A Punishment Appointment Pt. 01

This is a work of fiction, all characters over 18, etc.

A Punishment Appointment

I got a text from Ms. Amanda on the tram heading into the Sortex Business Plaza (Area C). It was a picture of pink-on-pink Hello Kitty short-sleeve button down pajamas and two words: Dress Code. I rolled my eyes.

"Ugh!"

"What?" Teresa, seated next to me, leaned over to look and I blushingly held the phone against myself so she wouldn't see. It didn't work: She'd seen.

"Ouch," she commented. Her eyes were alight with interest though--she understood what it meant: It meant I was in for it this morning. Punishment Pajamas are nothing more than a specific set of (cute) pajamas you change into before a punishment is administered. They might come right back off again--but the point is that changing into them puts you in the mindset that you're going to 'get it'--that you're being punished.

Of course, typically they're used at home in semi-privacy. However, at Sortex Special Projects, it meant I'd spend a few minutes in the work area decked out in the punishment uniform so everyone would know I'd earned a discipline session.

"What'd you do?" Teresa asked. She was a friend and while it was powerfully embarrassing, I didn't really mind her asking. After all, everyone on my team would see SOMETHING.

"I got busted for weed and drinking," I said dismally.

"You!? Get out!?" Teresa was scandalized. I'm 22--the weed was decriminalized, the drinking was legal--but Ms. Amanda, our boss, doesn't allow it without permission--even 'off work.' She's serious about it: if we are doing anything to excess, and get caught, we're in trouble. I, however, had been counseled for having a little too much wine and being tipsy and kind of snarky on a nighttime group call to review an emergency tranche of documents we were supposed to parse. Combining that with two recent curfew violations and a traffic ticket for aggressive driving, I was pretty certain I was really in for it. I should've been a lot more careful but there was a gathering over the weekend and I'd gone and done it--over-done it.

Amanda found out about it through someone's social media post. The gathering was mixed: people in The Method (like me) and people who kinda-sorta weren't (like my acquaintance and sometimes weed guy, Mark). It's hard to say how I could tell 'in' vs. 'out,' but it's one of the things you pick up if you grow up in The Method.

Still, I knew better and Amanda's rules were very clear: while you worked for her in Special Projects, En Loco Parentis applied--you had a curfew, she checked to ensure you'd made your bed in the morning, and so on. It was annoying, but I was grateful for the job after barely graduating and casting about for something to do with my lame Associate's Liberal Arts degree. And also... my barely-graduating probably had something to do with being a little too careless about deadlines and making beds and tempting party nights. It was humiliating to even consider it, but maybe Amanda had a point? Ugh.

Mostly it wasn't too bad. I had a counseling / maintenance session with Amanda once a week which involved an over-her-lap spanking as a 'standard.' She kept tabs on all of us--which was probably a lot of work for her--and if we misbehaved, there were consequences.

I'd been skirting the edges of the rules for a couple of months--a bad habit of mine from way back--and this weekend it'd caught up with me. Now I was in trouble and my head was filled with self-recrimination. Carrie! Oh! How had I let this happen!? I knew better! I slumped back in the electric tram's seat.

"Someone Insta'd me drunk at a party," I said dismally. "She found it. I saw, this morning. Now I've gotta change into pajamas." I huffed a sigh. I wanted to seem annoyed but blasé about it, but I could feel the nasty heat of authentic, feeling-small embarrassment spreading across my cheeks. I hated showing anyone, T. included, how effectively these little humiliation games got to me.

Teresa wrinkled her nose. "Do you know what she has in store?" Teresa was interested--of course she was. In her place I'd have been interested too. Teresa works on my floor but in facilities distribution--meaning she delivers mail and inter-office packages and restocks supply closets and things.

As we're both in the Special Projects building, it means, as near as we can figure, that our superiors think we need extra supervision to get fully 'on track.' In my case, it means working for Amanda. In Teresa's case, it means wearing a monitoring collar at work (and sometimes off work). The collar tracks location and can detect a variety of environmental conditions. Slacking off? It can make a report. Over-eating? It can track that. Swearing? It picks it up.

The collars were deeply hated by the delivery-girls (which included a few delivery boys, who got grouped in as 'honorary girls' to embarrass them), but I think it sort of looks cute on her.

I shook my head. "She's been itching to get a crack at me. I've been pushing at boundaries. She told me in our last maintenance session that I was slipping and if I crossed the line I'd be in trouble."

"So you immediately, big-time crossed it," Teresa said, with a slightly satisfied tone.

"Bitch," I said without any real venom.

She nodded. "Well, shoot me a memo when you find out what's in store for you," she said. Despite wearing the hated collar and being in Special Projects, Teresa was pretty put-together. Her boss was a 30-something guy who kept his delivery team on a short leash but so far as I knew, outside of an over her skirt maintenance, he mostly just scolded his people if they weren't performing or something. Seriously slacking could get you in much worse trouble--but Teresa seemed to take to the job quite well and, so far as I knew, wasn't under punishment a whole lot. Special Projects seemed to be working for her. It was super annoying.

"It'll probably get streamed on the corporate intranet," I groused. There WERE clips of punishments uploaded to the Teams Share. They got lots of views and while, at our level, we didn't get to see the REALLY humiliating stuff, the idea of me being shown from one of the area cameras getting scolded by Amanda made my stomach hurt.

I was already feeling like I had to pee--it was just nerves--I'd gone thirty minutes ago, but the sensation haunted me. I squirmed in the seat.

Teresa's 'no-squirming' look made me scowl. Of course the tram had cameras and while the idea of me getting in extra trouble for squirming was pretty remote, I wouldn't put it past Amanda to be monitoring me on the way in. Total bitch.

"Fudge," I semi-swore. Teresa gave me an approving nod. "Okay--I'll keep in touch."

"Good. I'll drop by to check in," she assured me--with actual sympathy. Office discipline was the high-light of everyone's day--except the one being punished--so I knew I'd get looks--but that was, annoyingly, part of The Method.

The tram pulled in and came to a silent stop. We gathered our bags and filed out. I was wearing a skirt and blouse combo: girls are ALLOWED to wear pants--but if a skirt would be pulled up for punishment, pants come all the way off, so it's a risky move. I'd known I was due something this morning and hadn't chanced it.

The lobby had three empty Elevated Work Areas off to the side: highchairs with workstations that could be swung around so when you were seated, you could log in and work from the location. You might also have to wear a conical hat or some other humiliation signifier. Being put in an EWA was a punishment--usually the tail end of something fairly unpleasant--as an example to others.

I'd never been stationed in one, but I'd always watched with interest when some poor employee was stuck in them. Just sitting there, for everyone to gawk at, was terrible, and it was rarely that simple. Most of the time? You could see they'd been crying. Red faces. Runny noses. Hair? A mess. Makeup? Washed off, but the clean, young, not-put-together-for-public look was somehow almost as bad! Then there was the knowledge that whoever was up there probably had a few different kinds of discomfort going at once! Sore butt? Some nasty oil or cream put in delicate places to create a maddening itch? I moved past them to the elevators. Today was my turn in the barrel and I wasn't at all looking forward to it.

Bing. On my phone the Sortex-Net app chimed a notification and I looked at it as we rode up. Ambulatory Disciplinarian Session 9:30 AM--location: Work area, meaning at my desk. Oh!.

An AD session meant that one of the disciplinarians would be dispatched to give me a few swats with a paddle or their hand, or whatever. Usually over clothes, but done in front of everyone. An AD ticket wasn't too bad-embarrassing, or, well, humiliating, and unpleasant--but not nearly as bad as a real punishment session. Still, in this case the AD session was just the START of Amanda's plans for me.

I wrinkled my nose. I'd be in the stupid pajamas--which meant pajama-pants--which meant--UGH!! I glared at the screen, struggling to hold on to sullen anger rather than give tears a chance to slip out, and put my phone away. Could I escalate? If you think you're being punished unfairly (either for something you didn't do or too harshly) you can appeal to the higher-ups. I knew, even as I considered it, there was no way I'd get a reprieve. I'd been clocked drunk with a rolled joint and, being in Special Projects, I was expressly not allowed that kind of misbehavior.

I gritted my teeth and made my way to the desk. The anticipation of everyone seeing me in bright pink felt like a lump in my throat that I wanted to cry out, but no. No way! I was going to endure this--it was bad enough without tears! The pajamas were kept in a locker against the wall of my cubicle. I opened it and looked at the hanging set of overly girly, sleek looking uniforms. I gave a disgusted groan and started unbuttoning my blouse. I COULD change in the bathrooms--but doing that with punishment pajamas was frowned on. I'd just do it out here, quickly, and hope it bought me even a teaspoon of good will.

"Oh shit, Carrie--" Nathan said from one row over. The work areas were described as waist-high cubicles with an L-shaped desk area and fabric panels. No real privacy. He had the good grace to look stricken with what was clearly going to be a subject of much attention.

