Deja Vu All Over Again

In the center of the otherwise deserted office, a young woman stood forlornly. Hugging herself, Cathy kept a mournful eye on the closed door, anticipating -- no, dreading -- the imminent arrival of Mr. Cumberland, the head of her firm.

How she wished, how she really, really wished, she'd resisted the temptation to go shopping on her lunch hour. The lure of a new boutique only a few blocks away proved too strong to resist. Surrounded by literally acres of the latest fashions, she completely forgot about the clock. By the time she realized the hour and rushed back to the office, she was a full forty-five minutes late.

Overextending the lunch period without permission was a grievous fault in and of itself. What made things far worse was that some reports Cathy had been tasked with completing (which she'd intended to do right after lunch) didn't get done, meaning an important meeting with a major client had to be cancelled -- after the client had already arrived at the office. Cathy shivered as she recalled the dark look in Mr. Cumberland's eyes when she reported her failure, how he'd tersely instructed her to wait for him in his office.

Glancing around the room, Cathy realized she felt exactly as she'd felt as a teenager, when she'd been sent to her father's study for some transgression. During her preadolescent years, Cathy's father had spanked her over his knee, on her bare bottom, with either his hand or a hairbrush. With the onset of puberty, apparently feeling such intimate contact with his daughter now inappropriate, he embarked on an alternative course of chastisement.

Cathy recalled how she would stand in the study, in her school uniform, for what seemed like hours. Even if the session took place late in the evening or on a weekend, she was expected to change into her school uniform before reporting. Her preparatory time in the study was supposedly for her to "think about what she'd done", but she was usually too concerned with what would happen next to give much thought to what had gone before.

Eventually, her father would decide she'd waited long enough. He'd enter the study and take a seat behind his desk. She'd stand before it, eyes downcast, while he lectured her on the reason for their mutual presence, her responses limited to "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and simple explanatory statements.

Next came the command that, no matter how often she heard, she never quite got used to: the order to take off her skirt. While her fumbling fingers hastened to comply, he'd stand up, open the center drawer of the desk, and remove an eighteen-inch-long wooden ruler purchased especially for this purpose. By the time he reached her side, she was expected to have her skirt removed, folded neatly, and placed on the corner of the desk.

Then he'd order her to bend over, across the desk. At first this was a difficult task; a growth spurt at age fourteen made it much easier. Once she'd assumed the position, he'd draw her panties down to just below the swell of her buttocks, where they intersected with her thighs. (Although her father found spanking her bare backside with his hand distasteful, he didn't seem to mind the disrobement.) He'd tap the ruler across both cheeks once or twice, making sure of his aim, then the actual punishment would commence.

Cathy never attempted to count the strokes; her mind focused on keeping in position. Her father didn't mind if she kicked a bit, but she couldn't raise her legs enough to interfere with his swing, nor bring her hands around behind herself. Any lapse on her part brought additional swats. He didn't lecture while he spanked her, either, having made his point quite clear earlier.

Again and again, the ruler descended on her vulnerable hindquarters, leaving red stripes and burning, stinging pain behind. Her father wielded the implement expertly, snapping his wrist at the last second to impart that extra bit of impact. He covered the entire area from the crown of her nates down to that tender area just above where her panties now nestled, ensuring Cathy would remember this lesson every time she sat down for the next few days. All her tears, and pleading, and agonized outcries were to no avail; he'd continue laying on solid strokes until she felt her bottom would explode -- and beyond.

When he'd finished with the spanking, he'd pull her panties back up and circle around the desk again to replace the ruler in the center drawer. Then he'd wait patiently until she cried herself out, pushed herself to her feet again, and redonned her skirt. There'd be a brief closing lecture before he dismissed her. Then, and only then, could she attempt to soothe her aching, battered flesh by rubbing or massaging; before then, her backside was strictly a "hands-off" zone.

And so it went, all throughout Cathy's teen-age years ...

