Take This Down, Miss Lacey
When Mrs Tuppington discovers a romantic note in her husband’s office, she feels certain that she’s uncovered a scandal. But rebellious secretary, Miss Angela Lacey, is the one who ends up being uncovered, and finds herself on the receiving end of a thorough spanking! In this workplace tale of disciplinary rules and administrative rulers, modesty is preserved by only the thinnest of margins...
from 📚 Vintage Spanking
In the boardroom of Tuppington & Son, an air of hushed solemnity presided as the veneered wall clock ticked through the last few seconds before Friday morning’s staff meeting was due to begin. The company’s three secretaries took their places along the polished mahogany table. In unique ways, they each embodied a distinct feminine style.
Miss Perkins, the eldest and most senior secretary, held her shorthand pad in her lap, her silver-grey hair permed to perfection. To her side, her pert and pretty protégé, Miss Trish, attempted to mimic her mentor’s stern demeanour. The expression didn’t quite fit with her youth, and she undermined her own efforts by the wistful gazes that she cast towards the rebellious and beautiful girl beside her. With a sigh, she abandoned the pretence of mock-severity, and resumed idly twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
At the far end of the table sat Miss Angela Lacey. She was one of a kind, a small mercy for which company management was forever thankful. She reclined, legs crossed, her mind more focused on manicures than minutes or memos.
From the front of the meeting room, Mrs Tuppington observed this young woman with a disapproving frown. She had always been faintly suspicious of Angela’s flirtations, and by the length of her skirts... or rather, the lack thereof. A short and floral scooter-dress was a dangerously liberal interpretation of office dress-code, and the colour and quantity of her bangles seemed excessive.
Angela’s bountiful curves strained against the floaty fabric of her dress and, it appeared, she wasn’t even wearing a bra. At least, the evidence pointed that way. Her shapely legs were adorned with knee-length white pelerine socks and black patent leather Mary-Janes. The stacked platform soles and oversized silver buckles lent her an air somewhere between a Mod pin-up and a mischievous schoolgirl.
As the wife of the managing director, and de facto office manager, Mrs Tuppington was about to express her disapproval of this sartorial impropriety when the door opened, one minute past the hour, and the two Tuppington men ambled in.
“Good morning, lovely young ladies,” Mr Basil Tuppington announced with a smooth, endearing bow to his wife and Miss Perkins. “And... good morning to our even younger young ladies! I must say, it’s always a pleasure to see you two doing your bit on the charm-front, and keeping morale perky around here.”
Directing a cheeky wink at Miss Trish and Miss Lacey, he noted their contrast of shy blushes versus a provocative, amused pout. The look his wife shot him would have floored a more self-aware gentleman, but he was careful not to look in her direction. Experience had taught him that his wife’s disapproval was like the weather, and was best avoided until it passed.
Charles, only child, and heir to the Tuppington empire of office stationery importers, looked preoccupied, his cheeks blushing. He was aware of Angela’s every move, from a lascivious lick of her lips to the flourish of her hand as she pretended to brush a speck of dust from her bare knee. Feeling hot under the collar, he tried to re-focus on the mundane points of the staff meeting agenda.
Orders for lever-arch files. An import of rulers and pencils. Boxes of ink pots and typewriter ribbons. But inevitably, his fertile imagination drifted back to thoughts of Angela’s supple thighs, her delectable curves, and those inviting, pouting lips.
Unlike his father, Charles was almost too much of a gentleman, but Miss Angela Lacey was determined to do something about that, and her plan was already in motion. With a mischievous smirk, she thought of the handwritten note she had slipped under his office door that very morning, and wondered if that might be contributing to his blushes.
“I’m free to stay behind this evening, Sir,” she had written. “Feel free to dictate if there’s anything you’d like me to take down. And if it’s getting late, perhaps we could adjourn for an intimate supper soirée?”
It was rather brazen of her, she reflected, but even this shy young man couldn’t fail to grasp her intent, once the suggestive note was discreetly in his hands.