"Our Jefe wants me in pink this morning," I groaned. I reached behind and undid my bra. The punishment pajama uniform didn't allow for underwear.

"What was it?" he asked.

"I got caught on social media drinking--too much," I said. "... and smoking."

"Oh," he was clearly surprised. I guess I didn't strike him as much of a partier. "Is she furious?"

"I don't know," I said, pulling the bra off and my open blouse and quickly slithering into the button down pajama jacket. We all had our own set of disciplinary pajamas that Amanda could command us to change into. Nathan's were white with little bright red cherries and lace trim. They'd have been super cute on a girl--but were just miserably embarrassing on a boy.

I slid my shoes off. No footwear (save maybe socks) with punishment pajamas either. I worked my panties down without removing my skirt. "She set up an AD session. I guess she's not happy."

"I saw that," he said. The team calendar got updated when one of us got an AD--ostensibly so everyone would know that team member was going to be 'occupied' for a thirty minute time block (usually the AD took a lot less than that, but the time accounted for tears and putting one's face back together in the bathroom) but mostly, I thought, so they'd know where to be to watch it happen. Grrr! "I checked the roster to see who's on deck. You know Donovan?"

I blinked. Nathan had checked the disciplinarian intranet to see which Ambulatory Disciplinarians were scheduled for our floor this morning. It turned out I DID know Donovan. Ambulatory Disciplinarians are always sharply dressed and immaculately groomed. The boys looked like they directly stepped out of a GQ issue. The girls dressed in power-suits.

Donovan combined that with being, well, a bit of a hunk. Muscled, lean, and handsome, he was the archetype of a male disciplinarian. I'd seen him before on the floor, but I'd never seen him work. Now I was going to get a front-row seat, so to speak. Shit. It meant that as my pants would come down--I nervously pulled them up under my skirt and then undid it, he'd be seeing my bare ass--and spanking or paddling it or something. UGH!

"Bitch," I growled softly. "I wonder if she planned for him?" It might be more than just bad luck I got one of the most intimidating AD's--and, of course, my public disciplinary session was going to be followed up by a trip to Amanda's office for the full working over I had in store. I hung my clothing inside the locker, exhaled a long sigh, and closed it. I'd gotten in a little before 9 so the wait time for my AD wasn't long. It seemed long, though.

The workstations are weird--ancient computers with the big CRT monitors and off-white boxes and clunky clicky mouses. They run a custom Windows95 that only works with the company intranet and a Sortex Browser. I sat at my station, looking through the morning work queue--data to annotate documents other people had prepared. My job was to review them and check for errors. A lot of Special Projects work is middle-man sorts of deals where other departments send us things and we double check them or add notes and send them on.

A lot of Sortex stuff is like that: hard to figure out. I opened the video browser and checked to see what was on offer. I settled on a recent video of a winsome boy--it was a clip of his discipline. Skyler H, Junior associate, punished for insubordination. I was curious--he didn't strike me as the type to be insubordinate.

The camera showed a punishment salon with a toilet like chair that had a hole in the seat for the subject to sit over, legs spread and strapped out to the side. In the basin someone had placed an oil pan and heating pad. I've heard of this--the heat is enough to cause little pops and splatters of grease. The temperature is low--just hot enough to cause the oil to jump, and the oil's only hot enough to cause little red welts where it touches the skin... and sharp, stinging pain! The popping and random splatters are impossible to predict and the subject is spread and helpless over the pot. It's an intriguing torment--as much psychological as physical. Poor Skyer!

When Skyler was marched in, the camera got a good view of his bottom--bright pink from a fresh spanking! He looked wretched and worried... his face suggested he'd lost his composure and cried and the disciplinarian girl leading him was being gentle in a way that made my nethers clench. She guided him into the chair, coaxing him to spread his legs wide.

I watched him struggle with the instruction. Even after being spanked there were deeper depths of wretched embarrassment he could assume, and this awful exposure was bringing him there. He whimpered, and she encouraged him warmly... but tied him in.

Then she stood in front of him--I couldn't see, but I felt certain from the look of mortification on his face that he was completely erect. She guided his hands up over his head and fastened them to soft cuffs there. There wasn't audio--but he was nodding and saying things--appologizing, I thought, for his awful reaction. Maybe telling her how sore he was in some desperate hope of being shown mercy. And, of course, she was talking to him as well, and I could guess her questions and comments, as understanding as they were, were heightening his humiliation unbearably. When she bent low to fasten his ankles in, we got a glimpse of his hairless region and his jutting cock, stiff and unprotected, the tender underside directly in the splatter zone. His swollen, aroused and denied scrotum was equally exposed to the punishment coming.

She mussed his hair. Her back was to the camera, but I knew she had a smug little smirk on her face as she completed the preparations for his punishment. She adjusted something and the camera angle switched to his bare upper torso and his contrite, anxious expression. His arms framing either side of his head.

The view had pulled in close so I couldn't see his splayed, private region, but I could tell when it started by the gasping winces he made as the oil splattered and popped, creating sparks of pain on his already spanked bottom and his other delicate regions. I wondered if his cheeks were spread enough for the splatter to reach his anus.

Despite his attempts to emotionally ready himself, the sensation of hot oil against tender, spanked skin created a burning, needle-like sting that was worse than he'd imagined and he couldn't endure it stoically--oh! Oh! Gasp! Shriek! His lips parted, his eyes went wide. He squirmed and wriggled, gasping as his delicate area demanded he protect it, and his bondage made that impossible!

Oh! Ow! Eek! He was making sounds the recording didn't have, but I could see his humiliation at disgracing himself in front of her. Were his cries a little high-pitched? Girlish, even? Probably. The boy's weakness was exposed and his humiliation in front of the stern, pretty disciplinarian complete.

I watched him moan in defeat as he gave in to panic and struggled--exertion that accomplished nothing and only served to show everyone how pitiful he was!

He wasn't on the hot-seat long, but he was sniffling when the disciplinarian girl gently got him out of it, having him spread his legs and bend forward so she could apply a salve to his region. From the glimpse I saw, he was still erect. I blushed. She was obviously enjoying this act of intimate domination, taking her time and sparing him nothing. His body shivered with whimpers that were part relief and also fully feeling utterly small and overcome in front of his mistress.

"The aftercare is almost worth the punishment."

I jumped and turned. It was Mr. Donovan, standing by my cube area, leaning casually against the frame of my not-cubicle. I felt my face flush red. "I--I was just--" I mean, technically I should've been working--it was after my start time. I could get in extra trouble.

"It's okay," he said with the ghost of a smile that said 'I'm not going to get you in any more trouble.' "Let's take care of your AD ticket." A little nod that said 'shall we'? I nodded dumbly.

"I uhm--I was told--"

"To change into ready-pajamas," he nodded. "Understood--they will have to come down. You're not wearing panties, are you?"

My face felt blisteringly hot--my ears like they would burst into flame. I shook my head. This was happening. Now. In the middle of everyone, and as much as I'd enjoyed watching the young man's recorded punishment, knowing that my own humbling would thrill my coworkers seared my pride like a branding iron! Keep your cool, Carrie! Oh! You have to! Don't give them the satisfaction!

A miserable thought occurred to me that Skyler in the video must have made himself the same desperate promises, and suffered the self-betrayal of breaking them almost immediately. Did some part of me want me to suffer!?

"Good--that would be an additional punishment--a bad one. Stand up, Carrie." He gestured encouragingly. Mutely, I got up. I forced myself not to look at the faces that were turned just so--so they could watch me without staring. I was broiling under my skin. "Bend and put your elbows on the desk--feet shoulder width."

I did. There was a kind of numb horror as I assumed the position--the suffocating sense of the pajamas, my own burning face, the eyes of my colleagues, all working together to unravel me. My chest felt tight, my cheeks hot enough to fry an egg. I felt some huge wave of tears filling up my eyes, threatening to come out, and panic in my stomach made me want to moan or whimper, or even sob! Oh, this was awful!

And then as I bent, feeling the thin material of the horrid, demeaning pajamas against my buttocks forced me to think ahead to when he lowered them. What he would see! What everyone would see! The miserable vortex of humiliation seemed to blot out everything else, but it was just what Mr. Donovan wanted for me. He wasn't quite done with the preliminaries!

Good. Now shuffle back a little. Good girl. I want you to keep your hair out of your face and your chin up. No hiding." He paused for me to nod, and I did, glad he didn't make me answer him. "You've got five strokes coming. Tell me what they're for."

He knew of course--but making me say it was part of the procedure. This wretched, hateful little game in which my submission was the 'hors d'oeuvre' to the 'main course' of my bare-bottom spanking! I opened my mouth and suddenly, horribly, choked up.. I'd promised myself I wouldn't cry! Promised!

