From the Top Shelf - Unavoidably Detained, part 2

Last week we met timid Therese and her heartless boss, Trevor, who punished her for misusing company property. He threatened Therese with a more severe punishment the next time she stepped out of line. Will she make the same mistake twice? Let's find out. If you wish to refresh your memory first, part one is here.

Several weeks passed, and the incident was never referred to by anyone, so at least I knew that Trevor had not boastfully told his partners or the other staff how he had kept me 'in detention' like a naughty girl and given me 'lines'. At the time I was grateful for his discretion, but in hindsight he clearly had other plans for me that he wanted kept private. Meanwhile I tried to pace my work so that I was occupied precisely between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm, and managed to rearrange my route from home to work so that I could do the journey in just over an hour in both directions. The job was still boring and onerous, but I suppose I had resigned myself to working there until I retired, as there simply wasn't anything else to do, unless I got married, which seemed highly unlikely.

As I was still living with my parents I found myself able to save a regular sum of money, and set about improving my wardrobe and my overall appearance. I started to let my hair grow longer in the hope of it being styled into a more flattering shape, and I bought a couple of plain but smart dresses. Mum actually said how much nicer I was looking.

One day I made an extra effort with my appearance, because I had arranged to go out with some of the girls I'd been to typing college with. I pinned my hair up to disguise the fact that it was being grown out and was pleased with the effect the cap of light brown waves gave. I wore a navy blue shirtwaist dress and matching shoes, and although there was little I could do about my spectacles, I felt that I had made the best of myself, and that my ex-colleagues would be impressed by the general improvement in my looks.

Just after lunch I received a call from one of them, Janice Price, saying she would be late, and asking me to let the others know that she would be joining us in the restaurant instead of in the pub where we had planned to meet. But as soon as I had replaced the receiver, I knew my conversation had been overheard. I stood frozen, not daring to turn around and face the cold, rodent-like features that watched me.

"Five o'clock in my office, Therese," Trevor Brent said to my back, and I heard his door close.

I felt as if a pail of icy water had been thrown over me. Cold talons seemed to sink into my shoulders, spreading their chill down my back and into my thighs. Now I too would be late meeting the girls - only I certainly dared not risk telephoning any of them from the office to explain. Perhaps they wouldn't wait for me; maybe they would change the restaurant we were meant to move on to. I had looked forward to this evening so much but Trevor's command had thrown me into a panic. A night out with a group of people I didn't really know too well may not have seemed much of a treat to some, but my social life was virtually non-existent, and an invitation to Buckingham Palace could not have seemed more exciting.

And now it was all going wrong thanks to the tyrant I still felt unable to oppose. I honestly thought that he would sack me if I refused to see him. Thsi job wasn't much but it was all I had.

I typed slowly and inaccurately for the rest of the day. I mislaid files that were literally at my fingertips. I trembled with fear and loathing at the thought of Trevor Brent once again humiliating me and gloating over my powerlessness. And then I recalled, with an odd chill of curiosity and fright, his parting shot the last time I had been 'in detention' - the next time he would take "even sterner measures".

I went to his office, in a bit of a shivering funk, at exactly the right time; but one of the clerks was still working so Mr. Brent said my punishment couldn't start until everyone had gone home. He didn't seem to notice how much nicer I was looking, or comment on it, but merely sent me back to my desk with instructions to type out the same lines I had done before until we were alone. I had produced the odious statement about forty times before I saw the light over the clerk's desk switched off. I took the lines straight in to Trevor. Time was moving on, and I was hoping to get the session over and done with as soon as possible.

"How many times did you type this on the previous occasion?" he asked, and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise when I told him. "Five hundred, eh? And still you haven't taken its lesson to heart. What am I to do with you?"

"I don't know, Mr. Brent...sir," I amended hastily. I hoped that he had forgotten, or perhaps never meant, his threat about 'sterner measures'. "It was an incoming call," I blurted. "It didn't cost the firm anything."

