The Waiting Time

The clock on the wall ticked.

Lorraine deserved a spanking. Her office attire, a white blouse and black skirt, along with her unmentionables laid neatly folded in the seat of the armchair. Strands of her wavy hair tickled the top of the clothing pile while she avoided looking directly at the evidence of her embarrassing state. That she still wore her heels, that they in turn elevated her hips to the perfect height for bending over the armchair’s back, that conveniently positioned her bare buttocks for the spanking she deserved, only accentuated the absence of the clothing sitting in the chair.

The clock on the wall tocked.

This is the definition of irony, she thought. My clothes sit in a chair while I hang over its back.

The clock on the wall ticked.

An amused smile threatened to tweak her lips in the wrong direction. Lorraine suppressed the impulse with a quick glance in his direction. Brandon Cartwright sat across the room on the couch, leaning forward over the coffee table where a spread of papers and folders appeared to consume his attention. She knew better. Mr. Cartwright liked the view across his living room, the profile of a naked woman obediently waiting.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine closed her eyes, but the rustle of papers made it impossible to pretend she was alone. For the hundredth time, she wished for him to rise up and take care of the business between them. The strap laid on the coffee table awaiting the moment of its use. Mr. Cartwright pretended to ignore it as he pretended to ignore her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She breathed and felt the exaggerated ripples of expansion and contraction travel through her naked body. A flicker of brown in the midst of white revealed Mr. Cartwright paying close attention to her every movement. She perceived his vision focused on the subtle swing of her free-hanging breasts and their pouting nipples. Hot-blooded embarrassment flushed her facial cheeks pink and then red.

The clock on the wall tocked.

In her daydreams, Mr. Cartwright had seen her naked many times. His expressive eyes had traced every contour of her bare flesh and his fingertips had caressed them all as well. In those dreams they were in his office, not his living room. And in those dreams, he had gently stripped away her clothing while her own fingers had ripped away at his. In his living room, he had ordered her to undress herself, while he stood safely out of reach and remained fully, professionally dressed.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Memory came toiling back.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Lorraine entered Mr. Cartwright’s office. The heavy wood door closed behind her with a muted thunk. She stepped to the center, between the two guest chairs parked in front of his desk. He leaned back in his black leather chair. His eyes were harsh, unblinking, as they scoured her body. She shuddered feeling naked despite the clothes covering her.

The clock on the wall ticked.

“I’m sorry,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had nodded. “So am I.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

“It won’t happen again,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

Mr. Cartwright had sat straight. He had pushed an envelope to the front edge of his desk. “You’re fired,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Tears had spilled onto her cheeks. She had dropped to her knees, her chin barely rising above the desk. “Please give me another chance,” she had begged. “I’ll do anything.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

His eyes had fluttered closed only to snap open at the sound of her final word. A spark of interest flashed across his face. “Anything?” he had asked.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had nodded. “Anything, just please don’t fire me.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had withdrawn the envelope and pushed it away inside a drawer. “Alright,” he had said. He had scribbled onto a small piece of paper and pushed it forward to the edge near her chin. “Meet me there at six,” he had said, “and don’t be late.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had arrived on time. Stood on his doorstep, nervously wondering why he would invite her to his home. He had opened the door, ushered her inside with a wave of his arm. She had walked with him to the living room. The only sound had been the clack of her heels on the tile floor of his entry and hallway. He had smiled. She had thought to wrap her arms around him and kiss him.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had stepped away from her. “Undress,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She had blinked. “What?” she had asked. Her voice had been soft and free of objection.

The clock on the wall tocked.

“Undress,” he had said. His tone had suggested a severe dislike for repeating himself.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her fingers had gone to work, unbuttoning her blouse. When it feel open revealing her flesh and bra-encased breast she had asked, “Why?” Her eyes had flickered toward his face while her fingers moved onward to the clasp holding her skirt in place.

The clock on the wall tocked.

His finger had pointed to the leather strap laying on the nearby coffee table. “I’m going to punish you,” he had said.

The clock on the wall ticked.

Her skirt had fell to the floor around her feet. She had stared at the coffee table and the brown leather strap waiting on it. “I’m not a schoolgirl,” she had said.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He had nodded. “All the more reason you should have known better.”

The clock on the wall ticked.

His footsteps had taken him behind her. He had gathered her long hair away from her left ear and whispered into it. “You can leave your shoes on,” he had said, “but I want the rest of it neatly folded and resting in the seat of that chair.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

Her heart had pounded in her chest. She had trembled harder with each piece of clothing stripped away and her blood had pumped hotter and hotter until her entire naked body had been blushing. The clothes had seemingly folded themselves in her hands and when it had all been laid to rest in the seat of the prescribed armchair, she had stood staring at them and wondering how they had moved from the floor where she had originally dropped them.

The clock on the wall ticked.

He had nodded approvingly while looking over her nakedness. His hands had guided her to stand behind the armchair and then he had stepped away. “Bend over the back of the chair,” he had said. “You can wait like that until I’m ready to begin.”

The clock on the wall tocked.

She had complied. Her body had felt stretched and exposed. He had sat on the couch. She had wanted to ask for how long he expected her to wait, but the question seemed irrelevant and so she kept it inside.

The clock on the wall ticked.

And the moment arrived.

The clock on the wall tocked.

He rose from his seat and took the strap in hand.

The clock on the wall ticked.

She felt the leather tickling her buttocks with a light touch. He took aim. Her wait was almost over.

The clock on the wall tocked.