Somehow, I managed to find a voice that wasn't a complete disgrace. "I--" I gulped--"I g-got drunk a-and--" I sniffled. Oh, this was wretched! He carefully laid down a wooden paddle with a number of holes drilled through it and all its edges beveled and smoothed. He tapped his smart phone and laid it where I could see it. It was the fucking Instagram picture of me at the party with a beer--very clearly drunk and holding the fucking joint. I could see where Amanda had annotated it with the words 'Bad Girl.'

I gulped--the annotation stung horribly. I flushed with shame. An important part of the Method is feeling 'small' when you're in trouble, and I hate it--ohh, I hate it! I hate knowing they have that power over me, and I hate giving into them... but that's what seeing myself as a Bad Girl did to me.

"I got drunk and high--and Ms. Anderson had told me not to do either," I sniffed. My eyes blinked and somehow I managed not to let out humiliating little jewels onto my face.

He nodded approvingly. "So you deserve your punishment?"

"Yes, sir," I croaked. My voice felt young.

"Good," he said, sounding honestly pleased. "Now, I don't need tears--but I do need you to keep your pretty face up where everyone can see it."

"As an example," I whimpered.

"Exactly so." He placed his hand on the small of my back.

He gave me a small rub there. "We're starting now. I'm going to take your bottoms down. I want you to push your buttocks out between strokes and keep your elbows on the desk. If you don't reach back and keep your hair out of your face, you'll get an excellent review. We don't want anything but that, right?"

His voice was low and comforting despite everything. I nodded, sniffling. He might not need my tears, I thought miserably, but he was probably going to GET them. His hands touched my hips and then he was pulling down the bottoms, exposing everything. My bare buttocks. The vertical slit over my vagina between my open thighs. Everything. He did it as respectfully as someone baring you for a paddling could. My breath caught and I let out a little sobby moan. I couldn't think straight past the roar of humiliation pulsing through me.

"Chin up," he reminded me, patiently. "We agreed you earned this."

I nodded and raised my chin--my cheeks felt like light house beams flashing out across the office.

"Push your bottom out," he said.

"I need to pee," I moaned in a whisper.

"It's just nerves," he said."Although make sure you go before any disciplinary session if you at all can."

I felt the touch of the paddle against my buttocks as I pushed them out, rolling my hips slightly.

"Good," he said. "Just like that. Keep this position or return to it."

I could feel the pajama bottoms around my ankles. I let out a sniffle. It was like time had stopped and everything from his hand, the firmness of the desk, the tangle of clothing down there, the smooth hardness of the paddle against the naked curves of my seat--all of it--was combining to put me in my place. I was a Bad Girl, and I'd misbehaved and I deserved this! I needed it! And it was awful and disgraceful, and mortifying and I was going to suffer every awful instant!

My throat held a sob that I was desperate to keep in, and then it started!

WHAP! The feel of the smooth wood was gone for an instant and then a deep blast of pain across my buttocks.

My mouth opened in a silent cry. My eyes misted up. I felt the wood back again--him lining up the next swat. Five of these?!

WHAP! It felt like a thudding impact all the way through me. I jumped in place. "Ow-ow-oww." I mouthed the words rather than saying them. I had to force my bottom back into position. I couldn't bear to meet anyone's eyes--but through the slight haze of tears, I could see Teresa standing by the common area watching.

"Back in position--there," he said. His voice calm and steady as I was losing control of my composure and emotions.

WHAP! "OW!" Now I did cry out--not super loudly--but loud enough. I caught Nathan wincing for me and Teresa folded her arms like she was about to march over and give Donovan a piece of her mind. I knew she wouldn't, just like I knew part of Nathan was enjoying the show--it still felt good to have him be mostly on my side.

"Two more," Donovan said. "Brush your hair back, Carrie."

I did, cheeks burning. Somehow that order felt more humiliating than the order to keep my ass pushed out.

WHAP! The previous swats had tenderized my backside and I stood up, hands flying back to my orbs, gasping. It felt like my bottom had almost been pushed through the holes like Playdough--I bounced in place. Ow! Ow! Ow! Each circle a tiny red "kiss" of punishment! Owww! And anger as well! How could he expect me to endure this!?

"Back in position," Donovan said. He didn't raise his voice but his tone told me I'd better comply. I did, sniffing back actual tears now. "Hold that pose. Chin up." He said. His voice was just hard enough to make sure I knew he was serious.

WHAP! "Owwwww!" On that one I sang out. I could hear the tears in my voice and I was sure everyone else could too.

"It's punishment," he said. "It's supposed to hurt."

"Owww--" my voice had a whining tone I didn't like. I was desperate to cover up--but that wasn't going to happen. He handed me a tissue. I wiped my eyes. Still bent over. Still showing him everything, showing everyone enough. Now it wasn't just pain and anger, it was the knowledge that I'd given up my dignity--my voice, my little cries, my blushy red cheeks. My sniffling nose.

He'd broken me effortlessly. If I hadn't blubbered, I might as well have. Everyone watching could see I'd been dominated. Punished.

"I can take you to the bathroom," he said more softly. "But I have to stay with you until I deliver you to Ms. Amanda." That meant he'd have to follow me into the stall and watch me pee. I sniffled more--blew my nose. He had another tissue ready. I wanted to rub my buttocks badly--they were throbbing.

"Office," I said, nodding in the direction of Amanda's office. I didn't trust my voice.

"Pants stay at your ankles," he said. "Hold my elbow." He offered it--total gentleman. I took it, shuffling. The walk of shame was a horrible part of the punishment. My shaved, bare pussy was kept waxed and shorn--it made me look young. I swallowed more tears. He walked me across the floor, staying close. I should have despised him, but I was glad he was there, shielding me from some of the view. He held the door for me. Amanda took me in: her look was sympathetic, but stern. I was a complete mess and I'm sure that pleased her-- after five swats and I was ready to blubber.

"Carrie," she shook her head--she was disappointed and, I thought with a sinking realization, intent on teaching me a lesson and making sure the rest of her stable got the message. She briskly produced a sheet of paper, and pointed at the wall.

"Corner time, Carrie," her voice was stern and a little snappy; a maternal figure dealing with a misbehaving young woman. Ughh. I took it, biting back tears and shuffled defeatedly to the corner. I held the paper to the wall and pushed my nose against it. I knew the drill. My hands went to my head. If I'd felt two feet tall out in the office, I felt tiny and helpless now, in this utterly ridiculous, uncomfortable position, radiating submission and obedience.

"How'd she do?" Amanda asked Donovan.

"Broke position once--otherwise pretty well. She said she needs the bathroom."

I heard her scoff."If you leak anything you're going to be in diapers for the next quarter," she snapped at me. I was focused on holding the paper to the wall with my nose, eyes closed, I felt a tear trickle down my cheek.

"How's her hygiene?" Amanda asked.

"I didn't check her panties. Well waxed," Donovan said.

"Go out there and make a show of checking them," Amanda said--then bring them here for the report.

I groaned internally--the humiliation was intense... as intended. It was like my pride and dignity were being roasted alive!

"Yes'm," Donovan said, having the good graces to sound ever-so-slightly reluctant while I kept my nose to the wall, my pink, paddled bottom pointing out.

I heard the door open and shut.

"You are in big trouble, young lady," she scolded from her desk. "I have had it with your self-destructive, defiant behavior! What would your mother say?"

I gasped at that last and, to my horror, the paper slid from the wall, gently wafting down to land at my feet. I made a pathetic little yelp and scrambled to try to pick it back up.

"Leave it," Amanda said. "Step out of your pants and come back over here." She sounded surprisingly conciliatory, but then I probably looked miserably defeated.

One of the problems with being in The Method is that until you're married for 4+ years with children, some more established authority figure can call your mom and get you in real trouble. She could have me out of my apartment and moved back home to work from a Sortex site near my family house or remotely or something.

"Please don't tell her," I begged. Her look was not encouraging.

"My thought right now," she said archly, "is to have a long conference call with her and work with her to figure out how to straighten you out." She eyed me.

Her words had every bit of impact she'd hoped for. She saw me contemplate the shame of that with despairing horror; she saw me imagine standing in front of Mom, bare-bottomed and teary, barely able to hold it together as my mother prepared some dreadful fate for me. She watched me imagine losing all my adult autonomy and move back into my teenaged bedroom, crawling back to the nest in mortified defeat,

"Take your punishment enthusiastically and I'll CONSIDER not calling her."

Enthusiastically. Fuck. I glowered weakly at her, now truly desperate to pee. The door behind me opened as Donovan returned. Seeing me in front of her desk before my corner time was up, he was given pause--he saw the paper on the floor and realized the implications.

"Carrie--" he started. He was carrying my panties.

"How are they?" Amanda cut him off.

"Fine miss. Slight discharge. It's a passing score."

She nodded.

"I've cleared my morning to spend with her," she said. Ughhhh, I held still--begging was generally frowned on, but I was ready to try it. It was that "enthusiastic" requirement that was going to be unbearable. I squirmed, my bladder complaining. Her desk phone rang.

