{ASSTR 44} One Hundred Spanks {Big Billie} (M/F spank)

One Hundred Spanks

By Big Billie

When I emerged from medical school as a newly qualified general practitioner I took a much needed summer vacation and then started to look for work. I ended up in a cathedral city in the southern counties of England working as accomplice to the local doctor. The idea was that if things went well I would be offered a partnership in two years time.

By NHS (National Health Service) standards the facilities were good. I had a reception room that led into a consulting room, and both rooms were for my sole use. At my job interview my senior, Dr. Adam McTavish, made no mention of secretarial support and for my first few weeks it was his secretary, Ann Page, who took care of my bookings and appointments. But then, one day in mid-October, Dr. McTavish introduced me to his daughter, Amy. She was 18 years old and had just finished her Advanced Level examinations at the local girls' grammar school. Amy's results were good, Adam told me with pride, and she had been offered a place as a medical student at a top university teaching hospital. But before that she was taking a gap year, and she wanted to spend it gaining work experience in the family practice. Until the following autumn, Adam informed me, Amy would be acting as my secretary. He added that she would be employed full-time, for 38 hours per week, at the then legal minimum wage for young people aged 18 to 20, namely GBP 5.55 per hour.

Well, when once she had settled in Amy proved herself an excellent secretary. I enrolled her at the local Further Education college for one afternoon a week to learn professional touch typing and how to use one of the industry standard computer Office suites, and I also sent her on a short course run by the NHS on how to be a good NHS secretary. Soon the two of us had my half of the practice running like clockwork.

There were, however, one or two things about Amy that concerned me. For one thing, she was my boss's daughter and she did not fully get it that, while she was my secretary, I was her boss. She tended to view my instructions as requests rather than as orders, and she would interpret them in her own way and, sometimes, alter them if she thought that they could be improved upon. She was a girl of independent spirit, friendly, mercurial and sassy. I loved her, but she was a real handful to manage.

The other thing, however, was of even greater concern. Physically Amy was drop dead gorgeous. Her hair was dark, her eyes a bright translucent blue, and her figure tall, svelte and elegant. All of this, coupled with her roguish, mischievous charm, was quite delightful and I was hooked.

One day I came into work to find Amy sitting at her desk in tears.

"Oh," I exclaimed, surprised and shocked, "What on earth is the matter, Amy?"

"I have been given a parking ticket."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. But not to worry. If you pay it off promptly it is only about GDP 30 or 40 isn't it?"

"That's a lot on my salary, and, in any case, it's worse than that."

"How so?"

"I pulled across double yellow lines and parked on the pavement at a road junction. The policeman said that it obstructed the view of drivers coming out of the side road. He told me that I had caused a dangerous hazard. Then he gave me a ticket for GBP 100 with no reduction for quick payment, and told me I would get 3 points on my licence."

"Is this a first offence?"

"Yes."

"Look on the bright side. You will have to pay the GBP 100, but they will give you the option of avoiding the points if you agree to attend a half day course in road safety. The course will be delivered by experts and, for a young inexperienced driver like you, it will be money well spent."

"But I haven't got GBP 100," sobbed Amy; and she burst into a renewed bout of weeping.

Now I hate to see a lady in tears, and my sympathy welled up for this damsel in distress. But, on the other hand, I could not avoid a feeling of a less noble kind--schadenfreude, I think it is called in German, or, in English, the secret glee at someone else's misfortune. This young lady has been a little bit too cocky and sassy lately, I mused with satisfaction, and the Law has slapped her down beautifully.

"Come on, Amy, don't flinch. Take the rap. You were a naughty girl and you deserved to get your bottom smacked."

"A smacked bottom wouldn't be as bad. A hundred pounds is more than half a week's wages."

"Well as I see it the policeman was right. To park dangerously at that road junction was thoughtless and selfish. You deserve to be punished for it. But if you prefer smacks on the bottom I will pay your fine if you consent to let me give them to you."