"Nonsense, girl!" he roared. "The company pays your salary, doesn't it? And that salary is paid for your labour. Whilst you are arranging your social life you are not performing your paid duties. Agreed?"

I stood before his desk, squirming in my shoes. I had never known him shout so loudly, or look so goggle-eyed and frightening. It seemed to sap all the strength from my legs so I could hardly stand up, let alone think of walking out.

"Agreed?" he boomed again. Trevor was opening his lower desk drawer and fumbling for something. I couldn't imagine what he was doing.

"Yes sir," I faltered. "I mean no...no I'm not," I added in confusion.

"Then you must reimburse the company, mustn't you, Miss Copeland?"

"Yes, Mr. Brent," I said, honestly believing he meant it. "Are you going to stop the money out of my wages? I'll pay you now, if you'll just let me go. How...how much?"

He leapt out of his seat with a snarl, that was probably intended to be a smile, contorting his face. In his hand was a long, whippy cane. I just stared at it in disbelief, my feet glued to the floor. I think I may even have smiled in an incredulous, almost hysterical way. It seemed so ridiculous and impossible to imagine that he might use it.

"No, Miss Copeland," he growled, "I am not going to take it out of your wages. I'm going to take it out of your bottom. Get over!"

Trevor strode towards me and I flinched back, like some scene from the comic strip Little Red Riding Hood. He placed a heavy paw-like hand on the back of my neck and pushed me forward until my knees struck the edge of his big mahogany desk. Then, incredibly, I was bending right across it.

As my upper body pressed against the cold, hard surface I felt nothing but shock and disbelief. I forgot how to breathe; this was not, could not be, happening to me! I remember how my mind went into a sort of dazed panic, and how horribly aware I suddenly was of my bottom and my legs. Then all that blotted out; and I became conscious only of the dry dusty smell and texture of the desk-top I was sprawled across. It sounds weird but I found myself thinking that I should polish it the next day. Trevor had made no attempt to tidy his work surface, and my eyes were on the same level as his pile of papers and leaflets. His ashtray was close to my face too, and the sight of his cigar-stubs and the rank odour made me feel sick to my stomach.

Then I was jerked very much back to reality by a thin, heavy pain streaking across my buttocks. I tried to struggle up, but his hand clamped down hard on the small of my back, and I heard him shout something before another slash across my bottom made me wail out. "No, please, NO!" and the papers and ashtray and desk-top all blurred into a mist.

The tremendous jolting sensations in my rear sounded deafening, but with my dress, petticoats, tights and panties in between my buttocks and the cane, the pain didn't feel too terrible. I was certainly aware of the blows landing, but it was nothing like the sharp, searing strokes I had sometimes got across my hands from Dad when I'd been naughty at home.

After about a dozen of these hard, haphazard strokes, Trevor paused, but told me not to move. My chin was resting on that desktop, and my arms were stretched out over the papers he had been working on. I wanted to rub some of the heat out of my behind, but sort of knew that this was not going to be allowed. And, amazingly, not even then - not for a single moment - did it occur to me to get up and walk out. It just felt that I had to take this like I had taken everything else. It was just one more humiliation on top of all the rest, and he had every right to punish me. He was my boss. That's just how it seemed back then.

Trevor stood watching me for a while in silence, panting a bit, and all I could think of was how big my bottom would look in this position, that he was probably staring at it, and that maybe he would let me go off for my evening with the girls now. My breasts were squashed flat against the wooden worktop, and I was aware of every inch of my body from my neck to my chubby ankles. My glasses had fallen off and seeing the world through a wet, myopic blur increased my sense of being lost and completely out of control.

"You hardly felt that," he growled. "OK, stand up!" I obeyed gratefully, thankful it was all over, tugging my frock back into place and replacing one of my shoes that had come off during my caning.

"Oh, you needn't bother arranging your clothes," he said with a sneer, "just take them all off!"

"NOOOO!" I squealed, shock rendering me uncharacteristically rebellious.