She gave me a level stare. I cringed, blushing and worried, my hands clasped behind me.

"Amanda?" She spoke into the receiver.

"Yes. Huh. Very well. I'll be there directly. I'm otherwise booked this morning. Yes. Right--heading over there directly."

She stood up, her glower making me wilt. She eased up--the phone call wasn't my fault.

To Donovan: "She's to work on being enthusiastic about her punishment. Can you stay with her while I take care of this?"

Donovan nodded. "I'll work with her on her enthusiasm, ma'am."

She gave him a curt nod. Her level gaze returned to me. "I better get a five-star, A++ report when I get back, Carrie." She turned to Donovan. "She can pee--but there should be additional punishment for it--I don't want her to wet the floor."

She stood in the open door, speaking so the whole team could hear her. "There's a chamber pot under the counter there," she pointed. UGGHHHH! Mortified, I tried as hard as I could to die of embarrassment. She shut the door--harder than necessary.

Donovan looked me over. He made a decision and went to the counter.

"Part of the reason you need to pee when you get spanked," he said, bent over and investigating the contents, "is because you get sexually excited and it puts pressure on your bladder."

I groaned.

I came out with the basin. "The other part is that you could likely do a better job of holding it without squirming."

I gave him an askance look, my face on fire. "Something to work on," he said, putting the bowl on the floor. I stood, staring at it--desperate to use it--definitely not wanting to.

"Squat, pee--by the time you're done, I expect you to have a punishment I'll find sufficiently unpleasant for you that you'll recommend to me." He pointed and snapped. Fucker.

I got down, my head whirling--oh! This was awful. Making the subject choose her own punishment is a classic method move. It forces you to betray yourself and take the side of your disciplinarian. It's a dreadful mix of humiliation and embarrassment, because there's no good way out.

The 'defiant' way is to choose something so awful they won't do it, but that'll just get you flayed as bad as they decide to, and you really don't want that! Too easy? Well, then you get extra for not understanding the enormity of your misbehavior! So you have to ponder it and think like a disciplinarian. What's appropriate? What's commensurate? All that effort to choose just the RIGHT level of torment is a certain kind of agony for your pride, and that's the point!

I hated it, and I'm sure my sullen face showed it.

I peed in front of him in a rush, gasping with relief. He was watching me, and I felt humiliated, but I knew it was better than squirming through whatever ordeal Amanda had planned for me. The stream dwindled and finally ended in a spurt. I looked up at him, his arms were lightly folded. He didn't look at all like he was going to go easy on me--I was sure he wouldn't--but he also didn't look like he was mad at me.

He raised an eyebrow. Shit.

Staying in the squat, I reached back into my past to what some of the most unpleasant punishments I'd taken had been. A simple spanking--even a complex one--wouldn't do it.

"Rubber band snaps," I swallowed. "On my--uh--my vulva--i-inner thighs." I looked at his face. "My anus--I'll get in the diaper position and you, sir, can snap me until I've learned my lesson."

In the moment of silence that followed I was afraid I'd picked something either too lax or too hard--but then he nodded. "Impressive--and you deserve this?"

Ugh. "Yes, sir. I do. If you would be so kind as to punish me thoroughly, I will properly thank you after--"

This was, in The Method's speak, the offer of a nude, on my knees, blow-job. The sub wasn't expected to enjoy it and I knew he might refuse it for any number of reasons, but he nodded. "We'll see. Assume the position."

"May I wipe first?" I asked, my voice slightly shaky.

"No," he said with clipped authority. Uggggh. "This isn't intended to be comfortable," he added with a touch more sympathy. I moved to Amanda's coffee table while he got a few rubber bands out of her desk caddy. I shifted, slowly--reluctantly into the hated 'diaper position'--on my back knees bent and spread. It fully exposed me.

Alone with him, submitting this completely had a different tenor than doing it in front of everyone. My dignity still rebelled, and what was worse was the shame of this good looking, fully dressed guy seeing my area, still wet with pee, pushed up at him. My mind howled with frantic panic about what he could see and smell and what he'd think!

But the desperation to rebel was draining away from me, and that held its own fear. How badly was I going to submit to him? And what would he think of that? How... pathetic was I going to be under his care? How awful would the memory of my submission torment me when I thought back on it?

Awfully, I knew, and yet the 'undertow' of just giving in to him was so... powerful.

I gulped back humiliated whimpers as he moved between my legs. I'd just gone--was even slightly wet, and I STILL felt like I had to pee. My fucking bladder. He spread the rubber band between his middle finger and thumb and then plucked half of it back with his other hand. Then he brought it down to my vulva. He lined it up as I watched him from between my breasts and feet.

His hands, his fingers? Smooth. Strong. For some incredible, horrible reason I was imagining him touching me there for foreplay, and the realization that this turned me on was almost degrading! I begged my mind not to... go there, but it was impossible. I felt a kind of heat I definitely couldn't afford to experience starting to flow into my area.

Oh, Carrie, please! PLEASE!

SNAP! "Ohh!" The cry was unexpected--it STUNG! Like... I don't know? A spank? A slap? A bug bite?!

"Hold still," he said. "Remember you chose this--"

I stared at him, pleading with my eyes--Oh, please, sir! PLEASE!--SNAP!

"Ahhh!" I arched my back--the band's snap searing me!

CLOSE YOUR LEGS! My sex screamed this demand at me! Close them! Turn away! Protect that delicate curve!

I couldn't! I didn't dare! I had to hold position no matter what--

He adjusted--NO! NO! SNAPT! A harder one. I let out a wail--the pain was worse than I expected, the violation of being snapped THERE was worse--the humiliation of the position was intolerable! W Tears were leaking out. I couldn't hold them.

He gave me a moment to recover myself."What is Carrie being punished for?"

My mouth opened and closed--I must have looked like a gasping fish. "D-defiance," I moaned. "Self-destructive defiance."

SNAPT! "Oww!" I shrieked. I was going to cry--I was moments from it--he would have my complete defeat.

"Good," he said, his praise somehow warming me even with the pain and horrible exposure. SNAPT!!

"OUCH!!" my voice sounded hurt--It was wet with tears. Oooh! I was mad at him! He was punishing me! Punishing me there! Ohh! He was a beast! A bastard! Oh-oh-oh!!

"Carrie needs a more frequent and worse maintenance schedule, doesn't she?" He sounded faintly amused, like he was trying to be stern, but couldn't help seeing the fun in my predicament. And the bastard was holding the fucking rubber band drawn way back--waiting for me to agree!

Bullshit! No! Forget! I'm not gonna! I--ooh! Ohhh! But, of course, I didn't dare buck him, and he got exactly what he wanted."YES," I cried out--and my composure crumbled entirely into sobs. I realized the fucker was explicitly snapping areas that were still moist from where I'd peed. And the humiliation of the realization broke me. SNAPT! SNAPT! SNAPT!

He'd gotten my surrender and now he was going to blister my poor, wet pussy past the point I could stay still for it. This was his--his VICTORY celebration!

SNAPT! SNAPT! I was furious at him, and I lost my self control. Crying, I slammed my thighs together, moaning--it was a terrible breach of the rules, but I just couldn't stand it. I kept my hands gripping the coffee table in a white knuckle grip. He strode to the door as I rocked back and forth, the welt-lines on my pussy BLAZING. He opened the door.

"Roll over, elbows and knees. Cheek to the table bottom up."

I moaned and rolled over. The door was open--the rest of the team (and probably other teams) would hear my yelps. The humiliation was a thundering drumbeat in me.

"Now," he said, returning, "reach back and spread your buttocks."

Noooo! Donovan!! Noooo! Please! I made a whining sound that was just pathetic sounding and I spread my cheeks, exposing my anus. There was a flood of red-hot shame from the view he was getting, so thick it might have been like honey or motor oil flooding through me. I couldn't stand the thought of how gross and pathetic and dirty I must look to him. How ridiculous and how... how small and powerless and just defeated! It was terrible and tears were coming out.

Noises coming out, my lips no longer obeying my pride's desperate commands to hold them in!

I felt his fingers three, in my cleft, bracketing my rear hole. Keeping it spread wide, fully exposed. Miserably, wretchedly visible. Ohh--ohhh--OHHHH--SNAPT!

"AIEEE!" I let out a cry, no longer even trying for any decorum. His thumb rubbed the flaming line gently--then it pulled away. "Please, sir," I begged. "Please--" My breath, my voice catching, my tone wobbly with tears. This was a complete collapse of my adult dignity. I was a naughty young lady, pleading for mercy I didn't deserve!

SNAPT--"AAAAAAUUUHHHH!!" A loud, longer cry. I can only guess what my co workers must have thought. I felt his fingers adjust, pushing into the cleft. SNAPT! SNAP!! He plucked twice and I felt the band scorch the wall of my anal cleft. I let out a howl and moaned. It wasn't as bad as the two he'd landed directly on my bud--but I was gasping--whimpering--sobbing.

