Copper’s Quiet Triumphs

by polyfetishist

A spanking story by Copper:

I stand in the corner, hands at my sides, fingers grasping the seams of my pleated kilt. If I move the tiniest bit I can hear the rustle of my starched white shirt, the way it scratches lightly against my braided hair. The tie with its crisp perfect knot is uncomfortably snug at my throat. When the door opens and closes, I feel the breeze on my legs, bare above their white knee socks. I’ve been told to stand perfectly still, and I’m doing okay at it; he can’t see me wiggling my toes inside these stiff, polished Mary Janes.

He makes a telephone call; his voice, low and pleasant, causes shivers of desire to race up and down my spine. A colleague knocks at the door, and they spend five minutes or so talking shop; I can hear the grin in the other man’s voice – looks like you’ve got plenty of work to do – as he leaves. There is the soft clicking of keys on the laptop for a few minutes, a rustle of paper, another telephone call, and then suddenly he is behind me, his body pressing me further into the corner, murmuring, “I see you can follow instructions, after all.” My panties are already damp, but a freshet of moisture makes them slick against my sex as he takes the back of my neck in his hand and draws me out of the corner, guiding me to the front of the desk, where he leans back against it, hands in his pockets, and looks at me gravely.

“Well, don’t you look naughty,” he says, and my hands go behind my back, covering my tingling posterior. A futile gesture, but so automatic when I hear those words. “You have been a naughty girl, haven’t you, pet,” he says, more a statement than a question, but I know better than to not answer.

“Yes, sir.” I can barely get my voice above a whisper. My whole body is tense; my bottom is burning, electrified and seems to be the center of everything, converging down to peak at the hot, intemperate wetness between my thighs. Each word, each look brings on a new twinge, causing me to squirm and twist my fingers against the back of my kilt.

He stands, just looking at me, for what seems an eternity; I try to meet his eyes but inevitably mine are dragged back down to the floor. I long to speak to him, to burst into tears, to fall into his arms, but I do none of these things; these comforts belong to Good Girls, and I am most definitely a Naughty Girl. When I have been punished, absolved, scourgified – the thought makes me shiver again – then I will enter the circle of those strong arms, sobbing out my contrition and watering his skin with my tears.

He speaks again, standing aside and tapping the desk. “Bend over,” he says, “and raise your skirt.”

Trembling, I drape myself over the desk, and reach back to gather the folds of Clan Donald tartan up at my waist, exposing my red cotton panties, slightly too tight for my chubby white bottom, and very damp in the crotch. He runs his hand up my thigh and lets it come to rest on the crown of one bottom cheek… then slaps it lightly and says, “Bottom well out.”

I arch my back, wiggling with pleasure as he says, “Good, good.” He continues to rub lightly as he says, “You know what happens to naughty little girls when I catch them.” Another slap, slightly harder, and he adds, “Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice muffled as my cheek is resting against the cool smooth mahogany of the desk.

“And you’ve been very naughty, haven’t you, pet?” He punctuates the word very with another little slap, toying with me, drawing it out, breaking down the last of my resistance.

“Yes, sir.”

He runs his hand down to the secret space between my legs, feeling the moisture seeping through my panties there, and leans over, covering me with his body, and breathes onto the nape of my neck, “Oh, yes, very naughty, pet, very naughty indeed,” as he runs his hand up the length of my left side, tweaking a breast before standing up.

His voice is now louder, his tone more severe. “Yes, there is only one thing I can do with such a very naughty girl.” I hear the clank of a buckle and my heart jumps into my mouth as I hear the swish of his belt being pulled out out of its loops. He doubles it over and lays it on the desk just in front of my eyes, and I feel his hands in the waistband of my panties.

I can’t stop myself from saying, “Oh, no, sir, please, don’t pull down my panties!” And he stops, spanks my bottom half a dozen times, and says, “Impertinent. Naughty girls are always spanked on their bare bottoms.” Then he recommences divesting me of the last bit of dignity, pulling my panties down to my knees and then tucking my shirttails and kilt up into its waistband, and I am at last exposed, bare from waist to knee, trembling like mad and tears already starting in my eyes. He slides his fingers in between my legs one last time, remarking on the moist, musky evidence of my arousal, and then reaches for the belt.

“Thirteen, I think,” he says. “A Witch’s dozen ought to do it, don’t you think, pet?”

“Yes, sir.”

I close my eyes and hear the swoosh of the belt through the air just a nanosecond before it paints a line of fire across my bottom, then another, and then another. I take a long shuddering breath and let it out in a sob, and he begins again – four, five, six – my hands stay flat on the desk but my head raises up in agony – seven, eight, nine – tears fall freely onto polished mahogany – ten, eleven, twelve – I howl, my resolution of fortitude a distant memory – and he says, “One more, pet, only one more,” his hand slowly stroking my slick pussy as he speaks, “can you bear just one more?”

“Yes – yes – yes, sir,” I cry, and then it lands, the fiercest of them all, taking with it my last vestige of self-control. I slump sobbing onto the desk as he surveys his handiwork, tracing welts with his fingers, then stroking my bottom with his whole hand before he once again ventures into the hot dark well of moisture between my thighs, knowing just where to push, just where to pinch, just where to rub softly and slowly until I’m crying out in pleasure instead of pain, and pushing my punished bottom out to him, saying, “Please… please…”

He makes me wait, shuddering and sobbing through two orgasms before I hear him unbuttoning his trousers and dropping them to the floor, and finally I feel him place both hands on my hot, welted bottom and thrust into me, sliding in and out slowly as his own pleasure builds, then faster and harder, smacking my bottom in time with his thrusts, until he roars out his own climax and collapses on top of me.