by LSF Publications
by Leland Mays
Tyler Morris sat behind a great solid oak desk. Behind him could be seen the tall skyscrapers along West 57th Street in Manhattan. His was a corner office; another panel of windows on his left offered a panoramic view of Central Park. The man was nervously squeezing his hands together. He gazed at Miss Nancy Wiggins, his new private secretary, who sat calmly on the other side of the desk.
Beads of sweat had formed on Tyler's forehead. When he finally did speak, his voice was quavering. "Miss Wiggins, you see before you a desperate man."
"Sir?"
"Desperate. At the end of his tether."
"I'm very sorry, sir." She brushed her light brown hair back from her face. Her eyes were gray or blue depending on what colors she wore. She was neatly dressed in a pale silk blouse; her loose gathered skirt was knee length, chosen so as not to draw attention to hips and a derriere that she considered too large.
A haggard look on his face, Tyler spoke again. "Miss Wiggins, do you realize the pressure on a man in my position? I'm Senior Investment Broker here at Globe Capital Partners. Millions, indeed, tens of millions, are made or lost based on my recommendations. Mine alone! A tiny miscalculation here, a lapse in judgment there, and I've ruined some millionaire's day. The stress is wrecking my health!"
Tyler was in his mid-forties, but he looked older. His secretary noticed his sallow skin, receding hairline, and the nervous tic he had developed. She could only agree. "Yes," she murmured, "you don't look very well, sir."
"You have no idea. I gobble down Xanax and Valium like they were M & M's. The last time I had a good night's sleep, the Yankees were in the World Series. My psychiatrist declared me a hopeless case and refused to schedule another appointment."
He looked at the woman through bloodshot eyes. "I'm desperate, Miss Wiggins. Truly."
"I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
Now the man's eyes narrowed. In a low voice he murmured, "Oh there is, Miss Wiggins. I think there just might be!"
Becoming uneasy from the look he was giving her, she said, "Yes sir, just tell me how I can help."
Tyler took a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect. "I want to spank your bottom."
Miss Wiggins blinked, certain that she had not heard the man correctly. After a few seconds she realized that he had indeed said it: spank your bottom.
"Spank my... ?" she said in an incredulous voice. "What are you talking about? Are you crazy!"
"Most likely I am, Miss Wiggins. There's a good chance of it. Do you suppose this desire I have to paddle your big round derriere is my way of self-destructing from the pressure? It makes sense when you think about it."
"Look, is this your idea of a joke?"
"Not at all. I'm teetering on the edge of an abyss here, Miss Wiggins. There's only one thing I can cling to that will save me."
"What ... my bottom?"
"Exactly."
Now growing angry, his secretary glared at him. "You know, I could sue you six ways from Sunday for even suggesting such an outrageous thing!"
"True. That would also guarantee my self-destruction. But I happen to believe that paddling your butt is the logical thing to do. My only hope of salvation."
Shaking her head now in pity, the woman spoke again. "You're sick. Check yourself into a mental hospital, Mr. Morris. Do it today."
"That course of action also has a downside. It turns out that not even the dot com millionaires will take advice on stock options from a man in a psychiatric ward."
"Then spank your wife, Mr. Morris!" She was still dazed and reeling from the surreal turn this conversation had taken.
"I tried. She slugged me in the jaw and said if I ever tried that again she'd divorce me in a heartbeat. And take me to the cleaners in the process."
"Well, there are women down on 42nd Street who will let you do that sort of thing, I'm sure."
"Who has the time for that! When I'm not chained to this desk I'm commuting to Westchester. And as soon as I get home, Gloria greets me with a honey-do list."
Just broaching the subject of spanking his secretary had somehow calmed the man. Now speaking more assuredly, as if he were urging a client to buy more stock in Delta Airlines, he said, "Miss Wiggins, yours is by far the nicest and, well ... most spankable fanny around. Do you know what I'd be thinking about as I paddled it?"
"Oh, I can imagine!"
"I'd be thinking about Warren Dorrell."
"Who?"
"Warren Dorrell, Assistant to the CEO and my boss here at Globe Capital. Now, the man deserves a good punch in the nose. Everyone knows that. But if I drove my fist into his snoot, which would please me no end, I'd be fired at once. So, with each smack of your bottom I would, in a figurative sense, be giving my boss what he richly deserves. The only difference is I'd keep my job."
"Humph!"
"I'd also be thinking about my wife and our teenage daughters, Lori and Jennifer."
"Your family!"
"Indeed. Did you know they're on a first name basis with every clerk at Bloomingdale's? Our credit card payments match the gross national product of Costa Rica. But if I cut up their credit cards, they wouldn't speak to me for a year. And I'd lose bedroom privileges with Gloria, who can still make my toes curl when she's in the mood.
"But with each slap of your butt cheeks, I'd be saying, 'Take that, Visa! How do you like them apples, MasterCard?' It would be very therapeutic, I believe."
Again the woman shook her head. "You are truly deranged."