I was crying loudly enough they could definitely hear.

His finger caressed the two streaks of pain.

"Yes?" I heard him ask. I looked up, my vision blurred with tears. I made out the watery form of Teresa in the doorway.

"Sorry," I heard her say as she made to flee.

"You know Carrie?" I heard him ask. My rear was smarting--but he wasn't unloading from the accursed rubber band so I just huddled there and sobbed.

"Yes," she said diffidently. Then "We're friends."

"Good. You'll be able to look after her once her punishment is through."

"Yes sir," she agreed.

"Two more, girl," he told me. I drew in a wet, shuddering breath. Somehow, I managed to nod. Yes, sir.

SNAPT! This one landed right on the curve of flesh where my buttock became my cleft. The tender skin shrieked and so did I.

Some part of me thought about what a delicious treat this must be for Teresa--to see the cute little punishment that had undone me so utterly and to see my sniveling, blubbering loss of composure before this guy I definitely found hot. She liked me, but let's be honest--seeing a friend humiliated can be a thrilling experience.

He lined up on the other side. Before I had time to protest, he let fly with it: SNAPT!

"OH! OH! OHHHHH!!" My cry probably made Teresa think I was being butchered, but I pulled my hands back and sobbed into them, not caring how I sounded. I was in a warm-red vortex of pain and vulnerability.

I could smell the pee in the chamber pot. I sobbed helplessly into my hands. Eventually, after a few seconds, but what felt like an eternity of free-fall, I managed to get things under control, sniffling.

"Here," Donovan said to Teresa. "Clean this in the bathroom." I caught Teresa wrinkling her nose--but she knew better than to argue. He turned to me. "Up--corner time," he said. I got shakily to my feet.

"Since you faulted on the first corner time," he said, taking me by the elbow, "you'll do this bit outside the office."

I moaned as he led me, nude but for the dangling pajama top, out of Ms. Amanda's office. I was sobbing in full view of my coworkers, tears running down my red, puffy face, gasping little noises forcing their way out of me as I sweltered in emotional torment. The humiliation was smothering me like a damp blanket. He turned me so I stood just outside of her office. In full view of everyone.

"Hands on opposite elbows," he said, "behind your back. You can keep your thighs together, but your team will get a good look at your bottom, I'm afraid."

I whimpered as he guided me into the tight position, my arms pushing my breasts out. The sheer fabric of the pajamas annoying against my bare nipples. He guided me forward so my nose touched the frame. I stood there, bottom pushed slightly out, thighs tightly pressed. I swallowed tears, making soft noises as I thought about how hot and entertaining it would be for me if one of my co-workers was posted here.

Now I was the entertainment and it was horrid!

Teresa returning with the cleaned chamber pot was another raw stab of humiliation. I squirmed, feeling for all the world like my bladder had magically refilled somehow. I thought Donovan would go back inside or somewhere else--but he stood by, patiently waiting as I broiled in place. The image of me "properly" thanking him came unbidden, making me even more wretchedly squirmy.

I was mad at him--his meticulous cruelty with the stupid rubber bands had ripped apart my composure! He'd known I couldn't take it and he'd done it anyway! My wet, dirty front--my anus!! Oh, he was a jerk! An ass! I stood in burning fury, all the worse because I was grateful he didn't leave me there isolated in the 'spotlight' of attention and worse beyond that because my imagination kept having me suck his cock, or have him take me bent over, my spanked buttocks burning with each thrust!

Ugh! Carrie! Stop it!

I heard Amanda's voice an interminable time later, speaking to someone until she arrived behind me.

She was on her phone and I resisted the urge to look around at her, keeping my nose to the frame.

"Yes, yes," I heard her say. Then: "I know. Got it." I felt her hand give me a not too-hard swat on the buttocks.

"Carrie, Donovan, inside." She marched past me into her office, and I scurried in after Donovan thankfully shutting the door behind us.

"How'd she do?"

"Very well, actually," Donovan said, and I felt a jolt of relief. It might not make my plight any better--but it wouldn't make it worse. His tone--clear approval, got a somewhat surprised look from Amanda. I kept my hands behind me, my eyes downcast.

"Really?"

"She came up with a suitably unpleasant discipline and withstood it bravely. She offered to 'thank' me--but I've not taken her up on that."

I nearly crawled under the desk to escape Amanda's amused gaze. The unwelcome thought that she could somehow detect my 'interest' in thanking him would have knocked the breath out of me if I'd let myself believe it!

"Hold that thought," she told him. UGH! My cheeks blazed. "I had the morning cleared to spend with Carrie--but we have an all hands on deck meeting. Can you clear your schedule up in an hour and take her off my hands?"

"Do you want to send her to one of the disciplinary stations?" Donovan asked. "I can check with my boss."

"Check in with your boss," Amanda said, looking at me. "I intend for this to be wretched, but I don't think sending her to a punishment station will drive the lesson I want to teach."

I wanted to scream at her that I'd learned the fucking lesson, but of course I didn't. I stood there in silent misery, watching with dread as she rummaged in one of her drawers. And then I made a tiny, outraged gasp as she pulled up a collar and leash.

No! There's lots of ways to make someone feel small and wretched under punishment. The stupid pajamas do that--they're infantilizing! And standing mutely at attention while they discuss your fate--with no pants!--just... completely demeaning and humiliating.

But a collar and a leash... oh, goodness! It's a way to take away your basic dignity and make you some kind of... of pet! My breath caught as my eyes went wide, part with horror, part with outrage! She couldn't!

Oh, yes she could.

Amanda smirked at my discomfort.

"Chin up," she grinned, I raised my chin as I felt emotions I knew I couldn't afford roil and boil in me. No! This was--ohh! It was too much! I was already humiliated! Completely! And she was smiling! This was a fun game for her! I wanted to snap at her! To complain! To defy! My vision was blurring with tears of indignance as she placed the collar around my throat and buckled it. She checked that it wasn't too tight, and then clipped the leash onto it. She patted my cheek. "You'll be my pet for the meeting," she smirked.

In public! In public with no--no pants! In public on a leash and collar and in front of other supervisors and oooh! Ohhhh! I gave her a gasping little whimper of horror I'm sure she was thrilled to receive--the confirmation she was spanking my pride perfectly! She ignored my hyperventilating distress and turned to Donovan.

"I don't want her bored so after a bit, I'll message you to come get her. You can come up with something suitably unpleasant for our girl until I'm back?"

She looked me over with an infuriating fondness.

"Yes'm," he said, all business. "No disciplinary station."

She pursed her lips, sort of fussing with my hair. I imagine I looked completely a mess--I'd cried--I was mortified. I was naked save for the stupid pajama top which covered absolutely nothing.

"Thanks," she decided. "Just keep her engaged, hydrated, make sure she gets properly fed. Like that."

I wanted to growl at her--to scream at her that this WASN'T funny--that this was AWFUL! I held my tongue.

"Of course, ma'am. I'll see to her."

She nodded. She gathered a folder from her desk. "Ready pet?" she said in a way that indicated she found my misery adorable.

Ready for what!?? I stared at my crumpled pajama bottoms next to the wall. She gave a light tug on the leash. "Sorry, sweetie," she grinned. "Modesty is for well-behaved young women. Now heel."

I looked frantically to Donovan, mutely pleading for help of any kind! Surely he understood this was unbearable! He looked back, no help. I just couldn't--she was going to walk me out the door and to the conference room, all but naked, my bare pussy on display? I shook my head, tears welling up. I dug my heels in.

"Miss--" I whimpered. "Mistress--"

She made a show of pulling her phone out.

"Oh look," she said, showing me the screen. "I've got mom's number on speed dial!" She pretended to call, holding her phone to her ear. "Mrs. Langford, we've got a situation with Carrie--do you think you can come and pick her up from work?"

Her voice dripped with syrupy sweetness. My hands flew to my stomach, I felt my eyes widen. My face was lava. "I'm coming," My voice was a soft, teary shriek! Oh! She had me right where she wanted me and she knew it!

Her smirk was pure smugness. "I like 'mistress,'" she decided. "You can call me that until I decide otherwise, pet."

UGH! "Yes, mistress," I said miserably. I made myself trudge barefoot after her. Oh, this was going to be unbearable. She strode to the door and opened it, leading me out, Donovan following behind. I couldn't look at anyone. My face burned. I knew the entire team was staring at me--horrified, delighted, fascinated, as I was led past them, the pajama jacket stopping just below my belly button, providing my swollen sex and buttocks no cover whatsoever.

I could hear soft murmurs--sounds of disbelief--everyone was sympathetic... to a point. I'm sure they felt for me--but I was equally sure they found my distress delicious. I knew well enough I would've in their position.