Now this proposal of mine, I realised, counted as sexual harassment in these politically correct times. I have always been turned on by spanking, and the prospect of taking this beautiful, sexy and ridiculously attractive young lady over my knee and slapping her bottom fiercely excited me. And who knows, I silently mused, a bit of playful OTK spanking might pave the way for a more intimate association with this captivating young female. But, even so, I should have kept my fantasies to myself and I had not. To my surprise, however, Amy took up my idea and soon the agreement was made. I peeled off 5 GBP 20 notes for Amy, and Amy agreed to submit to 100 smacks on the bottom, to be administered by me, at my discretion and on my terms.

To start with I had no intention of redeeming the pledge that Amy had made. I am a gentleman and I try to be chivalrous and courteous to ladies. I had never hit a lady and I had no intention of ever doing so. I could spare a hundred pounds and I was happy to use it to relieve a young lady's distress. The bit about smacking her bottom was partly me getting sexually kinky, partly me trying to engineer a scenario that would facilitate a more intimate and amorous liaison between us, and partly me attempting to make Amy feel a bit happier about taking my money. She would probably have refused if I had offered it as a gift; this way she could think that it was fair exchange. But, even so, it was saucy to the point of indecency and I was surprised that Amy agreed to it. Later, when I mulled things over, I concluded that the agreement I had set up was well politically incorrect and well out of line; in these sexually sensitive times it had the potential to get me into a lot of trouble. But, on the other hand, I have since learnt that Amy had an agenda of her own. I was, she later told me, an attractive and eligible young doctor who held promise as a potential boyfriend.

For several months nothing much happened. The prospect of a spanking was my saucy, light hearted, mock serious threat to my cheeky, vivacious young secretary, and I deliberately used it to maintain a latent sexual frisson between us.

"Any more of your lip young lady, and I will take you over my knee."

"Beware, my girl. You are not too big to be spanked."

"You are the sassiest secretary in Christendom; a slapped bottom would do you good."

And so on. With light hearted quips such as these we proceeded on the path of life until the following spring.

The next sequence of events started on a warm, bright Friday morning in early May. When I got to work I discovered something that angered me. I will not bore you with the details but yet again Amy had exceeded her authority; she had purchased an expensive piece of kit without clearing it with me first. The purchase was a useful one, and Amy had got it at a knock down price. But that was not the point. There was an issue of principle here. Who was running my side of the practice, Amy or me? Irate words were exchanged between us and Amy responded to my reprimands with replies that were dismissive, sarcastic and insolent.

“Look,” I concluded. “Something has got to be done. We cannot go on like this. Go home now and then come to my place at 4 p.m. this afternoon. Let us try to sort this out once and for all.”

Then I sat in my surgery alone and thought things through. My conclusion was that I just could not work with Amy. She was drop dead gorgeous, and for all her faults I ached for a romantic relationship with her; but as a work colleague she was a no no.

I live in a large and quite imposing Victorian house a short walk from our practice. I had raised a mortgage and purchased it in the previous November with generous financial assistance from my parents. At 4 p.m. that day the door bell rang and I ushered in Amy. Soon we were sitting around the coffee table in my living room drinking tea and eating biscuits.

By now my mood had changed. I was no longer angry but melancholy. In her turn, Amy picked up the vibrations and was, for once, subdued and submissive.

“I’m sorry, Amy,” I said. “You are a lovely girl and I am very fond of you. But I just cannot work with you. You are too managerial and you have too many ideas of your own. This is my first practice, I am young and enthusiastic myself, and I have my own ideas about how I want to develop it. I simply cannot have someone as my secretary who is constantly cutting across what I am trying to do and going their own way without any authorisation.”

And so on. Amy was not expecting such a line of conversation and it stunned her into silence.

“Look,” I concluded, “I’ll tell your dad that things are not working out and then I’ll try my best to help you find something else to do until the autumn. The hospitals and medical laboratories are always on the lookout for suitably qualified interns. I’m sure that we will be able to find something suitable.”

