Bathed in morning sunshine in her bathroom, Clare checked her makeup and hair in the wall of mirrored cupboards above her sink. Finding zero flaws, she moved to the full-length mirror to measure her hemline. The sharp senior executive in a black miniskirt suit met her expectations.

It wasn't her bathroom; it was his. However, if occupation counted, she'd taken over. Living miles high in the sky for the past two weeks, only the glorious white freestanding bath had prevented her from parading naked near the floor-to-ceiling window. Bare feet savoring the cool marble floor, she padded onto the warm wooden floor of their bedroom.

She'd woken above a rounded view of the city. Gliding her fingers past the bedside panel, she'd ordered the twenty-foot cream curtains to recede, waking to peaceful sunlight in his epitome of luxury.

Removers had brought her essential stuff to his penthouse. His armada of suits occupied only twenty percent of his vast closet space. She was still emptying her boxes, finding homes for clothes and treasured personal possessions. She'd stopped asking his opinion. He was easygoing about her invasion of his space.

She'd kept a foot in both camps. Should his four-bedroom penthouse shrink, her one-floor walk-up with high ceilings awaited her. Her newfound relationship conflicted with her cherished independence. She hadn't resolved her puzzle yet, but retreat remained a valid option.

Carrying her heels, she descended the floating glass stairs. The glass sidewall permitted an unobstructed view of the vast open-plan apartment. Couches gathered near the floor-to-ceiling glass appeared tiny. The dark oak ten-seater dining table was a distant speck.

Waiting by his penthouse door, Mark slid his iPhone from his black Armani suit as his girlfriend floated down the glass stairs in a jet-black miniskirt suit. Reviewing the email they'd drafted together, he sent it to all staff.

Good morning,

Clare and I are living together. It began six incredible weeks ago. Work romance brings inevitable complexity, so we needed space to figure it out.

Best regards,

Mark

Arriving together, she smiled as he swung his black S-Class Mercedes into the parking garage below FMI's office tower. As the elevator slid open on level forty, their Chief Financial Officer, Barbara, nodded, “Well done, you two.”

Several female co-workers hovered near Clare's office. As they dragged her away for coffee and details, Mark smiled.

Janice peered around his glass office door. “Are you free?”

“Sure,” he said.

A finance executive in line for Vice President, he respected her for pitching him. Barbara had proposed two outstanding candidates for the senior role, one male, one female.

Clare returned. Observing Janice leaving Mark's office, she asked, “Did she pitch you?”

“Mmm,” he replied.

“She's the best choice.” Bright, decisive and diplomatic, Janice outstripped her male rival.

He nodded. Janice's sincere pitch had complicated his decision.

On Wednesday he promoted Janice's experienced male co-worker to vice-president of finance, reporting to Barbara, their CFO.

Following his announcement, Clare cornered him. “You got it wrong. Janice is exceptional.”

He declined to discuss it. His decision was final. Murmurs of dissent showed Clare wasn't alone in her opinion.

Several coffees failed to arrive over the following days. Withholding his caffeine showed her outrage. Janice had bitched about his decision, convincing Clare she'd been wronged.

Pleased to reach Friday, he received another angry lecture about female empowerment, driving home.

He stuck to his line, “I've made my decision.”

With everyone else, it worked. Clare listed Janice's accomplishments, skills, and character traits. When he refused to bite, she called him a hateful misogynist as they parked under their penthouse.

In the kitchen, he began salad prep. Her agitation grew as she fought for Janice's corner. “You preferred a male vice president.”

“He's the best man for the job,” he replied, stepping straight into her trap.

“That's it. He's a man.” She snatched at his words, chucking them back in fury.

Regretting his word choice, he said, “No. He's talented. I expect him to perform well.”

Her rage peaked. “Why won't you explain your decision to me? Why are you being a total cunt?” she yelled. The second it escaped her mouth, her shoulders collapsed. She'd crossed the line. Deflated and shocked by her words, she stood stock still and fell silent.

He stared at her, saying nothing.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I can't believe I said that.”

He'd taken loads of grief for his unexpected business decision, but in his kitchen it had boiled over. Salad prep abandoned, his silent face thundered anger.

Small gold Tiffany hoops framed her guilty face. She wasn't worthy of her sensational patterned micro skirt, black sweater, and stylish tall boots.

“You need whipping, Clare.”

She stared at her feet, reluctant to meet his gaze.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

She obeyed.

He fixed her with his gaze. Their personal and professional relationship had collided. Although inevitable, he'd hoped it wouldn't be this epic. “I don't tell you everything. I'm not required to justify my decisions to you. For the sake of peace between us, I'll explain. But you don't deserve to know.” He forced his fierce stare into her face to ensure she understood. “Janice asked me to promote her co-worker and to understand when she bitched about it. Appears she was convincing.”

“Why?” she asked, stunned.

“Because she doesn't wish to report to her lover. Your friend is gay. I trust you to respect that confidence for eternity, as she requested of me.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Nothing will pass my lips. I'm so sorry.”

“Good,” he said, holding her eye. “I'm going to whip you.” He listed with his fingers. “Attitude, rudeness, arrogance and a complete loss of self-control.”

Shame engulfed her. She'd undermined his professional and private authority. A dreadful whipping was the absolute least she deserved.

“You're too big for your boots. Remove them and strip,” he demanded.

