Spanking Ms. Whitman is available here
Blurb
Mona Whitman is in for it. Her boss has promised severe punishment the very next time she arrives late for work and the hour she spent fantasizing about him has put her job in jeopardy. If only she could come up with an alternative to firing…a punishment they might both enjoy…
Randolph Marks, business tycoon by day, dungeon Dom by night, is in a quandary. His favorite employee is late for work again and he must go through with his threat of retribution. But how to go about it without crossing a line and violating good business practices? He couldn’t possibly get away with spanking Miss Mona.
Excerpt
Mona squirmed in dismay as the elevator crawled upward. Seven, eight, nine…. By the time she arrived at her office on the fiftieth floor it would be ten o’clock.
Mr. Marks had hinted at unpleasant consequences for her next late arrival. She shivered. His threat had helped fuel the morning’s fantasy—making her late again. Twisted, but true. Every attempt to point out her faults led to another session with her B.O.B.—her battery operated boyfriend. A poor substitute for the BOSS in her bed. Not that he’d shown the slightest inclination to join her there. Still, she couldn’t let it go, her fascination, her fantasies, her crush.
But what if she pushed her boss too far?
When the doors opened, she rushed through the lobby. Maybe she could slip into her chair, click her screen on, and pretend she’d been there since nine.
If anyone asked, she’d been there since five ’til. Sitting serenely at her desk, preparing for a busy day of reviewing insurance claims. Not bringing herself to earth shattering orgasms with fantasies of their sexy if ever so proper employer. If anyone asked.
Past Angie in reception—had she looked nervous?—through the Employees Only doorway behind her and ducking down the hall. Closed doors on either side, her office coming up on the right. Almost there…a few more feet and…. Oh, no!
The high double doors at the end of the corridor opened and a tall silhouette filled the space, light from the huge windows in his corner office haloing around him. “Ms. Whitman, you are late.”
She froze, bubbles of panic fizzing through her veins. What could she salvage? She’d take any dressing down he cared to give, as long as she could keep her job. And maintain the slight hope he might one day notice her as more than an efficient—if late arriving—manager.
