Diner with his boss

He had warned her once: “Watch your language, Nina.”

She had rolled her eyes and nodded. Yes she would, she was sorry. He’d heard it all before, but he wanted to believe her. He had invited his boss and her husband over, and he wanted her to make a good impression; a promotion was not on the table yet, but he wanted all the chances he could get. So Nina had been told to behave. So far, so good.

His boss was sat on the sofa, enjoying a glass of sparkling wine and enjoying a handful of almonds. Nina had gone to the kitchen to keep an eye on the roast and get another bottle of cava. He poured his boss’ husband a glass of red wine —finishing the bottle— and started talking about rugby. Scotland, he argued, was past due for a comeback and—

“Oh shit!” he heard coming from the kitchen with a loud noise of broken glass.

He blushed and excused himself immediately. He got to the kitchen, where Nina was squatting over the broken glass with a dustpan and a brush.

“What happened?” he asked

“What do you think?” she shrugged, “The fu… I mean, the glass fell, and it broke. It’s what tends to happen when glass falls…”

“Nina…” he warned “Watch your tone…”

She said nothing and pushed the last bits of glass in the pan, then got up to empty it in the bin. She adjusted her tight skirt and looked up at him shyly.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s just a glass… But…”

She lowered her voice “But I’ll watch my mouth… Sir…”

“Good girl. You know what will happen if you don’t…”

They went back to the living room. and resumed the vacuous small-talk as if nothing had happened. The radio was on, some easy listening station, and a pleasant smell was coming from the kitchen.

He looked at her pouring herself another glass of bubbly and raised an eyebrow. She caught his expression and mouthed a “What?” while opening her eyes wide and shaking her head a little. She put the bottle down and emptied half of her glass in one gulp.

Distracted, he asked the husband to repeat what he’d just said when Nina spilled her glass all over her new, cotly dress.

Shit, shit shit!” she cried, immediately getting up and patting herself down. His boss was looking at him quizzingly. He got up.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said, “Go to the bathroom, I’ll get you some clothes…”

She did as she was told and he followed her to their en-suite bedroom after apologizing profusely and making sure his guests had all they needed. He got in and closed the door.

“Nina?” he called, softly.

She came out of the bathroom in a tank-top and her panties. She was blushing and kept her eyes down.

“I… I’m sorry, Sir…”

He sat on the bed and beckoned her over.

“No… Please… Sir… Love… Your boss, they…”

“Don’t make me ask you again, Nina,” he said firmly, and with a little nod, she came and wrapped herself over his knees. He immediately grabbed her pink panties and pulled them up in a painful wedgie, revealing the little that they covered. The slaps fell, hard and relentless, and soon she began softly crying and whispering little “sorries” in between sobs. Her bottom turned pink, then red, then a bright crimson as he poured spank after spank on it. Mindful of his boss waiting and the roast about to be cooked, he stopped and grabbed her hair, bending her head backwards and whispering in her ear.

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A few minutes later they were both back in the living-room, where no comment was made and the rest of the evening went by with no incidents.

A week later, he received an email from his boss, praising him for his people skill and how he knew how to handle troublesome elements. She praised him over the discipline he had been showing in his work, and the firm hand he showed in negotiation. She was offering him a promotion.

She had added a post-scriptum : Thank your lovely wife for the opportunity she gave me to appreciate your dedication.

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A letter

It had started very simply, with a letter. It was a simple, white envelope among all the others that had come that day. She had paid it no mind and it had sat on the pile of letters waiting for him when he got home.

The afternoon had been pleasant; she had baked cupcakes, spent an hour reading her favourite book for the tenth time, browsed Pinterest for a while in search of inspiration for her living-room decoration. Dinner had been simmering on the stove when he’d come home, filling the house with a delicious smell. Five minutes before he came home, she was waiting by the door, her hands behind her back, head bowed subserviently, as she knew she had to be.

He had kissed her, deeply, complimented her on the spotless state of the house, on the mouth-watering smell that came from the kitchen, and had asked her how her day had been. He was in a good mood, tender and loving. She had a happy sigh as she went and fetched him a drink.

Then he got to the letters. He opened the first one and his smile instantly turned into a frown. She came back from the kitchen with a glass of martini in hand and was about to say something when she saw the expression on his face. She froze.

“Ashley?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “Can you explain what I’m looking at?”

“I… I… I don’t know, sir, wha-what is it?” she stammered, red in the face.

“It’s a very formal letter from our credit card company, Ashley.”

“Oh…” she said, her eyes widening.

“Maybe you’d care to explain to me how we are maxed out on it? I don’t remember any purchases lately?”

She bit her lip. “Well…”

“Well?”

“Well I was… I was on the internet and…” She was still holding the glass, and the ice cubes tinked as she shivered with dread. “I’m sorry, sir,” she tried.

“You were on the internet and what, young lady?” he said, getting up, the letter still in his hand.

“I might have… bought a few things?” Tears were gathering in her eyes and she bit her lip harder than before.

“That’s more than a few things, Ashley!” he yelled, holding the letter up to her face.

She started crying, “They were nice and… I didn’t want to wait for my birthday and…”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. He took the glass from her hand and gently set it down on the nearby coffee table.

“Well, whatever it is that you bought —handbag, shoes, tablet, believe me, I’ll find out—, you’re sending it all back.”

“No, ple…” she started.

“And!” he interrupted her, grabbing her ear like a scolded schoolgirl, “I’ll give you a taste of what you’ll be receiving every night for the next two weeks.”

“Nooo! Owww… Please!…”

Ignoring her pleading and muffled cries, he dragged her to the sofa and across his knees, pulled her jeans down and started generously slapping her round bottom, quickly turning it from creamy white to bright pink, and then from pink to a deep, warm red. She begged and pleaded at first, bawled her eyes out, then gritted her teeth, held tight to the sofa as her punishment went on.

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The food in the kitchen started to smell like burning when he finally relented, after he got a long, sincere and heartfelt apology from her in between her sobs. He pulled her jeans all the way off and sent her to save their dinner with a final slap on her bruised bottom. She would have to plan it better for the coming two weeks ; her evenings were going to be a lot less pleasant.