"And I'd also be thinking of Mr. Liebermann."
"Who's he?"
"My richest client. He ragged on me for an hour yesterday because I had him buy General Motors instead of Exxon Mobil. After what he called me, the man deserves a good thrashing on general principle. But of course I had to be polite to the whiny little s.o.b.
"Each time I'd slap your butt, Miss Wiggins, I'd picture Mr. Liebermann's face. There is in fact, a striking resemblance. So now do you see how it would benefit me to paddle your bottom? I think I've presented a good case, if you don't mind my saying so."
Seething with anger, Miss Wiggins rose. "Mr. Morris, I'm walking out of this room now. I'm going to pretend this absurd conversation never took place. You'd better hope that I soon forget it!"
"So, is that a yes or a no?"
"Ooh!" Miss Wiggins cried in exasperation. She hurried to the door, slamming it shut with all her might as she made her exit.
It is a well-known fact, however, that the hearts of many women brim with compassion. They are capable of mercy and sympathy even when the recipient of those feelings does not deserve them in the slightest.
Fortunately for Tyler, Miss Wiggins was such a person. It pained her to see the misery and suffering in the world. In spite of herself, she thought now and then of her unhappy boss and the bizarre proposal he had made. She watched with growing alarm as each day the man became more distraught, more wretched. It weighed on her mind.
Nancy Wiggins was in her mid thirties, having divorced her husband several years ago and settled into the life of a bachelorette, which she quite enjoyed. She seldom dated and relied on a small circle of female friends for companionship.
Over lunch one day with these friends, she casually brought up the subject of spanking, in the context of hypothetically submitting to a man that way. The other ladies were horrified, declaring one and all that it was unthinkable in this modern age for a woman to suffer such treatment.
But the idea secretly intrigued her and would not go away. In her purse Miss Wiggins kept a hairbrush that she used to touch up her hair during the day. She found herself thinking about the various ways a hairbrush can be put to use.
One morning when her boss was even more miserable than usual, she was collecting documents that he had just signed. Her caring heart went out to him in his anguish.
"Mr. Morris, how soundproof are the walls of your office?" she asked.
The man drew a hand through his ever-thinning dark hair. "Oh, very," he replied. "It's bad for morale when co-workers can hear us crying inconsolably or screaming at the top of our lungs. Happens a lot, unfortunately."
He looked up from his computer screen. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason. And your window blinds?" She gazed across the street at people in the offices in the GE Building.
"Can be closed with the push of a button."
Tyler was buying ten thousand shares of Revlon for his newest client; a click of his computer mouse was all that remained. He was so engrossed that he paid little attention to the ramblings of his secretary.
The next afternoon, however, Miss Wiggins nervously entered his office, took a deep breath, and laid her hairbrush on his desk. Tied to its handle was a red ribbon with a pretty bow. Tyler glanced at it for a few seconds. Then, a thunderstruck look came to his face as he understood. Now the man could scarcely contain his joy. It was like Christmas in July, a dozen birthdays rolled into one. No gift ever thrilled Tyler as much as the sight of that hairbrush and what it promised.
Why did Miss Wiggins do it? She wanted to ease his despair, of course. But there is more to it. She did it for the same reason that we try raw oysters even after we have seen how disgusting they look: curiosity, the novelty of it all. Some part of her wanted to know what it would be like. Would she feel only pain as her boss spanked her bottom? Or something more?
In less time than it takes to say 'buy low, sell high,' Tyler had drawn the curtains and locked his office door. They adjourned to one side of his office where sat an overstuffed sofa.
Her face crimson, her body trembling like a serving of jello, Miss Wiggins raised the embroidered crinkle skirt and slip she was wearing, then bent over and placed her elbows on the sofa arm. The broker saw that she was wearing white cotton panties. Somehow they managed to entirely cover her broad expanse, no small feat in itself.
So nervous she could barely speak, the woman said, "The panties stay on."
"Of course."
"And we need a stop word." On company time Miss Wiggins had surfed internet spanking websites and knew the rules, such as they were.
"What do you suggest?" Tyler asked.
"Insider trading."
"Oh, good choice." Now Tyler was raising the hairbrush, now it was coming down on his secretary's derriere with a sharp Whack! She gasped, emitting a faint "Oh!"
"Was that too hard?"
"No, it's okay."
Another half dozen smacks followed. Miss Wiggins soon realized that the pain, like the interest on a savings account, was cumulative. Her fanny began to burn. She could hear her boss talking to himself. She turned slightly to listen.
"Here's a good kick in the nuts, Mr. Dorrell!" she heard him mutter ... Whack! ... "And here's the punch in the nose you've been needing, buster!" ... Whack! ... "And Jennifer, honey, this is for maxing out your Visa card last month!" ... Whack! ... "So, Mr. Liebermann, I wouldn't know a winning stock if it bit me in the ass, eh?" ... Whack!
Miss Wiggins flinched and gritted her teeth as, with heroic determination, the broker paddled her behind.
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