I looked to see how my secretary had reacted to all this. Amy was staring at the carpet looking miserable. Then I saw a big wet tear well up in her right eye and gently trickle down her cheek. Soon it was followed by another tear down the left cheek. Amy was weeping, and she was weeping profusely.

My dear readers, do you recall the scene in the 1967 film The Graduate? My memory may be at fault but as I remember it Ben found himself on a date with Elaine during which, for reasons that I cannot now call to mind, he was deliberately disrespectful, ungentlemanly and unchivalrous towards her. Then he looked at her, and he saw that she was in tears.

Well my reaction to Amy’s tears was the same as Ben’s to Elaine’s. A deep tenderness, concern, and affection welIed up inside me, coupled with a strong sense of shame and remorse that I had been such a cad as to do that to a young lady.

“Amy,” I said. “Come on. We can’t have this. I know what, let me take you out for a meal then we can come back here and talk this thing through.”

So that is what we did. It is funny how things sometimes turn out. My attempt (admittedly reluctant) to kiss Amy off had ended up as our first date together.

It was a beautiful late Spring afternoon and it was too early for dinner. So for openers I drove us to a local beauty spot. It is large and leafy, with a stream, a lake, and several smaller ponds. I am a keen amateur ornithologist and naturalist, and I started to make mention of the wild life: the high flying swifts, newly arrived from Africa; the swallows and martins skimming over the lake for insects; the great crested newts in some of the small ponds; the small brown trout in places where the stream ran deep, and so on. I was talking incessantly to hide my shyness and lack of confidence. I was, after all, an only child who had attended an all male secondary school and who, for the last twenty years or so, had paid more attention to books and learning than to young females. I had never had a serious girlfriend and I had certainly never before escorted a girl as gorgeous as Amy around a local beauty spot on a fine summer’s day.

After our stroll we went for a pre-prandial drink at a riverside pub and from there on to a posh restaurant near to the cathedral. After a while Amy regained her usual vivaciousness and spark and we had what I remember to have been a lovely evening. By the time we had finished it was too late to discuss work so we motored back to my place for coffee, and then I drove my secretary home.

On the Saturday morning I mulled things over. I did not know what to do, but it was clear that Amy and I needed to talk, preferably away from the workplace. I texted to see if she could come around to my place again, and, if so, when. She replied that she was tied up for the Saturday, but what about Sunday, about, say, 11 o’clock? No, I suggested, how about a little earlier. Come for breakfast? OK! Hey, I pondered. I’m supposed to be sacking this girl not courting her!

After breakfast on Sunday morning we sat ourselves down in my living room to continue our discussion from Friday.

“I am so sorry, Amy,” I opened. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I had no idea that this lowly and, let’s face it, appallingly paid job meant so much to you. So let me kick off by saying that, if that is how you feel, you can stay on. We will, I suppose, still have our differences but we must do our best to work them out.”

At this announcement, Amy emitted an audible sigh of relief. “Thank you, boss,” she said gratefully.

“Hey, what’s all this ‘boss’ business? You’ve never called me boss before.”

“No, but I should have done. I have been thinking about this. You are right. You are a good employer, courteous and kind, and I have been taking advantage of that. I have been behaving like a spoilt brat. You have purchased the right to spank me. So far you have only joked about it. But I think you should do it. I richly deserve it and it would serve me right, a disciplinary spanking as hard as you like.”

Oh, ladies! Don’t you know just how to wrap us chaps around your little fingers? Amy now admits to me that all of this was a premeditated sexual come on. From our previous banter she knew that I was a bit kinky. She knew that I was turned on by spanking. And she was prepared to cater to my predilections in order to strengthen the romantic bonds between us. As early as the end of last year Amy had decided that I was the man that she wanted, and after that I was dead meat. Ladies, I say it again, with men like me at least, play your cards right and we are putty in your hands.

None of this, however, was apparent to me as Amy made her suggestion. It flabbergasted me, and it sent me into paroxysms of sexual frenzy. I was erotically stimulated almost to orgasm by the prospect that was so unexpectedly and so temptingly dangled before me.