"I say 'Yes', Miss Copeland...and I mean NOW!" His voice was insistent, his eyes glared. We stared at each other, me hot, shocked and confused, him cold and sneering. "If it will help you to obey," he sneered,"I'll give you directions. First, unbutton your dress."

I did so. In fact my fingers seemed to work of their own accord for my mind was in turmoil.

"Now take it off," I gaped at him. "Come on, raise the hem and lift your dress over your head. Good, that's the way!" It all appeared to be unreal as if someone else was doing this, not me. "Now take off the slip," I heard his voice demanding. "Hook your thumbs into the waist and push the garment down your legs. Now step out of it and kick it away. See, it's not difficult is it!"

Somehow I had obeyed his instructions, but my arms instinctively crossed over my brassiered breasts.

"Now your shoes," he urged. "Good girl, now the other one. Now your pantie-tights." This time I hesitated, as if coming out of a dream. "Come along," he snapped. "Get them off NOW!"

I got them off and stood before him in just my bra and panties, my eyes clenched shut. It wasn't possible that he would make me go further. I had never been naked in front of any man and no one could possibly demand that!

"Right, let's stop playing games, shall we?" Trevor barked. "Get your bra and pants off. I don't care in what order, but I haven't got all night!"

My hands sort of took over completely at that, because my brain had ceased functioning. Overwhelmed by his sneering, authoritative voice, they fluttered between the clasp at the back of my bra, and my panties, as if they couldn't decide which to remove first; which would be the least shaming. In the end they unhooked my bra and let it fall to the floor, my large breasts jiggling with such unaccustomed freedom. Then I was stooping and pushing my knickers down my legs.

Suddenly I was naked, and terribly aware of my shame, and crying bitterly.

"Hands by your sides, Miss Copeland," he ordered briskly. " No modesty allowed in Mr. Brent's detention. My, you're a hairy little girl aren't you! Now turn around. I want to see your arse!"

I turned round in acute embarrassment, and shuddered when one of his fingers traced each of the marks left by the cane. Then he grasped each of my buttocks in his hands and tightened his grip until I yelped from the pain.

"Fleshy down there, aren't you!" he mocked. "You'll not have felt a thing from my previous efforts. Let's see how well you can take the rest of your punishment...and do stop snivelling, girl!"

"Please, Mr. Brent," I begged. "I'll do anything, I'll resign if you like. But please don't cane me any more. Please let me get dressed and go. I-I'm late for an evening out. I promise not to tell anyone."

He laughed at my pleadings. "Oh, I'm certain you won't tell anyone," he scoffed. "And I've no intention of letting you resign or letting you go. Not now we are getting to understand each other so well. Now you know what a real detention is all about. Put your hands on your head and face me."

I did as he said, aware that raising my arms like this lifted my breasts a little, made them jut out more firmly. Trevor Brent noticed too and stroked each one from my armpits to my nipples, letting his thumbs linger on my now erect rosebuds. The sensation was both repellent and well...nice but in a way I hated myself for.

"Some people like to spank big breasts," he mused,as if to himself, " but I'm not one of them, Miss Copeland," he added, looking me straight in the eye. "Keep your hands on your head and your legs straight, and bend right over until your forehead rests on the seat of that chair."

I moved numbly to the chair where I usually sat to take dictation, and bent forward at the waist to position myself as he had instructed. It was uncomfortable, and I was extremely aware of how the loose skin of my tummy hung, and the way my breasts were unnaturally elongated. And also, of course, how high and revealingly my bottom was thrust.

"Let's see how you take twelve strokes on your bare bottom," Trevor said casually. "So that they don't take you by surprise or get delivered too closely together, I shall allow you to count them in advance of their being dealt. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir." And I did. This at least I knew how to do - obey precise instructions.

"Good. Off you go."

"One..." I counted, and my bottom seemed to shrink with dread. A split second later I yelled out as a terrible burning pain shot through it when the cane landed. The stroke was so hot then it felt cold; then hot again; then the burning-freezing feeling spread. All I knew was, I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but Trevor had made me dictate the pace of my own punishment.

