Clare typed her address into Mark's sat-nav as he drove, his smooth Mercedes a quiet oasis for her thoughts.

His tough tone and powerful strokes had driven her to a stream of incredible orgasms bent over his desk. She'd disrespected her well-earned formal punishment. Drenched in the afterglow, she'd welcomed his undeserved kindness. Eager to ride the storm of emotions he'd triggered in her, she'd invited him home for dinner. Every inch of her craved his strictness, his kindness, and his hard body.

Guiding his smooth Mercedes S-Class through the city streets, Mark kept his counsel. She appeared content. He'd caned her bare bottom. She didn't seem upset with him and wanted to cook him dinner.

Presented with her embarrassing problem, his strict punishment had kept her failure private. He wouldn't lie. Watching her strip and accept her severe caning had delivered selfish pleasure, but also a fair solution. She deserved to hurt for days.

Discovering her interest had plunged shocking pleasure through his heart. His stream of regular girlfriends shared a desire for pleasurable discipline, but none had ever bent like Clare. Exploding her pleasure over his desk, she'd burst love from his heart. Her unavoidable admission he'd delivered pleasurable pain had shocked him less than her dinner invitation. He'd never crossed the line between them, despite dreaming of it. But tonight, they'd crossed it together, and he wasn't sorry.

She directed him to an available parking space on a nearby street. Parking near her second-floor walk-up was tricky. Grabbing her laptop from his trunk, she said, “Please bring your gym bag.”

He didn't ask why in public. Grabbing his gym bag along with his computer, he walked beside her.

Her cream building housed six apartments. They walked up one level. She unlocked the white door, dumped her bag, and kicked off her heels. Following her lead, he removed his shoes and entered her spacious lounge. “This is nice. I love the high ceiling.”

“Thank you,” she said, continuing through to her kitchen.

He wandered her lounge, taking in the baby-blue carpet, cream furniture, personal trinkets, and photos. Her home revealed her unique mix of delicate and dynamic, which he'd always admired.

Placing wine glasses on the light oak coffee table, she poured the Montrachet. In her fridge for a year, she couldn't swear she'd saved it for him, but she'd never offered it to her girlfriends.

She settled on her comfortable couch and he picked the armchair beside her, not encroaching on her space, but still near. Beaming with delight, she chatted about her home. During a natural pause, she placed her wineglass on the table. In the car, she'd decided she must clear her conscience. “I was wrong to take pleasure during my punishment earlier. I couldn't help it, but I'm embarrassed.”

On tricky ground, he responded as he would play with a girlfriend. Hardening his tone, he said, “You're lucky I didn't add six extra strokes for gross disobedience.”

“Why didn't you?”

Softening his tone, he said, “It was an extraordinary personal moment. You needed holding.”

She had. It was true. She'd needed holding by him. But she hadn't deserved his incredible kindness.

He looked her dead in the eye. She'd crossed their line, inviting him to dinner. It was his duty to show respect and follow-through. “Clare, I have feelings for you. Ignored for a year, they haven't diminished.”

Her forbidden heart exploded, and a smile spread across her face. He wanted her. No wonder he'd been hard on her. “I have feelings too,” she said.

He placed his glass on the table, leaned forward, and slipped her face between his hands. His strong fingers on her soft skin sent shivers down her spine. She discarded her glass and let him pull her towards him. He grazed her lips with his, the hard momentary touch an intense promise. They passed again and stayed. He locked her lips and kissed her. Raging fire ripped from her lips, tore down her body, and met her sore backside. She pulled away. “I don't deserve you.”

He stared at her. “You do.”

Intense personal feelings didn't excuse her disrespectful orgasms. Getting caned in the office for her misbehavior shouldn't have delivered stunning pleasure, only pain, remorse, and graceful suffering.

“Not until I've taken my full punishment. I still deserve those six extra strokes. I failed to respect my discipline. You shouldn't forgive my gross disobedience.”

“They were exceptional circumstances. We had powerful feelings which remained undeclared.”

