokes most times, although twice I have got
eight and once ten.  The canings usually take place after work
and over what I happen to be wearing.  I started to wear jeans
to the office about a year ago, but my jean-clad behind must
have looked too attractive to Mr Greene as whenever I wore
jeans he would find some reason for caning me.  There is no
doubt that denim jeans do provide greater protection than
those rust-brown trousers, but 'six of the best' from Mr
Greene's cane, even over jeans and panties, still hurts and I
am unable to sit properly for at least an hour.  

However for minor things like typing mistakes or forgetting to
bring in tea for clients, etc., I am more often smacked with a
slipper.  Mr Greene makes me bend down and smacks my bottom
with a large leather slipper.  This makes a loud noise but
does not hurt so much, although it can do if he does it for a
long time.    

Recently, especially when I where trousers, he will slipper me
(about ten whacks each side is typical) and, before the last
two whacks, mark a large 'X' on the slipper with chalk.  Then,
after the final whacks, which are usually the hardest, the
seat of my trousers or skirt is clearly marked with two large
'X's.  

Only once have I been punished in front of a witness.  This
was when a customer complained that I had been rude to him
over the telephone and had not passed his message on to Mr
Greene properly.  Unfortunately for me he was a close friend
of Mr Greene and he invited him to see me 'dealt with'.    

It was summer and I was wearing a thin cotton dress over a
pair of scanty briefs.  Exceptionally, Mr Greene made me lift
the dress up out of the way and caned me very hard, with just
my flimsy panties as protection.  He gave me five strokes and
I was already in tears.  Then he handed the cane to his friend
who gave my scantily clad bottom the final stroke.  

I jumped two feet into the air after that whack! - never,
before or since, has one stroke hurt me that much.  Mr Greene
told me later that the man had been headmaster of a boys'
school and had caned dozens of boys.  He certainly knew how to
handle a cane! He still phones up or comes in sometimes, and I
always turn bright red at the sound of his voice.  

My English is still not perfect after all this time.  Tony,
who is now my husband, will read through this letter and give
me one whack with a slipper for each mistake of spelling or
grammar.  So I expect I'll have a sore bottom when I post
this!  
.