Monday morning, and Master McKenna was reviewing with me a few changes to a particular report he will present on his trip later this week.
Mr. Galli arrived at ten, his usual time. I was then part of a meeting with him and Master McKenna in the Great Room. Even though I finished the reports last Friday and there was nothing on my plate for the coming week, they included me. I expect this will be the routine every time I visit. I like the real work and the professional connection.
I was still mini-skirted in heels, as Master M likes me, although he specified a skirt that morning not quite so “mini” as usual. I could maybe get away with it in some offices. I was glad for this, given Mr. Galli’s presence.
Mr. Galli needed a copy of something, and I took it from him, and click-clacked in my heels to the copier in the other room.
They were talking about their trip, reviewing details. I take it they enjoy traveling together. They have a shorthand of communication developed over some years of travel time.
I returned with the copy, handed it to Galli, and sat once again. Master McKenna got a call on his cell and took it from his chair. Mr. Galli rooted through his briefcase for an itinerary.
It was a normal business morning. A relaxed and routine, but necessary, meeting.
Master McKenna finished his call. He told me to get him a refill of coffee. I asked Mr. Galli if he’d like some too. He said yes. I left, then returned with two steaming mugs.
The two of them agreed to meet at the airport for their flight Wednesday morning. They talked about a restaurant in Chicago they might try that night. Master M leaned back in his chair, and asked Galli, “Do I have the itinerary?”
Mr. Galli nodded and said, “I sent it to you, but I’ve made a few changes already this morning. Shae could make you a copy of my changes.”
I stood to do so.
I didn’t notice at first — I was watching Mr. Galli. But he was looking at McKenna, puzzled. My eyes followed his gaze. Maser McKenna was slapping the top of his left wrist. I was blank on it for a second, but then it registered. It was the signal.
It took me a moment to process, a brief hesitation. Maybe Master by accident started to slap his wrist? But no, it was too uncommon a gesture to be a mistake. My heart raced. This was really going to happen? Now and here?
I was in a bit of a daze, but I dutifully followed my new training. I walked over to Master’s easy chair, and stood facing him from the left side..
He looked up at me and smiled.
Yes, this was for real.
He gestured with both index fingers sliding upward. We didn’t rehearse this, but there was no mistaking. I reached to the bottom of my top and peeled it upward, over my head, and off. My breasts out and naked, I could not bear to look sideways at Mr. Galli.
Master sat in the same chair we practiced yesterday, which made this easier. (I had also practiced some more later in the day.)
I squatted to a near -90-degree angle, leaned forward, and reached across his lap. I balanced my weight with my hands on the opposite arm, and let myself down. It wasn’t quite perfect — I had to adjust once — but I got my breasts to clear the the opposite side, where they hung down. I reached and grabbed the right-side legs of the chair.
I remembered to spread my legs behind me, bracing them in the carpet.
I realize now in re-living Monday morning, that the attention to form — the specifics of the process and the precision that Master requires — became a distraction from the humiliation I was going through. It had built up in me such a desire to “do the movements” effectively, to earn a good grade, so to speak, that I got into the experience automatically, by routine.
Once there across his lap, the awareness of my degradation more fully set in: I was going to be spanked in front of Mr. Galli.
With two hands, Master M pulled my skirt up from behind, and I could feel him pull it evenly and neatly to the mid-point of my back. Even in spanking, Master himself follows a precise form.
I could not see, of course, but I could not help but imagine Mr. Galli’s eyes scanning my legs and my pale ass cheeks and my bare-shaved labia cracked open between my spread legs.
Master M rubbed my cheeks first, then squeezed them, then squeezed them harder. His hand came down and hit me with a stinging but mild slap. The second was harder. But I will say that those that followed were the same intensity — hard and stinging but absorbable. I think he gave me a dozen spanks.
It went quickly. The pain was in the sting, not the heaviness of the blows. Still it hurt. I tried not to moan loudly, but I couldn’t help repress a few soft yelps. My eyes watered, though I’m not sure as much about pain as shame.
Master finished, rubbed my ass cheeks once, pulled my skirt back down, and said “Good.”
I brought my legs together, re-anchored them into the carpet, and pushed myself up from the chair arm. It was not as smooth a “dismount” as desired, but I managed to make my way back to my feet.
I picked up my top and put it back on. I’m not sure now I was supposed to do so, but I did.
The whole thing took maybe three minutes. It felt like an hour.
As I recall it, there was silence. A few moments. I guess even for the men there wasn’t any kind of etiquette for conversation following a live girl-spanking. I somehow felt it was on me in some way to say something.
“I’ll make that copy for you now, Mr. Galli,” I said. I walked to him, not able to look him in the eyes, and he handed the itinerary to me. I left to make the copy. I just wanted to get out of the room.
As I walked out, I heard the men chuckle and say some things I couldn’t decipher.
In retrospect, my humiliation Monday morning was deepened because of the business-meeting context, in which I had a part, albeit a clerical part. That “legitimized” me in advance, which made my actual spanking all the more debasing.
You often know when another knows what you are and can imagine what is done to you — in this case, Mr. Galli. In their presence you always feel a faint veneer of “being known,” but it’s at a distance, filtered through imagination.
With Mr. Galli it was now real, first-hand, visceral. He had seen my submissive shame first-hand. Now when we work together, when I click-clack off to make copies, he will always see me like this, spread and spanked.
In retrospect, I wonder if Master’s intent from the beginning of the week was always to reach this finale on Monday morning.