Mr Tuppington (senior) raced through the meeting agenda with half his mind on the ticking clock, the other half on the new set of Slazenger irons that were waiting in the boot of his Jaguar. Observers would have no difficulty in discerning where his priorities lay.
“Father, if I might have a brief, private word with you in your office? It’s a tad delicate,” Charles interjected as the meeting ended.
“No time for that, son. Whatever it is, we’ll discuss it on the course. Or at the nineteenth hole, if you feel like a stiff-one might be helpful.”
It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, given Charles’ inflamed state, and he frowned as he followed his father out of the room. Arguing with Tuppington senior, at least where rounds of golf were concerned, was a tactic he knew would be doomed to failure.
“Come on, girls,” Mrs Tuppington said, chivvying them back to work. “Not all of us have time to conduct our business affairs on the fairway. If you need me, I have some paperwork and filing to deal with in the office of Mr Tuppington.”
The morning could, very nearly, have passed without incident. Incoming orders were handled with efficiency, deliveries processed, and misters Tuppington (both senior and junior) were due back at any moment, although the precise timing would be determined by the length of the queue at the clubhouse bar.
With her filing work complete, a folded, rose-coloured note caught Mrs Tuppington’s eye, tucked beneath her husband’s desk lighter. Prior to his hasty departure, Charles had left it there, hoping to seek some fatherly words of wisdom and experience. His mother, on the other hand, viewed the note from a very different perspective, and felt her face turning the colour of beetroot.
She read the scandalous words several times and took in the waft of decadent musky perfume that rose from the paper. There was no doubt in her mind that this voluptuous, and evidently very naughty young secretary, was intent upon seducing her husband. Her mind leapt to every conclusion... except for the correct one.
The note bore no signature. It didn’t need to. Mrs Tuppington’s stern voice rang out through the office partition without hesitation.
“Miss Lacey! A word immediately, if you please!”
Since Angela’s only interest lay with the younger Mr Tuppington, she was caught off-guard, and responded to the summons, blissfully unaware of the storm she was walking into.
“What precisely,” Mrs Tuppington demanded, gesticulating with the note, “is the meaning of this? I would say this is rather forward, even coming from you, Miss Lacey.”
The annoyance on Mrs Tuppington’s face perplexed Angela, but she supposed it was some sort of maternal instinct to be a little overprotective towards her only son.
“It might appear forward of me,” she admitted. “But I thought he might appreciate the romance of a note. Some personal attention is always so nice, don’t you think?”
Mrs Tuppington stared back, aghast at what appeared to be the young woman’s brazen admission of unseemly carryings-on with her husband. She had heard about this sort of personal attention between older bosses and young secretaries, in some of the paperback novels that she pretended never to read.
“I see. And so you don’t deny that your interest is romantic*?”
“Of course not, Mrs Tuppington,” Angela assured her, thinking that a few words to convey the sincerity of her affections towards Charles might help to placate this overbearing parent. “After all, he’s such a handsome and kind gentleman. Could you really expect me to resist his charms?”
Even Angela was growing somewhat uneasy at the office manager’s quivering reaction. It wouldn’t have surprised her if steam jets had sprouted from the woman’s ears. Her flushed and angry countenance suggested she was nearing the boil.
“How dare you, Miss Lacey? How dare you stand there and speak to me as if this were all in a day’s work?”
“I didn’t mean to sound brash,” Angela insisted. “But, it’s not as if this would be the first time we’ve worked late together. I’ve noticed the way he sometimes looks at me, and it seemed only natural for me to nudge him into taking the next steps.”
It was all too much for the conservative Mrs Tuppington. She had never held with the moral laxity of the decade, but the immorality on display here, before her very eyes, was utterly staggering.
“I have never heard the like of it, Miss Lacey. This is a respectable workplace, and I can see you’re in dire need of a lesson in discipline and restraint. I propose to take matters in hand... right now.”