His valid criticism stung. She unzipped her knee-high black suede Aquazzura boots. The three-inch heels had provided an undeserved platform for her terrible tirade. She removed her black tweed micro skirt. Its stitched multi-colored threads had sparked a sensation among her co-workers. Her black knitted merino wool sweater came next, followed by her plain black underwear.

Stark naked, she stood before him. His eyes raked her curves. “Wear plain white cotton panties. Fetch the riding crop. Wait in the lounge.”

Abandoning her stunning wardrobe on the kitchen floor, she obeyed. Her light flicks had once stung, but tonight her riding crop would inflict profound pain.

Passing their locked discipline cupboard in the upstairs corridor, she fetched its hidden key. They'd added her riding crop to their implements. She ran her fingers along the smooth black leather shaft. It must bite her flesh, burning its worst.

She descended the glass stairs and switched off the lights. In her white cotton bikini panties, she stood in the middle of their open-plan lounge bathed in ambient city light. She deserved to receive a whipping without mercy. Forced to obey his strict instructions, pleasure at her profound predicament dampened her panties. It wouldn't prevent his strokes from inflicting the worst pain.

He arrived, his face stern. Picking up a heavy black magazine, he dropped it at her feet.

“Spread your feet.” He crouched and rotated the magazine lengthways to separate her bare feet by an uncomfortable distance.

“Arms by your sides.” Moving to their couches, he sat gazing out over their entertainment terrace, ignoring her.

The semi-darkness concentrated her senses on the air-conditioned draught, caressing her bare skin. She'd called him a disgusting name. Berating her arrogance into a pulp, she considered her trail of inappropriate actions. Drenched in guilt, she'd only reached Wednesday when he approached behind her. Taking her right hand, he placed her riding crop in it.

“Whip yourself, like you used to,” he ordered.

She gripped the crop and lowered her white cotton bikini panties to her thighs, the stretched cotton a persistent reminder her bottom was bare. Reversing her grip on the crop, she leveled it across her cheeks and flicked her wrist.

The leather tip spanked her left cheek as the flexible shaft stung her bare bottom. She repeated it ten times, ever harder. Pausing, she allowed the sting to develop. It was nothing like she deserved.

“Hands on your head. Stand tall,” he ordered, taking her crop.

She obeyed, her mind fixated on her stinging bottom.

An almighty crack ricocheted as he unleashed vicious fire across her bare skin. Heat screamed into awful pain. She panted as intense agony taught her the true effectiveness of her riding crop. Absorbing his lesson, her mind accepted her suffering with dignity. She didn't move.

The crop tapped her bare skin, returning with force. Fire burned beside fire as she considered the insults she'd hurled at him. She'd behaved like a petulant schoolgirl. Acute sting bit hard into her bum, launching cascading waves of escalating pain.

Whipping her twice in swift succession, she hissed through the excruciating agony. Angry with herself, her punishment wasn't sexy. Lacking pleasure to cushion her pain, unadulterated agony blossomed across her butt.

“Your caustic words deserve bitter pain.”

“Thank you. I'm so sorry.” Her voice trembled.

“I'm going to whip you for your nasty attitude.”

“I deserve no mercy.” Consigning herself to unmitigated pain, she hoped he could hear her extreme remorse.

The darkened lounge teased her senses as he rested the crop on her whipped cheeks. Beneath the waiting crop, her unblemished skin expected the worst. He delivered it. Six sharp cuts of the whip merged, blazing a wide band of excruciating burn. Six further strokes on the lowest part of her bottom lashed native fire where she'd sit.

He launched a furious volley of strokes, escalating her pain as she stood fixed to her spot, accepting the devastating discipline she deserved, praying she'd maintain her dignity until the end. She owed him absolute respect. Focused on the raging torrent of fire, a single stroke bit into her butt with extraordinary force, scorching acute pain to sign her shame.

“Lower your arms and hold your hands behind your back.”

She obeyed.

He put the riding crop in her joined hands. “Stand there and reflect on your behavior,” he ordered, returning to the couch, leaving her alone with her pain.

Complacent in their relationship, she'd failed to respect their vital boundary between professional and private. Her beckoning apartment provided a mental safety net, permitting her freedom to express herself without limit. Her reduced emotional commitment allowed her to risk falling out with him. It was wrong. Gathering her thoughts, she constructed a coherent master plan.

When he returned, she was ready. She met his gaze head on. “Thank you for thrashing me. I'm ashamed of my disgraceful attitude, and sorry for my disgusting words. I've crossed the line between work and our relationship. Will you forgive me?”

“I've forgiven you. Your respectful acceptance of your severe whipping helped.”

Palpable relief pouring off her, her shoulders relaxed. “I want to pleasure you, but receive none myself.” Gazing into his eyes, she said, “I respect your harsh punishment. I don't deserve - or desire - pleasure.”

“I'll love both your tongue and your denial,” he said.

Pleasure followed punishment, but he hadn't needed to suggest her denial. She'd already understood. He loved her sense of honor. He'd fuck her senseless in the morning, but for tonight, her delicious denial would resonate through his soul lying beside her.

She nodded. “I've not shown sufficient commitment to our relationship. I'm sorry. Standing here, I've made a firm decision.”

He glanced at her feet spanning the heavy black magazine. She hadn't moved an inch.

“I'm going to list my apartment for rent. I've only got two tiny feet, and they're both planted right here.”

Part 4 of a 26-part story