I could feel the thin carpet under my feet, my pulse pounded in my ears. There is a point of public humiliation where the feeling of eyes on you is like a multitude of heat lamps, and you feel the wretched, torturous temperature in your most shameful places, so that it's as if you're being boiled alive! I hung my head, my vision mercifully blurry with tears leaking out (seeing the expressions on my colleagues' faces would have been intolerable) but just knowing what they were seeing created a thick inferno of disgrace that seared my flayed pride without mercy.

And it wasn't just disgrace and shame, I felt. It was helpless, powerless resentment at the woman leading me. I watched her glide ahead, without any care at all, as I was forced to follow after her. I dearly wanted to cover my front and back, very unlikely to be allowed--probably drawing extra punishment--but as I blinked back tears, I held on to the hope that she wouldn't call my mother... 'MAYBE.'

As agonizing and indelible as this was, so long as it was held at work, there was some part of my life she was sparing, and the scenarios in which Mom learned of my misbehavior, my punishment, my undoing... and joined in... were utterly nightmarish. 'Mistress' Amanda strode ahead, clearly enjoying the awful spectacle of her walking a naked subordinate on her leash. I needed to pee again--desperately. One of the worst parts about how my body reacted to discipline. I knew better than to ask, but when we reached the elevator and I stood, shifting my weight from foot to foot, twisting this way and that, slightly as my muscles clenched. My face flushed scarlet as we waited for it, she looked me up and down with disapproval.

"Carrie." Her tone was flat. I was squirming.

"I need the bathroom, mistress," I whimpered. I knew full well, that I didn't really--I'd just gone--I just FELT like I did.

"You can beg one of the other attendees to take you, " she said, flippantly dismissing my discomfort.

"Yes, mistress," I whimpered. The tiny quirk of the corners of her mouth told me she liked my submissive term of address.

The ride up was blessedly free of other passengers. I felt certain that the parts of my body, ordinarily covered, were exuding this dreadful 'perfume' that caused a fresh, awful cascade of mortification. The idea of someone joining us and smelling me was too upsetting to even imagine. One stop had two boys look in and decide to wait for the next one. I was desperately grateful even though I wasn't really sure why they had decided not to get on. What I was going through was a bit unusual--but probably not unheard of. Still, when we reached our floor and she walked me out, I realized it might have been a look from HER that warned them off.

My eyes were misty and I was in an agony of embarrassment as we approached the glass walled meeting room. There were already people in there: Junior executives in suits, a couple of women in the same--and a tall woman in a nightmare of bright pink power clothes. She was blonde and small items of jewelry glittered at her neck, ears, and wrists. She could've been a model. Her attitude was almost imperious--a sparkling, indulgent smile to the other executives who I could see, even at a distance, cringed from her.

It was a very slight thing--a nearly subliminal show of deference and submission--even the older men in their 40's and 50's were clearly her inferiors--The Method teaches you to track things like that. I knew I desperately needed to avoid her gaze.

I also saw with a mixture of slight relief and intensified self-consciousness that I wasn't the only girl under punishment there.

A young woman wore what I could only describe as a PVC business suit with a shiny black jacket, gleaming rubbery man's tie over a white button-down shirt, and a very short plastic skirt that hugged her hips. She was made up with black eyeliner and dark lipstick. She could've been a dominatrix but I could see both in the thick leather collar she wore and the ballerina punishment boots that were laced firmly onto her legs, that she was definitely NOT in charge of anything.

As we closed, Amanda looked at me. "You'll have a friend, pet!" She grinned. "Make sure she knows she's in charge of you. You're low-girl."

She clearly LOVED telling me that. "Yes, mistress," I responded and managed not to roll my eyes. The dynamics in front of us--dominants, submissives, hierarchy... all of that 'helped' in an odd way. The inferno of humiliation was still there, but instead of making it impossible to think, I felt a sense of 'settling' into my place. It wasn't exactly unfamiliar; there's a reason they say a punished girl is 'put in her place!' But it rankled me. Accepting my position as a bare-bottomed pet was even more belittling than being outraged by it!

One of the young men was talking to the girl in the rubbery suit. She radiated submissive distress. I could see her hips turn and twitch slightly. Arousal, discomfort, some combination, certainly. The make up on her face--dark and professional, made her blush a bit hard to see--but I was certain she was hating the attention from him. I don't think I would've held my composure half as well as her in the same situation.

"Mistress," I whispered as we reached the door, about to plunge into the room, "who is--"

"The pink power-ranger?" she asked, her voice also low, "I think that's our external rep," she said. "I expect glossy is her's."

I swallowed. A client representative would generally be quite an authority in one of these meetings and as the lady in pink was clearly drenched--absolutely drenched in The Method, she could wield that authority with precision.

Amanda opened the door and the sound of the conversation wafted out around us. I could smell faint scents--boy's musk. The rubber girl's sweat and oil--I could smell her vagina strongly. Arousal and a very slight but distinctly fishy smell that had to be mortifying for her. It wasn't bad enough to dominate the room but it would've paralyzed me.

We girls always (always) compare, and realizing that she smelled dirty gave me a silent little boost. I might be 'low girl' but there's almost nothing worse than everyone knowing you're improperly washed 'down-there.' Whoever had set up her degradation had done a magnificent job! It had to be pure torture for her!

Amanda gave me a hard slap on the buttock--I could feel everyone looking at me. "Go stand with her," she nodded at the girl in the PVC outfit."If someone gives you an order, do it." I shuffled over to where the girl was standing, prancing slightly. Our eyes met and I could see that although she was dressed, she was clearly awash in discomforts so precise and specific every second she was required to suffer them in obedient stillness and silence was hell.

I took up position next to her, my arms folded behind me, palms on my elbows. I kept my thighs together since I couldn't stand the thought of everyone staring at my vulva. I kept my eyes out of focus, staring ahead.

"Carrie" I whispered, introducing myself.

"Clara," she nodded. Her voice was strained. She was getting it bad.

"What'd they do to you?" I asked. People were getting their coffee and papers ready, making personal introductions. We weren't quite 'the center of attention' for the moment.

"PVC clothing and underwear," she said dismally. "And an itching ointment on my anus. A bad one. Plus a... " she made a face. "A new thing--" she nodded at the girl in pink. "She's going to talk about it. I can't say." She squirmed. An acute itch in a delicate place is a classic punishment and one that is rarely properly appreciated by those who haven't suffered it. I knew that it could be absolutely maddening, robbing every moment of any semblance of peace or sanity... so whatever the special mystery torment was had to be agony!

"Those boots look awful," I said, keeping my eyes ahead, my cheeks hot

"They're bad," she agreed. "At least I'm covered up mostly."

I nodded. One of the junior executive boys had taken a seat on one of the armless chairs against the wall. He beckoned to me. I waddled over to him, cheeks burning.

"Sir?"

He patted his lap. "I feel like providing a spanking," he said as though it was the most normal thing in the world. Ughh. Here we go. The little games we Method people play! So amusing, so engaging! Let's see how well this pet knows her training! Let's put her through her paces and see if she messes up! How fun!

"Yes sir," I said, resigned. I bent and lay myself across his thighs. My pride was flayed to ribbons, but submitting to this guy in front of everyone still stung. Mostly I felt utterly embarrassed. Wet. Smelly. Sweat-soaked, completely disheveled. I felt tiny and helpless under him and completely belittled and disrespected. His hand cupped my buttocks, feeling along them. Part of The Method is that you're expected to enjoy giving punishments. This Jr. Exec was certainly into it... He pushed up the back of my pajama-jacket a little, as though the room wasn't getting a good enough view of my bare posterior.

He patted the small of my back. "Does mistress give you instructions on positioning?" He asked.

Grrr. "Yes sir," I managed. I rolled my hips and arched my back slightly, pushing my buttocks outwards. After a moment, with a shuddering wet gasp, I spread my thighs. A whimper escaped my lips. It probably thrilled him to know how completely humiliated I was, opening myself to him!

"Good girl," he praised me. I felt his hand rub over my buttocks again. I raised my head and saw Amanda watching. I met her eyes, looking pained. Less foreplay, I thought viciously. Just spank me already! Amanda blew me a little kiss--apparently she found my helpless displeasure amusing. Bitch.

He patted my bottom--I expected a slap then--but his hand just brushed gently down the backs of my thighs. Ughhhh. I could see two girls with Clara on the far side of the room. She was bent over, ballet boots spread wide and her palms on the floor. They were both blocking my view of her bottom, but I gathered they had managed to get her tight rubbery skirt up and were now examining her rear. I could only imagine how awful that must feel for her.