The opening and closing of the office door interrupted her reverie. She sensed, rather than saw, Mr. Cumberland brush by her as she automatically assumed a position of parade rest before the desk. Springs squeaked and groaned as he settled into his chair. Not daring to meet his eyes, she kept her gaze focused squarely on the desktop. It could be her father's desk in his study at home, she realized; the neatly kept surface, complete with appointment calendar, pen-and- pencil set, and framed photograph of husband, wife, and smiling teenaged daughter --

His voice broke through her thoughts. "Cathy, I don't suppose I need to tell you I'm very disappointed in your performance this afternoon."

"No, sir," she replied, blushing under the rebuke.

"Those reports were crucial to our meeting with Mr. Greene. Your failure to finish them on time could have cost this firm a very well- paying client."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"I managed to smooth things over with him, but it was a huge embarrassment, both to myself and to the firm."

"Yes, sir."

"I understand you were at lunch until 1:30 today. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"It doesn't take that long to eat. What were you doing for all that time?"

"S-shopping, sir."

"Shopping." The single word hung accusingly in the air.

"Y-yes, sir."

"Young lady, we've all worked very hard to establish this firm's reputation for excellence and professionalism. I will _not_ allow anything, or anybody, to compromise that reputation. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, let's just make sure of that."

Cathy felt her heart beating fast in her chest. Cold sweat covered her brow; she had to forcibly remind herself to breathe. Standing on shaky legs, she awaited his next pronouncement.

"Take off your skirt."

Instinctively, her fingers unbuttoned and unzipped her skirt. As she stepped out of it, she heard the center drawer of the desk opening and closing, and sensed him getting to his feet. By the time she'd folded the skirt neatly and placed it on a corner of the desk, he stood beside her. Her blush deepened, knowing he could see her garters and black satin panties.

"Bend over."

Her body's automatic pilot guided her over the desk, her hands reaching out to grasp the opposite edge. Her jaw clenched as she felt fingers in the waistband of her panties. Slowly, inexorably, down they went, until they bunched about the tops of her stockings. Something tapped against her backside, once, twice; without looking, she knew it was a wooden ruler, eighteen inches long.

WHAP!

The impact almost took her by surprise. It had been some time since she'd been sent to her father's study; but it seemed her bottom, like an elephant, never forgets. Within instants, the pain radiating upwards reminded her of all the times she'd been in this position, and she braced herself, knowing full well what lay ahead.

WHAP!

The second swat paralleled the first, a few millimeters lower. Two lines of fire burned across Cathy's hindquarters. She tightened her grip on the edge of the desk, determined not to let go.

WHAP! WHAP! The fourth stroke caught her directly in the thigh crease. The solid impact in such a tender area broke a bit of her resolve. "Ohhhhhh," she moaned, wriggling on the desktop and drumming her toes against the carpeted floor. The completely unsympathetic Mr. Cumberland delivered the fifth and sixth strokes almost directly atop the fourth before moving the ruler back up onto her buttocks again. WHAP! WHAP!

As the punishing implement continued its painful journey up and down her fundament, Cathy's cries of distress grew increasingly loud. She didn't care if her co-workers outside the office could hear what was going on. She didn't care if Mr. Greene was outside, getting an earful. She didn't care if a camera crew from the local news was about to burst in with a live satellite feed to the entire country. She just wanted this awful, endless spanking to end --

Then, suddenly, it did. She didn't quite realize her chastisement was over until she felt her panties being pulled back up over her burning, throbbing cheeks. Her tears and sobbing blocked out most of the sights and sounds in the room, but she was still vaguely aware of him sitting down and putting the ruler away.

After a few minutes, she pushed herself to her feet, wiped fitfully at her eyes, and put her skirt on again. Then she again faced the desk, keeping her hands clasped tightly in front of her, resisting the almost- overwhelming urge to reach back and soothe her aching bottom.

"So," Mr. Cumberland intoned, "will you ever extend your lunch period without permission again?"

"No, sir," Cathy answered.

"And will you ever put aside important work for such frivolities again?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent. One last thing: dinner will be at six o'clock sharp tonight. Be sure you're on time."

"Yes, Daddy -- yes, sir," she hastily corrected herself.

"Very well. You're dismissed."

As she closed the office door behind her, Cathy Cumberland wondered, once again, whether taking a summer internship at her father's firm was such a wise idea after all.