“It's no excuse. I showed extreme disrespect during my formal punishment. I'm sore and six cane strokes doesn't sound good, but I deserve them.”

He cursed his kindness. He should have thrashed her for disrespect, resolving the orgasm situation. Crossing the room, he removed his cane from his gym bag. Returning, he stood beside the couch. “Stand up, Clare.”

She smiled at him, “Thank you.” He'd understood her. He'd accepted her choice. Self-respect wouldn't permit her to escape severe justice for her inappropriate pleasure.

“This is going to hurt.”

“It must.”

He pointed to the space next to her couch as respect exploded in his heart.

Planting her feet on her baby-blue carpet, she faced her front window. Drawing her curtains, he walked around her. She enjoyed being held under his firm gaze, the cane in his hands confirming his authority. “Examining your misbehavior is a suitable occupation for your brain during a caning.”

She accepted her scolding. His tough handling of her had obliterated her thoughts. It was happening again. Desperate to avoid a repeat, she focused on her earlier orgasm, taking a detached viewpoint. Her extreme disobedience demanded the cane. Six severe strokes.

“I'm going to keep your mind on your suffering.”

Oh, thank god. She needed his ruthless dominance to keep her in check. Her sex was already at odds with her, lapping up his stern words and pulsing liquid pleasure.

“Lift your dress.”

She obeyed. Pulling the jersey up to her waist, she went no further.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

Rejoicing in his toughness, her fingertips touched her bare toes, her white lace panties rising. The rattan rested against her bare bottom. Dampness spread into her tight lace panties. God, it was happening again. With ruthless zeal, she scolded herself.

“Thank me out loud after every stroke.”

The cane remained resting against her skin.

“I'm expecting an answer, Clare.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you don't thank me, or are too slow, I'll repeat your stroke, and add an extra.”

“Yes, sir.”

The cane crack echoed around her large lounge. Incandescent heat shot across her bottom. Panting through her pain, she said, “Thank you, sir.”

Furious heat seared into her backside. She deserved it. Unashamed of her reverence, she repeated her thanks as the cane sliced hard into her lower bottom. She concentrated only on her disobedience, while intense pain penetrated her thick guilt.

Blazing heat flared where she'd sit. Grateful, she released a long gasp, allowing the breathtaking pain to consume her. “Thank you, sir.”

“Last one,” he said.

The cane scorched her soft skin. A fresh line of hurt erupted in her sensitive crease. She remained silent. Her bottom screamed for her to thank him, but she needed to trust he wouldn't go soft on her.

He waited. Had she forgotten? Did it matter? He wouldn't repeat his mistake. “You failed to thank me. You've earned a penalty.”

A surge of intense gratitude swamped her. She could trust his feelings. The cane cracked into the sensitive crease below her bottom. Blazing pain tore across her tight skin. She bent her legs to absorb it, her fingers pressed into her toes.

“Thank you, sir.” Despite her agony, her voice remained firm.

The cane scorched her painful penalty onto her bare cheeks. Through a crescendo of fiery agony and desperate respect, she cried, “Thank you, sir.”

He placed the cane on the back of her couch. “You may stand up.”

As she stood, pain moved through her muscles, delivering pleasurable shock.

“You were testing me, weren't you?” he asked.

She stared into his dark eyes and smiled. “You kept your word.”

Stepping forward, he swept her into his arms. Her head pressed into his shoulder, she flung her arm towards the bedroom, her heart steering.

He carried her to her bed and laid her on her soft white covers. Pleased she'd made her bed this morning, she grinned as her bottom burned into the fresh cotton sheets.

“Strip,” he ordered.

Reveling in his command, she ripped her dress over her head and released her bra. It slid down her smooth arms as she watched him. His blue suit pants were on the floor. His white boxers strained by his hardness. She grinned and dropped her bra. He was still unbuttoning his shirt as he climbed onto the bed beside her.

“I want you,” he grunted.