"Two," I groaned. There was a pause and I tried not to cry out as the whippy cane again zipped across my buttocks, and I felt the urge to smother the terrible stinging with my hands. Then, "Three," I whimpered almost at once, inviting an immediate repeat of that shocking pain in my anxiety to be allowed to go. The cane flashed down with a fearful hiss.

By the time the sixth stroke had been called and given, I was hopping awkwardly on my left leg, my right foot stroking in a deranged fashion at its opposite calf. My fingers were still interlaced about my head, which was trying to burrow through the leather seat of the chair. The pain in my bottom was unbelievable. But, desperate as I was to get out of there, I wouldn't, couldn't, call the next number.

"Stand up, Miss Copeland," Trevor ordered. Again, he was breathing heavily. I hoped this meant he was tired, had taken pity on me, and that my ordeal was over. But his next words soon disabused me of such notions.

"Stand facing the wall over there," he grunted, wiping the sweat from his face, "And keep your hands on your head."

As I straightened up from the chair and walked across the room , I was very aware of his gaze following my bare, rippling flesh, and I was tormented by the aggravation suffered by each weal on my bottom-cheeks as the fatty mounds wobbled at every step.

"Move your elbows forward until they touch the wall," he now instructed. "Push your bottom out towards me! Good. Now ask me to continue your thrashing like a good little office girl."

I fought back the tears and sobs and managed to choke,"Please, Mr. Brent, continue caning my bottom. Seven."

And seven it was, then eight. Next nine. I called out the numbers in a kind of nightmare, and after a pause I heard the cane whistle through the air each time before it embedded itself in the abundantly fleshy pillows of my bottom. I had always been embarrassed by the size of my bottom, and to have him look at it naked was beyond embarrassing; but that was nothing now compared to the sting of that cane. All the accumulated pain from the individual strokes was beginning to merge so that I felt an incredible heat all over my buttocks, with pinprick lines of a more intense kind of pain that felt absolutely savage. I forced myself to maintain the position. After all some voice inside me whispered that it would soon be over. "Ten," I called out.

Just when I thought it was impossible to register any more pain in my behind, Trevor Brent brought his weapon up quickly from low down so that it skimmed the crease at the top of my thighs. I shrieked from the shock of it - but even as I did so I heard myself call for the eleventh hit.

The stroke came lower still, midway down my thighs, crossing the backs of both legs and burning, scorching, blazing....

"Twelve..." I gave a choking yell, and with the word came tears of relief that my ordeal was over, even before the cane landed. And land it did, with the same searing urgency as the previous eleven, igniting my whole body with anguish. I slumped against the cold paintwork and howled for I don't know how long, then I sank sobbing on my haunches, rubbing at the pain in my bottom; then stopping because that hurt, then rubbing again. I no longer cared about my outing with the girls. After what seemed a long time, Mr. Brent told me to stand up and then lectured me about good office practice. He told me I could expect further detentions if I failed to meet his standards, and threatened that he might get one of the other employees to assist the next time I was punished.

Most of his threats I missed, because I was so agonised by my caning and so humiliated by my continuing nudity in front of him, that his words didn't register.

Eventually, Trevor said that I could get dressed and leave, but to make damn sure I was on time for work the next day. I just pulled on my clothes, and my hair was a mess, but it didn't seem to matter; I wasn't going anywhere. He told me that he would want to see me 'in detention' every night from then on where I would take down my knickers so he could inspect the marks of the cane until they had completely gone. I simply said "Very well, sir," and left.

I suppose some girls would simply not have gone back to work there, or may even have reported the incident. In fact I nearly chickened out of going in the next day, but somehow, when it came to it, I knew I had to. I stayed with the firm for another six years until it closed down for financial reasons, which didn't surprise me that much because I'd begun to realise how badly disorganised they were.

Things never got any better for me, but I sort of got used to them. I even got used to Trevor and the awful, humiliating things he made me do. It seems strange to say it now but it gave me a strange sense of security. At least I knew where I stood!

It just goes to show that you can get used to anything.