“Oh, no, Amy! A disciplinary spanking? That would really sting. You know how much I like you. I couldn’t do that to you. Besides, you must have picked up that I am really pervy about spanking and the smacking of young ladies’ bottoms. I would enjoy it far too much.”

“Go on! You have earned the right to spank me. You have been really nice to me and I have been such a cow to you. But hang on! Oh yes! I see it now! You are not up to it are you? You haven’t got the balls have you? You lack the spunk to give me the discipline I need and deserve!”

Oh, come on folks! What spankophile could resist a challenge like that? Amy was prepared to get a red, well slapped bottom to secure my affection. Yet, looking back, she did not need to cater to my kink. She had won my heart already, with or without a spanking.

We then discussed the arrangements for Amy’s chastisement but after a while I curtailed the debate and went into _ex cathedra_, disciplinarian mode. I arbitrarily told her that she would be receiving twelve of the best administered with a spanking paddle. The time of her punishment was fixed for the next Saturday, at 10 a.m. sharp, and Amy was instructed to call on me at home to receive it. I then told Amy to spend the next 6 days girding up her loins and preparing herself to receive chastisement. In the meantime I would go online to purchase a suitable instrument of correction.

That evening I logged on to my account at amazon.co.uk and ran a search for “spanking paddle.” The implement that I chose for purchase was an “Amazon’s Choice” product. It was described as a “faux leather paddle” and its price had been reduced from GBP 9.99 to GBP 6.99. I put in my order and the implement for Amy’s correction was posted through my letterbox while I was at work on Tuesday.

Amy arrived promptly on Saturday morning to receive her comeuppance. I had been eagerly anticipating and fantasising over this stimulating scenario for days. The only way that I would be able to go through with it, I concluded, was if I adopted the role, deportment and manner of a strict old-fashioned headmaster.

So I opened the door and put on my best formal mode of address.

“Ah, good morning, Miss McTavish. Please come in.”

Amy immediately got the vibes and adopted the role of a naughty and penitent school girl with enthusiasm and aplomb.

“Yes, sir,” she replied deferentially, and she entered the house and was ushered into the room that I used as my study.

I sat behind my desk and signalled Amy to stand on the mat in front of it.

“Miss McTavish, you have been summoned to see me to discuss your unsatisfactory deportment and behaviour over the past several months.”

I then went through a long list, which I had compiled beforehand, of all the things Amy had said and done that had irritated or annoyed me, and I asked her if she had anything to say about them.

“No, sir,” she replied.

“Very well, Miss McTavish. The record shows that you have been consistently insubordinate and disobedient ever since you began working here. You thoroughly deserve to be chastised and I will now chastise you. Please go out to the hallway. By the hat stand you will see my briefcase. Inside it there is a black paddle. Please bring it to me.”

Amy dutifully trotted off, retrieved the paddle, and handed it to me. It was a fearsome looking instrument of correction and as she glanced at it she winced visibly.

“Now, Miss McTavish, kindly resume your position on the mat in front of my desk. Good. Now listen carefully.”

At this point I paused. I was very nervous during this whole charade, and at that particular point I was trembling with apprehension. After all, this was a girl that, as yet, I had not even kissed or cuddled, and what I was about to propose was frankly indecent.

“Miss McTavish, please bend over, raise your dress and your slip over your back, pull down you panties to your knees, and place your fingers on your toes while keeping your legs straight.”

For about 3 or 4 seconds there was an agonising silence. Then came Amy’s reply.

“Yes, sir,” she said politely. Then up went her short, flowery summer dress and her brief underskirt, and down came her lacy, skimpy knickers. After which, as instructed, she straightened her legs and pushed her fingers to her toes.

At this I started forwards in my seat and leered helplessly at the ravishing sight that was now before my eyes: plump, firm, nubile thighs rising up to two shapely, meaty buttocks and, above and between those thighs, a thick, black, hairy motte sprouting from two succulent labial lips that pouted ever so slightly open to reveal two thin strips of coral pink skin on the inner vagina. This was history in the making. This was the first naked quim that I had ever seen in the flesh rather than as an image on a computer screen. I was wildly excited and my heart pounded against my ribcage.

