Page 6 of His to Correct

The eleventh swat came down hard on my already tender sit spot. I cried out, no longer able to contain my anguish. Sobs racked my body as I struggled to catch my breath.

“E-eleven,” I managed between gasps. “Thank you, ma’am. Please… oh, god, please may I have the last one?”

Sharon paused, letting the anticipation build. I could feel the eyes of every other executive recruit on my backside, witnessingmy complete humiliation. My bottom felt like it was on fire, each throb a reminder of my powerlessness.

When the final stroke came, it was the hardest yet. The paddle cracked against my flesh with devastating force, and I howled in pain and despair.

“Twelve!” I wailed, my composure utterly shattered. “Thank you, ma’am!”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was my ragged sobbing. I lay draped over the chair, my body heaving with each gasping breath. The pain in my bottom pulsed in time with my racing heart.

Finally, Sharon’s cool voice spoke again. “You may stand now, Miss Mitropoulos.”

With trembling limbs, I pushed myself upright. My skirt fell back into place, but the fabric felt like sandpaper against my tender flesh. I stumbled slightly, my legs weak and unsteady.

“Pull up your panties,” Sharon instructed, her tone devoid of sympathy. “Then you may go to the restroom to compose yourself and fix your makeup. You can review your follow-up email for any information you miss.”

With shaking hands, I reached down and grasped the waistband of my thong. I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as I drew the lacy fabric up and over my throbbing bottom. The delicate material seemed to catch on every welt and bruise, reigniting the sting.

My face burned with humiliation as I straightened, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on the floor. I couldn’t bear to meet the eyes of my fellow recruits, couldn’t stand even to glance in Sharon’s direction.

I shuffled out of the orientation room, my legs still unsteady beneath me. The corridor stretched before me, seeming impossibly long. Every step sent fresh waves of pain radiating from my punished bottom.

As I made my way toward the restroom, I passed several Selecta employees going about their day. Their eyes seemed to linger on me, taking in my disheveled appearance and tearstained face. I could almost feel their knowing glances, imagining they could see right through my skirt to the welts and bruises beneath. My face burned anew with each encounter, certain despite the utter lack of logic in it that news of my public paddling had already spread through the office grapevine.

When I finally reached the restroom, I pushed open the heavy door with trembling hands. The harsh fluorescent lighting made me wince, highlighting every imperfection in my reflection as I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My mascara had run in dark streaks down my cheeks, and my hair was a tangled mess from my writhing during the punishment.

Avoiding my own gaze, I hurried into the nearest stall, desperate for a moment of privacy. As I lowered myself onto the toilet seat, a gasp escaped my lips. The cool plastic against my tender flesh sent shockwaves through my body—part pain, part the same distressing arousal I had felt during the punishment, but magnified by what felt like ten times.

To my horror, it surged through me with every little movement of my bottom on the seat. The contrasting sensations—the sting of my welts, the coolness of the surface beneath me, the lingering humiliation—all seemed to coalesce into an unbearable need. My breath came in short, sharp pants as I tried to fight the urge building within me. As I started to pee, the release of my bladder made me whimper with lewd desire.

The struggle against my body was no use. Almost of their own accord, my fingers found their way between my thighs even before the last drops fell. I bit my lip hard, tasting blood, as I began to stroke my swollen clit. The slickness I encountered lower down, when I ran my middle finger there, filled me with hot shame and, at the same time, desperate hunger.

I was no stranger to self-pleasure. In fact, I had long viewed masturbation as an act of defiance against societal norms, a way to claim ownership over my own body and desires. But this… this felt different. Never before had I felt such an overwhelming, all-consuming need.

My fingers moved faster, circling my clit with increasing urgency. In my mind’s eye, unbidden images flashed—Sharon’s stern face as she wielded the paddle, the feeling of being bent over and exposed, the eyes of my fellow recruits burning into my bare flesh.

A soft moan escaped my lips before I could stifle it. I froze for a moment, terrified someone might have heard, but the restroom remained silent save for the pounding of my own heart.

Giving in to the inevitable, I resumed my frantic ministrations. I raised myself up a little so that I could reach my other hand back and gingerly touch my punished bottom. The sting that radiated from even that light contact sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

I was close now, unthinkably close given how long it usually took me, on languid Saturday mornings in bed with my little vibrator. Sure, I had been too busy to play with myself for a few days—and I had broken up with my last boyfriend three months before—but I had never felt this responsive even to my own touch.

My fingers moved over my heated flesh, alternating between teasing strokes and firm pressure. Each touch sent sparks of pleasure coursing through my body, to mingle with the lingering sting of the paddling and wind my need even more tightly. I found myself prolonging the exquisite sensations, drawing out my pleasure despite the risk of discovery.

I couldn’t believe I was doing this—masturbating in a bathroom stall at work, my bottom still throbbing from punishment. Yet I couldn’t stop. The taboo nature of the act only heightened my arousal.

As I gently squeezed my tender cheeks, my thoughts took an unexpected turn. Suddenly, I wasn’t reliving my own paddling, but imagining myself wielding the paddle. In my mind’s eye, it was Sharon bent over, her impeccable suit skirt hiked up to reveal her bare bottom.

“Pull your cheeks apart,” I commanded in my fantasy, my voice thick with authority. I pictured Sharon’s hands reaching back, spreading herself open in shameful obedience.

The image sent a fresh wave of heat through me. My fingers found their way to my own puckered opening, circling the sensitive flesh. I gasped at the intensity of the sensation, my other hand working furiously between my legs.

I hadn’t done that, ever. When a boyfriend’s finger strayed in that direction I always pulled his hand away. Unable to resist now, I pressed a finger inside, my body yielding easily to the intrusion, as if my paddling had rendered my bottom accessible in some shameful way. The forbidden dual stimulation pushed me over the edge in an instant. My orgasm crashed over me with startling speed and intensity, leaving me trembling and breathless.

As I emerged from the stall and put myself to rights in the mirror, I tried to push away the embarrassment that threatened to take hold, telling myself that to come that way represented the most defiant thing I could do, a giantfuck youto Sharon and to Selecta. The fact that it had happened because Sharon had paddled me in front of the whole orientation only made my act of self-pleasure more of a demonstration of bodily autonomy.

I. Don’t. Want. It.

---