Caught by surprise, and also by the wrist, Angela struggled to maintain balance on her unstable platform soles. She found herself hauled to one of the leather club-chairs in the corner of the office, unable to resist as she was propelled across Mrs Tuppington’s lap. Suddenly it was Angela’s turn to feel a rising bout of distress and consternation.
“Really, Mrs Tuppington! I don’t understand,” she wailed.
“Believe me, young lady, you’ll understand soon enough,” her manager retorted, pinning her firmly into position. “What I intend to give you is long overdue!”
Angela was twenty-one and had thought herself far too grown up to ever find herself back in a position such as this. How could a simple note have led to this humiliating predicament across her manager’s lap? The older lady was stern, to be sure, but office corporal punishment seemed beyond the pale.
She thought of Charles spending another dull evening at his parents’ old-fashioned country house. Always the same routine of dinner before departing, alone, for his own home. Surely his mother ought to be pleased to think he might be courting a young lady?
With foolhardy persistence, she tried again to persuade the formidable Mrs Tuppington that she was acting with only the best of intentions.
“But all I wanted was to offer him a change of scene,” Angela pleaded. “I thought you might be quite pleased that someone could offer him a bit of youthful excitement!”
The thought of her husband being offered a bit of youthful excitement* incensed Mrs Tuppington even further. She reached up to an ornate wall plaque behind the seats and lifted down a commemorative wooden ruler. Eighteen inches of hand-carved African teak, two inches wide, varnished to a gleam, and boasting the legend: “Stationer of the Year, 1965”.
Flipping back the perfunctory coverage of Miss Lacey’s short dress represented the briefest of formalities, and she stared, aghast at the appalling sight of skimpy lace panties. The token coverage this garment offered to Miss Lacey’s firmly toned buttocks was decorative, rather than utilitarian.
“Heavens above! You are utterly shameless,” Mrs Tuppington exclaimed. “You’ve gone too far, and I can see that my intervention is not coming a moment too soon!”
And with that proclamation hanging in the air, the heavy ornamental ruler abruptly ceased to... hang in the air, and pursued a swift downward arc to Angela’s pale derrière, landing with a sharp thwack! As it withdrew, Mrs Tuppington noted that the straight-edged band of redness across the perfectly poised cheeks was a marked contrast to the girl’s wobbly squeal of protest.
“Ow! Mrs Tuppington. That was uncalled for!”
But, her manager begged to differ. In her uncompromising view, not only was this course of treatment eminently called for, but a significant increase in dosage was required. The rough-hewn charm of the chunky ornament was out of Angela’s line of sight, but there was no chance she could miss the sequence of fiery whacks that imparted their startling, persistent impressions.
Angela squirmed on the inescapable lap, her indecorous yelps of protest reverberating with enough volume to raise eyebrows even outside of the office. The intensity of the ruler’s sting took her breath away! Eyes wide, and her mouth locked in a silent grimace, she tried to steel herself against the searing impacts. She couldn’t even remember the last time her bottom had been spanked, but this was worse than any punishment she could think of.
Still failing to grasp the true cause of her manager’s consternation, Miss Lacey plunged onward, digging deeper into her ill-advised protestations.
“But, Mrs Tuppington, please! It’s not like I was trying to take him away from you. Haven’t you ever thought that you might be gaining me, not losing him.”
Mrs Tuppington gasped. In her mind, it appeared not only did this outrageous young lady plan to dally with her husband, but she was actually boasting about it. The thought of their traditional marriage evolving into a sordid love-triangle with this saucy secretary was unbearable.
“My gracious! It’s a good thing that I have the measure of girls like you, Miss Lacey. If you think I’ll be sitting here and taking this, you have another thing coming. And since my message apparently still isn’t getting through to you, we’d better have these down!”
The hapless secretary yelped in mortification as Mrs Tuppington yanked down her flimsy lace undergarments. With her backside laid completely bare, the ruler continued to lay down the rules... and the blistering consequences of infraction. With a pained wince, Angela wondered how she would ever manage to sit down at her typewriter after this onslaught had concluded.