But now there was work to be done. I rose from my seat, grasped the paddle firmly in my hand, and moved over to stand to the left of Amy’s bottom.

“Miss McTavish, you are to count out the slaps and thank me for them, thus: “One thank you, sir. Two thank you, sir, and so on. Is that clear.”

“Yes, s- Oh!”

Before Amy could finish her reply to my question I gave her bare bottom its first spank. I did not spank Amy in anger. All that had evaporated when I last saw her in tears. Indeed, I did not spank her very hard at all. Even so, the sharp slapping faux leather emitted a satisfying crack as it struck flush against the meaty undercarriage of Amy’s rump adjacent to her vulva. Amy’s bum twitched and quivered deliciously and her pubic motte was ruffled. As the paddle rebounded from its target it left a white mark in the flesh which, over the next few seconds, blushed to a fetching shade of light pink.

“Ouch, That stings! ……. And now it’s really tingling.” Amy’s cry was urgent. She clearly did not like this at all. Then, in reaction to the unexpected sharpness of the slap, she bent her knees, straightened them, and shook her legs. It was a cute and endearing response, but it signified distress.

Oh dear! I am afraid that the young ladies of today rarely get to receive disciplinary spankings and when they do they are not equipped to take them. Amy had a low pain threshold. I thought that the spank that I had given her was little more that a love pat. Indeed, that is what it was. But even so, the poor girl could not take it, and, at that moment, I did not want to hurt her.

“Hey, you are not coping well, Amy. Do you want to stop this?”

“No,” she replied, reluctantly I thought. “I deserve it. Go on. Give it to me.”

“O.K. But forget about counting out the slaps. Just try to get through it.”

I really enjoyed administering the eleven remaining smacks. For me there is something delightfully saucy and kinky about slapping a lady on her bare bottom. It is a delightful sport and I do not think that I will ever exhaust its charm and infinite variety. But the idea of a disciplinary spanking was a mistake. I do not like hurting ladies and I could not go through with it. So what I did was administer eleven love pats. That was all that it took too satisfy my kink. I listened with pleasure as eleven crisp cracks rang out, and I watched entranced as Amy’s buttocks shuddered, wobbled and quivered. Oh, what a joy it was to watch those succulent globes get redder and redder. By the end of Amy’s ordeal I had a raging hard on.

But what is a love pat? I thought that it was what I had just give Amy twelve of. But Amy did not agree. Her opinion was that I had given her a good, sound spanking. She pulled up her panties, smoothed down her slip and frock, and rubbed her bum ruefully over her clothing.

“You enjoyed that didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well I’m glad it’s over. Ouch! I will be a good girl from now on. I don’t want to be disciplined like that again! Now, what shall we do for the rest of the day?”

And that, dear reader, is how I got myself a girlfriend. We spent the rest of that Saturday, and endless days afterwards, in each other’s company. And by that afternoon we were kissing and cuddling.

As for the 88 spanks that were left of the hundred that I had purchased we developed a ritual. Whenever Amy did anything in her capacity as my secretary that she thought had annoyed me she would say, “I am sorry, sir. You can spank me if you like.” To which I replied, “Right, young lady. After work. My place.” Then, when we got there, Amy would pull down her panties, raise her skirts, and drape herself over my knee. I then gave her twelve hand spanks that were overtly erotic. They were all applied to the plump buttock meat just above the thighs, and after each slap I would let my flattened hand linger while I rubbed rump, playfully tugged at pubic hair, fingered pussy and tickled clitoris. These were love spankings but, even so, I always tried to push Amy close to her pain threshold; and, when she got into it, her pain threshold increased. Thus, over that Spring and Summer I inflicted eight spankings of twelve slaps each followed by a final spanking of four slaps.

“Well. That is the end of it, young lady,” I said as Amy rose to her feet after her one hundredth slap. You have now fully atoned for your motoring offence.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she replied. “I suppose that I will just have to go and get myself another parking ticket.”