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Spank Me! Whip Me!

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Cor stands up and comes around his desk, eyes sharp and icy as he surveys your face, your posture, your demeanor. Your anticipation spikes as he speaks. “Don’t you think we should discuss your insubordination?” he demands. “I gave you a warning last time and you didn’t learn, did you? 

Your eyes shift nervously. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he orders, seizing your chin roughly and forcing you to meet his glare. His face is close enough for you to see his pupils expand subtly. His voice drops slightly in register “This time you’ve earned yourself a corrective measure. Now I’ve got something in mind but I want to hear what you think you deserve.” He gives you a few seconds to think before adding, “And believe me, if I don’t think it measures up to how you fucked up, I’ll just make mine that much worse.”

“Promise?” You ask, purposely provocative and knowing he means business. He glowers, warning. You’re stepping on thin ice and you know it. You stand there, trying to decide on a response. Should you go with sincere, but not quite enough? Or blatantly insufficient? 

Another thought crosses your mind. You think it might work but you wonder if you’re daring enough to make a counter offer. 

“Well?” He demands impatiently. “I don’t have all day.” 

You make your choice and step off that cliff. Opening your mouth, you speak, no backing down now. 

“Excuse me?” He retorts sharply after you’ve made your suggestion. His voice is angry but you catch sight of a different sort of heat in his eyes. 

“I didn’t stutter,” you reply, gauging his reaction. You’re taking a risk and you don’t want to take it too far. His eyes fly open wide for about a half a second as the words come out. 

“Do you really think,” he starts in a threatening growl,”that spanking is sufficient punishment for your lack of respect? 

You roll your eyes towards the ceiling as if thinking. “Probably not. Um, but you said if it wasn’t you’d make it that much worse. Maybe this way I’ll get a better idea of what is sufficient for next time?”

He glowers at you in silence for a minute before responding. “The idea is that there not be a next time. And I most assuredly do not find it a sufficient measure,” he finally states evenly. “But I think I will take your suggestion and increase the severity as I see fit. Is that understood?” 

“Yeah,” you reply. 

He gets in your face now. “You will answer me properly, recruit.”

“Yes, Marshal.” 

He holds your eye contact for a few more seconds as if waiting for you to change your mind. When you don’t, he takes a step back and unbuttons one sleeve, rolling it up, then the other. Taking hold of your wrist, he gives a sharp yank, bringing you closer to his desk. 

“Bend over, hands on the desk,” he orders. 

You do as told, briefly, giving your ass an enticing wiggle as you do. Then you look back over your shoulder with a smirk. “Should I take my pants down?” You pause. “Or do you want to be the one to do that?” 

His eyes narrow, dangerous and calculating, his jaw working for a few seconds. “Quiet, you,” he finally mutters as a heavy hand falls between your shoulder blades, pushing until your elbows buckle so that your cheek lays against the desk’s surface. The other tugs roughly at your waistband. 

The cool office air hits your now-bare ass, you bite your lip against the grin you’re fighting, unable to believe you’re actually getting away with this. You try to look again, movement hindered by the hand at your shoulder blades, but in the corner of your eye, you can see a sliver of bare arm and sleeve cuffed above the elbow. 

It seems like a million years that he makes you wait. You’re just considering doing something to provoke him again when the other hand falls sharply against your cheek, the crack of his palm chased by the first sting. You try to hold still and await the next fall as warmth rises on your stricken skin. 

You try, but as much as you do you can’t resist squirming and turning, wanting so badly to watch. 

“Eyes on the desk,” he orders through clenched teeth. “This isn’t a game.” You bite back a giggle as his hand meets your other cheek soundly with a sting that’s both satisfying and leaves you wanting another. You wiggle your ass just a little, and wonder if the Marshal is the sort that likes to follow spankings with...other things. You can’t help but notice that there aren’t many things on his desk and it would be so easy to clear them off to use the surface for other purposes. And then he speaks again.

“I’m not convinced that this is an effective way of dealing with you.”

“Oh yes! It is, I won’t do it again, honest!” You protest. 

The hand at your back disappears. “Stay there. Don’t even think about moving.”

You’re tempted try to sneak a glance behind you, but you hear him step away to the side. A few seconds later you hear him rustling in a cabinet. 

You don’t have to wait long to see what he’s after. Suspense isn’t part of his plan. The latch clicks and his footsteps return. “I think something a little firmer than my hand is needed,” he informs you. “Stand and face me at attention.”

You do as ordered, as best as you can with your uniform pants still around your knees, more out of curiosity than true obedience. You struggle to keep a straight face when you see what’s in his hand: a paddle, about the length of his forearm and width of his hand. It’s a dark wood, beautifully polished until the grain glistens in the light like the finest threads of metal. 

Though your face doesn’t move, your eyes surely show your excitement. You know it’s visible when Cor raises his eyebrow and the rest of his expression darkens. “This is a punishment, not a game.”

You do your best to reign in your barely contained giddiness. “Yes sir,” you quickly reply. 

“Turn around, hands and eyes on the desk,” he orders and you do, waiting for the first impact.

Not one to worry about fanfare or dramatic effect, Cor’s first swing lands without delay, falling squarely across both cheeks, pushing a gasp from your lungs. The impact radiates through your nerves. 

“I hope the next time you wanna mouth off like that, this makes you stop and think first.”

Oh, it’ll make you stop and think. Just not in the way he has in mind. 

You only have a few seconds before the second swing lands. This time you bite your lip and can’t help a whilper as the initial sting sublimates into tingling warmth. 

Another blow falls, compounding the pain into your flesh, quickly turning tender. Part of you is tempted to put your hands back over the point of impact but you know that’s a bad idea. You whimper, a little louder this time. 

“Yeah that’s the point,” Cor comments. “It’s not supposed to feel like a nice soft rubbing.”

And somewhere beneath the deepening pain, your excitement grows. You try to hold still, but you can’t help yourself. 

“Knock that off,” he growls. When you do stop you know it’s coming. You swear it’s no harder than before but the pain is intensified from the cumulative effects of twice before, as well as the first blows from his open palm - substantial in their own right. 

Your cheeks are burning- and so is your face. He comes around to lift your chin roughly, glaring at you. “Have I made myself clear?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, but you nod all the same. As you do though, you can’t help a self-satisfied grin at what you *have* gotten away with. It’s pushed off your face as the paddle makes contact again, harder than the last time, the force of it making your eyes water slightly and you can’t hold back a little yelp. 

He says no more but pauses for a few seconds. The surface pain is just starting to dissipate as the paddle falls one more time, you feel this blow more deeply and wonder if there will be bruises, almost hoping there will be light ones, ones that you can see for a few days. Later, you’ll fantasize about laying over his thighs as he does give you a nice, soft rubbing and how nice that would feel. 

For now though, Cor’s rough voice cuts through your thoughts. “Stand up and turn around.” 

You do. He tucks the paddle under one arm and pointedly looks away. You take this as your signal to right your clothing, the fabric passing over the freshly tenderized flesh sending jolts through your body. You do your best to appear remorseful. 

“Eyes straight ahead.” He waits for you to comply before continuing. “Now I don’t want to have a repeat meeting like this,” he tells you. He’s not directly in front of you so you can’t be absolutely certain without breaking your posture, but you’re sure his eyes believe contradiction.  As he dismisses you, you can’t help but try to think of a way to engineer another “disciplinary meeting” without getting into too much real trouble.