Inch by inch, Mrs Tuppington applied the ruler with measured strokes, ensuring every point was thoroughly underlined. Poor Angela felt her pert bottom ignited by relentless throbbing heat as the broad teak implement pummelled her posterior, again and yet again.
“Let’s see if this ruler can draw a line under your disgraceful attitude,” Mrs Tuppington quipped as she delivered another firm thwack. The merciless force of her administrations left little margin for error.
It would have been impossible to say how long this spanking might have continued, had the office door not burst open, revealing a flabbergasted audience!
The Tuppington gents were framed in the open doorway, flanked by the amused faces of Miss Perkins and Miss Trish. Mouths fell open in unison, and all eyes gaped. The chastening tableau froze mid-swat, as protagonists and observers stared at one another. Miss Lacey and Mrs Tuppington wore expressions of almost equally startled surprise, but the room’s true centre of attention wore nothing at all.
Raised conspicuously above Mrs Tuppington’s lap, lay a gloriously glowing behind! Vivid red bands of criss-crossing stripes decorated the curvy contours of Miss Lacey’s obscenely exposed and hotly smarting cheeks. Further down, her white lace panties clung, with admirable tenacity, midway down her socks.
“Mother!” Charles exclaimed, rushing forward and helping the dishevelled young secretary to her feet. “What on earth? Oh, my goodness. Can you ever forgive me, Miss Lacey?”
“Forgive... you?” Mrs Tuppington queried, the first hint of doubt creeping into her voice.
“I don’t know what’s been going on here,” Charles said. “But, I’ve been trying to pluck up the courage to ask Miss Lacey to dinner. After this, I wouldn’t blame her if she never wants to speak to me again.”
“But... what about the note to my husband?” his mother blurted.
From the doorway, Basil burst into laughter.
“Agatha, darling. I’d be more than flattered, of course, but from what Charles has been telling me, I’m certain Miss Lacey has a younger model in mind! On a positive note, that ruler’s certainly been thoroughly tested for durability. I might add a new line to our catalogue: specialised corrective instruments.”
Beside him, Miss Trish giggled, and put forward a coy suggestion.
“What simply spiffing fun, Sir! If the business is branching out into disciplinary products: ‘Rulers to Improve your Bottom Line’ has a certain ring to it. Or perhaps you could market them as: ‘The Ruling-Class Collection’? I daresay Angela and I could model for the brochure.”
Basil found himself viewing the shy junior secretary in a brand new light. It’s always the quiet ones, he thought to himself.
An awkward silence descended, punctuated only by the rustle of fabric as Angela reinstated the fallen panties and massaged her smarting bottom. The pulsing prickle of her seat confirmed she’d been ruled, lined, and corrected.
“Well,” Miss Perkins observed, “I suppose this could be one interpretation of the phrase strictly business. Although I don’t recall seeing anything quite like this in the staff handbook.”
It was not in Mrs Tuppington’s nature to apologise, even for something so egregious as an undeserved spanking. With a wry shrug, she contemplated that if this young woman might turn out to be her future daughter-in-law, at least she’d had this opportunity to lay down the law early in their acquaintance.
To spare his wife’s blushes, Basil beckoned her to the doorway. “I think we should leave these two love-birds in peace, dear. I’d say there’s something of the father in him after all.”
As the door closed, Charles caught his mother’s voice continuing to scold that, despite the unusual circumstances, his father’s gaze shouldn’t have lingered for quite so long upon a beautiful young secretary’s bare bottom.
Finally, placing a tender hand upon Miss Lacey’s shoulder, Charles leaned forward and sweetly planted a bashful kiss upon her rosy cheek. Feeling like her normal self again, Angela pressed her voluptuous curves up against him in a provocative embrace.
“It would be my pleasure to join you for dinner, Charles,” she cooed, with an only slightly sore smile. “There’s no hard feelings, but I must insist you choose a restaurant that has... extremely soft cushions!”