His finger tip moved along the curve of my rear cleft. I held my position, my face on fire, as I pushed my bare pussy out and tried not to whimper. Jr. Executive boy seemed in no hurry to get my spanking started. I was fully aware that just as I had offered to 'thank' Donovan, Clara and I could well spend half the meeting on our knees attending to the various cocks or pussies. As offensive and insulting as that thought was, the part of me that found that sort of degradation enticing was even worse; a betrayal of myself by myself! And something that I could only imagine Amanda reporting to my mother in the awful 'worst case scenario' my wretched imagination conjured!

Having this guy enjoying my backside was annoying--but well within expected treatment. I forced a soft sigh and resolved to settle in until he decided to spank me. I stared at the floor, hearing Clara yelp a few times as the two business-suited women did something unpleasant.

Then they called the meeting to order and Spanker-boy gave me a pat to get up so he could take a chair around the table. I got up, blushing worse than I think I would've if he'd just spanked me--and I hurried over to where Clara was standing against the wall. We weren't offered seats and both knew better than to sit down. At least I wasn't wearing punishment boots.

She looked absolutely miserable--and the scent of fish and arousal was stronger than ever. I did my best to keep my face from showing I could smell her. If I'd been here, not under punishment, I might've wrinkled my nose as a little 'visual spank' to her pride--but as a fellow punishee, I just stood next to her and tried to become invisible.

For a few minutes we both seemed blessedly forgotten about as we stood against the wall, doing our best to keep our postures good and not draw any attention. Clara couldn't stay still, whether it was the itching cream, the boots, or whatever the 'other thing' was--but she was clearly suffering. I felt miserably humiliated and had to do my best not to move a bit. If I drew any attention to me, the results would be dreadful.

I kept my thighs together as much as I dared: generally speaking, when 'on display' we were to keep our feet shoulder width apart, so as not to hide our pussies. However, so long as I didn't cover my areas with my hands, I figured I was probably humiliated enough.

The discussion seemed to be around a new supply network being integrated with Sortex--the client being represented by the woman in pink, whom everyone seemed to be intimidated by. I snapped to full attention when the woman beckoned to Clara. I heard Clara give a little moan of embarrassment and then totter forward on the punishment boots.

The woman in pink purred like a cat as she summoned Clara to the front, standing before the group.

"This is my minion, Clara," said the pink lady, with a terrible maternal affection. "She's almost always under punishment." She stroked a hand down Clara's back. I saw the girl squirm under her mistress's touch. "I brought her today to demonstrate the Olfactory Disciplinary Vaginal Suppositories that we're increasing the availability of."

She patted Clara's rear and I could see the girl grimace in knowledge of what was coming. Her face flushed--her eyes shone with tears in the making. The pink lady's southern accent twanged as she smirked at her subject's distress.

"I caught my girl using her pussy as a playground," she said, using one of the more cringe euphemisms for masturbation. Clara looked like she might faint. "So that became a perfect situation to show off our new punishment product." She smiled mischievous at the sniffly-looking Clara. I had no doubt both women were in a relationship, Pink Lady as the top and Clara as the very, very thoroughly punished bottom. My own pussy clenched between my thighs, as I watched the woman savor Clara's humiliation, her words lashing Clara's pride, leaving it exposed and in tatters.

My own sex was horribly wet--I was aroused just watching this. I glanced at the boys. Almost all the Junior executives wore either cock cages or other forms of erection-control underwear. The girls wore at least highly absorbent panties--and might even wear adult diapers to a meeting like this. Any visible sign of sexual excitement could get you disciplined. It didn't help that the entire meeting was a constant, complex mix of subtle power plays for domination and submission.

Amanda likely knew which executives she liked and would submit to and which ones she didn't. If the right boy (or girl) made a move on her during a break, she could agree, giving a hint of her submission, and opening the door to a subtle game of domination which might culminate in her getting laid (unpleasantly, most likely--but generally in a satisfying fashion if she handled things properly). Alternatively, she might have one of the others as her target--something I quite hoped would be the case--and then she would be the one who got the most pleasure from the interaction.

The Pink Lady had turned Clara to face away from the table and bent her over, deftly pulling up the PVC skirt and revealing gleaming pink PVC panties that looked painted on to her curves. Pink Girl got them down, even though they must have been virtually stuck to the poor girl and unveiled her sex in all its punished glory.

If you've ever seen a pussy that has been 'pumped' where a suction cup is placed over the girl's mound and air is pumped out, causing the organ to swell obscenely and, when the pump is removed, to remain enlarged, jelly-like, between her thighs. Done excessively, it can cause bruises over the entire vulva and this looked like it might do the same.

Her sex was inflated beyond normal arousal. I could see the darker skin around her anus where her wide stance exposed her rear opening. There was a faint greasy sheen from whatever had been applied to it and I imagined I could see the itch she had spoken of crawling over the clenched skin, creating a desperate, incessant call to scratch-scratch-scratch. The constant, shrill demands from her flesh and the awful requirement that she deny herself even the faintest relief from her obedience was a punishment that would have been enough to break her all by itself--but what was happening to her vagina was even worse.

The scent was multiplied now that the plastic panties were removed and I could see Clara quiver under the gaze of the room as shame at the condition and smell of her womanhood pulled her into a whirlpool of horror. Pink Girl made a show of waving her hand before Clara's sex as though to fan away the pungent scent of arousal.

"The suppositories," she held up a box done in pinks and creams with suggestive designs on it and fingers holding a small bullet-shaped insert. The branding read Affixia, one of our weird, high-tier clients. I didn't have much experience with them, but apparently they produced some of the more frightening disciplinary supplies Sortex used, "create a very uncomfortable urgency for sexual relief--relief that can't be granted--even by orgasm!" She stroked Clara's buttocks like she was petting a cat. "Not that she's going to get to try that anyway," she smirked.

"It's a phenomena known as Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder--and it's QUITE uncomfortable for a few hours." Clara whimpered audibly as if on queue. "In addition to the internal sensation, as you can smell--and as she can smell," Her hand continued to stroke, "the real magic here is, as the name implies," her smile sparkled, "is the smell!"

"Your little will be horribly embarrassed for the entire punishment--and that's if it's just the two of you! Clara, tell the people how you feel about stinking up the room with your fishy vagina!" Some of the girl executives actually gasped. The boys looked impressed--appalled--interested. I don't think they could really appreciate how painful this kind of disgrace was for a girl; but they could see Clara squirming badly, now in quiet tears, the smell increasing in intensity with her humiliation.

"It's awful mistress," she moaned. "Please! Oh, please let me go wash up!"

Begging. Ugh. The poor thing really was coming apart. The Method frowns on that kind of pleading and almost always punishes it worse. Begging for mercy is asking for more discipline, as they love to lecture us when we're at our lowest!

Pink Girl snickered and there were some expressions of sympathy around the table. It was clear mercy wouldn't be forthcoming, although the woman, clearly pleased with her submissive's discomfort, leaned in close to whisper what I thought were words of actual encouragement. Clara sniffled wretchedly, nodding in obedience with whatever she was saying.

It's hard to tell from outside, but I thought I could see the hallmarks of this ordeal being right at the edge of what a Big would put her Little through. As the Pink Woman stroked her whimpering submissive, I felt an unpleasant twang of envy at the unbearably intimate attention from such a powerful person.

Clara was in physical and emotional agony, but she was struggling to please her mistress as much as to avoid additional discipline for breaking her obedience. She was desperate to show Miss Pink that she was willing to endure even this for the woman's approval, and I... understood.

It's the curse of a submissive in The Method. I wouldn't--couldn't have stood--to swap positions with her in her drenching wash of mortification--and yet here I was both enjoying her softening in her subjugated distress, hoping the woman would make it worse and worse--and at the same time, my body letting me know that it wished I were in her place.

Often this plays out in my head--and everyone else's without me even being aware of it, until maybe later--the domination is just experienced in a haze of resentment of your big and desperation to escape their attentions and discipline. Once in a rare, while, though, I got a glimpse of my own reactions in this game of Big and Little--and it's worse!

My bare bottom faintly touching the wall I stood against, I could sense my own infatuation with Clara's ordeal, and the galling treason of my own mind in its complicity with her suffering. My face was radiating my own shame and humiliation and I was squirming, feeling the slickness down my inner thigh and the constant intimate complaints of my bladder.

The room was staring in appalled fascination at her swollen, displayed vulva as she quivered under the extended whispered praise of her mistress. I made the mistake of glancing at Amanda. She was as transfixed as everyone else, but she caught my face out of the corner of her eye, and I felt a horrible, warm jolt of recognition.

The Pink Lady kept Clara in the bent over, exposed position, the scent from her vagina filling the room. I could hear her soft whimpers and moans of mortification. Amanda gestured me over and I grimaced and shuffled over to the conference table where she sat. She placed a warm hand over my buttock and nodded to the Pink Lady who was discussing how the roll out of the supplies would be handled so as to have a "subtle footprint" with downstream suppliers.

The Affixia lady nodded to her.

"As you can see, I'm disciplining my team member for some very bad decisions over the past weekend." I felt like I might ignite as heads and attention turned on me. "Could we get a report on how your girl's sex tastes under the punishment?"

