Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
“Take her hands away from her bottom,” Sharon said in a scornful voice. “Miss Mitropoulos, you’re going to take your punishment even if these gentlemen need to hold you down for the rest of it.”
Johnson grabbed my left wrist and Ramirez my right. Suddenly afraid they might break my arms, I let the tension go out of me, so that they could move my hands back in front of me. Then, almost immediately, I felt the puff of air from the blade of the paddle, and I cried out in terror even before it struck—then screamed and writhed against the strong restraining hands as the pain built once again.
Horrified, I realized that being able to struggle against the men’s grip on me seemed to relieve some of the agony, even as the humiliating need between my thighs grew so great that I felt my pussy clench between my tightly closed thighs. As much as my body wanted to keep struggling, I forced myself still as I gave Sharon the words she had demanded.
“Ten,” I whimpered, my voice barely audible. “Thank you, ma’am. Please—please may I have the next one?”
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, witnessing my 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.