His words wrapped around her mind as his hand covered her mound. She skimmed her tormented nipples. They deserved her fingers. His solid hand slid into her panties and claimed her desperate clit. He circled her hard and fast as she slipped her hand into his shorts and stroked his solid manhood.

“I've always wanted you,” he groaned.

“Me too,” she panted. “It took a sore bum to bring us together.”

“You deserved it.”

“I did. You didn't let me off.”

Her fiery bottom edged heat against her demanding sex, forcing dangerous pleasure. She held out as he teased her, submitting to his firm control until his persistent finger drove her over the edge.

Legal, approved, certified orgasms cascaded through her, washing pleasure into her pain. She reached for his hardness and guided him between her legs. Shifting aside her lace, he entered her, his solid manhood filling her screaming sex.

His longed-for kiss scorched her as his hardness controlled her. He thrust deep inside her as she gripped his butt and squeezed his manhood with her sex, demanding he drove deeper. He ruled her, deciding when she'd get pleasure and holding them in sweet stillness. His exquisite control lifted her onto her final precipice. In delicious denial, she strained to hold herself against his onslaught. He came hard, exploding his force through her. She erupted, yelling his name as orgasms dominated her. Writhing on her bed, consumed by him, heat burned in her punished bottom.

“Wow,” she said, gazing into his eyes.

He kissed her again, their tongues probing and darting in perfect unison. His hot lips welled soft tears. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Didn't someone promise you dinner?”

He grinned. “We started with dessert.”

She jumped from her bed. Kicking off her soaked panties, she rummaged in her drawers. Pulling on a fresh white cotton string, she added soft black cotton shorts with a white tee.

His eyes devoured her as he dressed, only fastening three shirt buttons. As she bent to pick up her clothes, her shorts rose, revealed the punishing cane lines he'd etched on her lower bottom. “You've received the cane before, haven't you?”

She smiled. “Maybe I'll tell you, maybe I won't.”

She wouldn't hide her visits to Miss Roberts. He'd discover how disciplined she was. Her new lover wouldn't replace her disciplinarian. Sometimes, only a girl could understand.

~~~

“I taste ginger and several spices,” he said, licking his lips.

Gazing into his eyes across her dining table, she sampled her stir-fry. “I can cook this in my sleep.”

Their sudden intensity had landed her in a phenomenal place. But troubled waters lay ahead. He was her boss, and she wasn't about to become a cliche.

“Listen,” she said. “I'm thrilled but didn't imagine tonight. We need urgent ground rules.”

He smiled. She brought solutions, never problems. “I imagine you have some suggestions.”

“We forbid public displays of affection near to the office.”

“Agreed. We'll be circumspect until hiding our relationship makes no sense.”

She liked his certainty that they would make sense together, to themselves and to others. “If I break our rules, you show me no mercy. I expect you to cane me often and to treat disobedience with severity.”

“Long before trouble looms, you'll feel my firm hand. For breaching our rules or anything.”

His words flowed into her brain, surrounding her confidence in a warm cloud of desirable certainty. “I'm counting on it. I may raise my disagreement later, but I'm honor-bound to obey you.” Promising her obedience felt wonderful.

Frowning, he asked, “If I punish you in error, how will you feel?”

She smiled. “It will have done me good, regardless. But you may spoil me. A weekend mini-break would satisfy.”

“Deal,” he grinned. She always had the answers. Her clarity beat his second-rate dreams. He'd provide regular, reliable and painful discipline.

Resting her fork on her plate, she reached for her phone. They shared work notes between them. She often edited messages for him, making them high impact. She created a fresh note and titled it, 'Clare's Offenses'. Realizing her appalling lack of discretion, she hammered the back arrow and re-titled it.

“I've created a permanent shared note,” she said. “If I disappoint myself, I'll note it. You add my punishment so I know what discipline I face. You also add offenses when I disappoint you. Be hard. We'll clear my list when it pleases us and give me a clean slate.”

She slid her phone across the dining table, the fresh note open.

His smile grew when he spotted the title: 'Homework'.

Part 2 of a 26-part story