The Pink Lady beamed--I heard murmurs--some soft laughs. I realized my own mouth had dropped open in shock-horror from the unfolding scenario.

"Absolutely!" Pink Lady was thrilled. "The taste is very unpleasant! A fine lesson for Clara and a good punishment for your adorable pet." I gave Amanda a pleading look--please don't make me do that in front of everyone... and Clara positively wailed. I couldn't blame her--the thought of someone eating my pussy after being trapped in PVC panties even without the horrible suppositories was unthinkable.

Two boys were recruited to move her so that her knees were each on the seat of one armless chair placed next to the other. Her rear was pushed back and widely spread. It was a ghastly position, utterly devoid of any dignity whatsoever. Her whole private region pushed outward even more than being bent over had positioned it. The Pink Lady, Ms. Tanner (Mistress Tanner to me) whipped Clara into a torrent of soft tears with quiet words that I was sure told her exactly what she was showing and made it clear that what we all could smell was every bit as bad as her own self-recrimination had feared and then, when she was in a frenzy of self-consciousness, the woman gently led me to kneel between her submissive's splayed thighs so I could get my nose into her.

Her fingers touched the back of my neck as she got me down.

"This'll be a good punishment for you both," she said warmly. "Remember to show your appreciation to your mistress afterwards." I moaned internally. One of the most aggravating parts of The Method is the position that the punishments are something you should be THANKFUL for.

On my knees, my nose inches from Clara's spread bottom, I whimpered, unable to keep from making noise. I could tell she was absolutely charmed by my reluctance and tears. "You're going to be coated in Clara's dirty puss," she said--she was speaking softly so only Clara and I could hear her. "Get your nose into her and give her a good tongue laving. I'll let you know when you can stop. I want you to try to make Clara spend," she purred, drawing a cry from poor Clara. "I doubt she'll be able to manage--but do your best. Pretend it's Mistress' cunt you're working!"

She gave me a little pat on my head to tell me to begin. She leaned in even closer. "See if we can have some of the boys cream their panties," she said in a smug whisper. "At very least, watching the two of you at it should give them something to squirm about."

She certainly knew the buttons to push. The idea that this would turn on everyone watching got into me in places I hated to acknowledge existed, but the idea of the Junior Exec's cock going erect as I worked on Clara had me going. My face blushed hard. The smell of fish and... cunt... filled my nostrils. Now pushed gently in, I could feel the swollen, inflated skin of her sex around me. The thick moisture surrounding my nose, cheeks, lips and tongue.

My bare bottom feeling like it was beaming out my vulnerability, I got to the nasty work of laving Clara's vulva, vagina, and anus. It was every bit as bad as having your mouth washed out with soap--just musky and intimate and awful in different ways. The smell wasn't so much repulsive as it was... nasty. My own sex was in an overdrive of arousal as I worked at the puffy soft mound of Clara's swelling-enhanced vagina.

Us girls worry about what we smell and taste like and the idea that intimate contact might be gross to the person touching us is torment. I was sure Clara had to be drowning in mortification as she felt me struggle with the assault on my senses the thick slime from her region caused me.

I knew to keep my hands on her thighs, only using them to spread her buttocks and sex--and my own region squirmed with wiggled as my own horrible arousal punished me. The idea that this utterly abject humiliation was a raging turn-on for me was the insult added to injury--and I was lost in the dark, humid, reeking humiliation of working Clara's sex, tasting the punishment, smelling her horrid arousal, and my own pussy gleefully joining in my own horribly complete punishment.

I knew that if she came--if I was able to wring an orgasm out of her, she would be dreadfully punished and I would be rewarded. These are the games we Littles sometimes play in private. Doing it in a conference room in front of a host of junior executives was excruciatingly humiliating, but I was helpless in the grip of my own arousal, frustration, and nature. Sisterhood was gone: I worked her as expertly as I could--trying to drive her to orgasm before all these people. I used my lips to suck at her clit and my tongue to then lash it in the warmth of my mouth. I felt her muscles clench and heard a moan escape from her.

My own bottom was a seething cauldron of need--my own hips quivered with frustration as the horrible arousal lashed me and the complete lack of stimulation punished me. It's well understood in The Method that subs who have a really hard time cumming from pleasurable sex--or masturbation can often be driven to an unwanted forced orgasm by punishment.

Boys are easy: stimulate their prostate and they'll spurt. Girls can be a lot harder. Clara dearly did not want to orgasm--but I flogged her clit with my tongue and I heard another moan--and another. Then, the gasp--I was utterly awash with her punishment discharge. My hair stank, my mouth was full of the nasty flavor of the punishment suppository. My nose was in her anal cleft, basting in sweat that a day of the PVC clothing had collected there. It was horrid, and degrading, and when I heard her gasp of going past her point of no return, a woman's hand gripped my hair yanking my head back.

I heard Clara shriek and then I was hit in the face with her squirt--an utterly ruined orgasm as I had been pulled back just as she crossed the ragged edge.

I fell back on my bottom, my face drenched, my pajama top wet, and my body smelling like a fish market.

Clara's wail of loss and humiliation was a hot bolt of victory through me--She squirmed in the frustrated agony of a dearly, dearly needed orgasm promised, delivered, and then denied. One of the executive girls held her wrists as she gasped and squirmed, both her vagina and her anus pushing and clenching with contractions.

The 'writhing' helplessness of her region was agony upon agony, punishment upon punishment. I couldn't imagine the humiliation she would feel when she reflected on what everyone had seen and how completely out of control her own body had become. The organ pulsed in its punishing desperation to really reach satisfaction--completely ruined and denied. All that humiliation and she didn't even get the orgasm she was desperate for.

It was awful but for me, it tasted like victory.

I sat bare on the floor of the conference room, utterly soiled and I looked into the eyes of the Pink Lady. For a terrifying moment, I thought she might be angry with me, but she smiled broadly.

"Well done, girl," she beamed. "Thank you so much for helping my little learn her lesson."

Amanda stood by--protective of me, I thought, or at least trying to be. She did her best to insert herself between the blonde lioness and me--the helpless prey--but there wasn't much she could do. The power dynamic was clear: even a team manager like Amanda was nothing compared to this powerful, dominant, customer rep.

Her perfectly manicured finger reached out and ever-so-gently stroked the dripping tip of my nose.

She spoke to Amanda: "Your girl is slated for a day of discipline?"

I held still, frozen, as Amanda nodded. "I haven't figured out exactly what's in store for her--but, yes."

I could see a group of female execs tending to a weeping Clara. I didn't even dare turn my head should that draw more attention from Ms Tanner. I sat and stank. Everything felt gross and greasy, a clown-mouth smear on my cheeks and lips I was frantic to rub off, but didn't dare to. The taste of Clara's own sexual filth was all through my nostrils, heavy on my tongue. I felt awash in it. Sullied. Smeared.

"Very good," said Ms Tanner, apparently approving of whatever she imagined my 'day of discipline' would hold for me. "I'd like to reward her for a job very well done. Clara is generally very good at holding her orgasm, and while the treatment won't allow her release if she does spend, well, the ruin was adorable, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, miss--uh--mistress," Amanda said, using the most submissive term of address. Practically inviting Ms. Tanner to dominate her. Ms. Tanner didn't miss it, looking Amanda over as though deciding whether or not to make a meal of her. Amanda realized what she'd done, but knew better than to try to walk it back.

She lowered her head slightly.

"Your boy?" Ms. Tanner asked, her tone a snap that brought Amanda's head back up on alert. I looked where she indicated and saw Donovan standing in the doorway, looking at me with obvious sympathy.

"AD," Amanda said. "But I summoned him to take her for the remainder of the meeting."

Ms. Tanner waved him over and he maneuvered through the room to where I knelt and Amanda and Ms. Tanner stood.

"Take her, get her cleaned up--she looks like a drowned rat," Ms. Tanner instructed him--but her voice was clearly affectionate. "I want to introduce her and her Big to something we have in the works following this meeting."

Donovan opened his mouth--presumably he was going to tell her he had a whole chain of command that he'd have to clear with. She wasn't having it. A flick of her fingers, a glint of the diamonds on her bracelet, and he wisely shut up.

"Amanda here will clear it on my say so," she ordered, clearly not in the least worried that his bosses would object. Her look at Amanda suggested she liked what she saw in my boss--as a servant... maybe a maid? Her fingernails whisked by her cheeks and chin. I saw her color and almost invisibly wince.

"I'll find you when we're done here," she said.

"Yes ma'am," Donovan said, to his credit, sounding at ease with her taking command.

He took my hand. "Come on, Carrie. I know where we can get you bathed."

I struggled to my feet, feeling drenched and soiled and humiliated--but I followed him out, my innards clenching against the rising bubble of unpleasant frustrated arousal growing in my core.

--END PART 1