“Oh my god,” Tess breathed, stunned at what she’d been reading. She set down the diary and gazed absently at the sampler Nana had cross-stitched that had hung over the sink in Nana’s kitchen for as long as Tess could remember—“Blessed Are Those Who Clean Up.” Now that was the Nana Tess knew. Funny, homey, down-to-earth. Not a sexual bone in her body. Who the hell was this other woman, this secretary who had a boss with a ruler? A handsome Gregory Peck boss with very “exacting” standards.

And it had happened way back in 1961. People didn’t do stuff like that back then, did they? There was no internet, no postings on personals sites—Stern boss seeks submissive secretary. Must take dictation and spankings.

And yet… And yet, if Tess were honest, as honest as her grandmother was in her diary, were the feelings expressed there really so foreign? Tess, like her grandmother, had as yet unexplored submissive feelings of her own. Her secret fantasies of being held down and “taken” by her lover had remained just that—secret. But they were there.

The idea of working for some guy who was into control… While Tess rejected the idea on the surface, her body was responding otherwise. As bizarre as it was, what she was reading turned her on, even if it was her old Nana who had written the words.

Again she marveled, shaking her head. Her grandmother having submissive thoughts and feelings, all those years ago. It didn’t seem possible. Yet, here were these journals, written in Nana’s neat, precise hand, the blue ink faded on paper yellowed with time.

This Mr. Stevenson… Tess had half a mind to call him back and demand an explanation. And yet, she was the one reading someone else’s most secret thoughts and dreams. This wasn’t any of Tess’s business. She thought of herself as free and liberated, sexually and otherwise. Why should she expect a different set of behaviors for her grandmother, just because she was older and of another generation?

Don’t judge her, Tess warned herself. That was something Nana had often said. “Don’t judge someone just because they don’t think exactly like you do. Until you’ve walked in their shoes, you just have no idea.” Well, she was obviously speaking from experience, wasn’t she?

Tea forgotten, Tess picked up the journal and continued to read.

~*~

October 19, 1961

Frank was tickled pink about the raise. He’s never admitted it, but he didn’t think I had what it took to be a secretary. He use to say the secretarial school I attended after high school was just a front while I went after my “MRS” degree. He never thought I was cut out for much more than changing diapers and making cookies. But money talks, as Frank is fond of saying, and money is telling him now I’m worth something.

Since we had that little talk, Mr. Stevenson has said straight out he’s going to “train” me to behave in a way proper to my station—he actually used those words. The man is something out of a Dickens’ novel.

Things have been moving pretty fast. Maybe a little too fast for me.

Yesterday, when I brought in his coffee, I spilled a little when I set it down. The saucer slipped and the coffee slopped over the edge so that a little got on his precious walnut desktop. I had to go back to the kitchenette to get a dishtowel, and when I returned, he was standing behind his chair, holding that ruler. I felt a twinge in my belly.

“Olivia,” he intoned. “Have you any idea what this desk is worth? It’s been in my family for generations. I can’t have it being ruined by some careless secretary, now can I?”

“No, sir,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat. He looked so handsome, so stern, standing there, tapping the ruler against the top of his chair.

“You’ve been here long enough to know the rules. But perhaps they need to be spelled out more clearly for you, since you continue to behave in such a cavalier fashion when it comes to precious antiques.”

It was just a drop of coffee, not some federal offense, for heaven’s sake. I actually blurted that out to him, and his whole countenance darkened.

“First rule, Olivia, is that you don’t offer your opinions, unless I ask for them. I am the boss here. You are not. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, looking down as heat seared my cheeks. This was crazy. I knew it, and yet it wasn’t crazy either. Something about it felt so right—so exciting.

Again the tap, tap, tap of that ruler. “Second rule. From now on, first infraction is ten strokes with the ruler. Either on your knuckles or on your bottom. I should warn you that I won’t be using it so lightly anymore. Now that you’re in formal training, your punishments will be real. Repeated infractions will receive escalated punishment. Do I make myself clear?”

“Um…” I hesitated.

“Speak plainly, Olivia. Do not say ‘um.’ You are not a schoolgirl. Do I make myself clear?”

I swallowed. “Well, Mr. Stevenson, not entirely. I mean, are you saying that you plan to, um, use that ruler on my bottom?” I blushed saying this out loud. But he had said it first. I kept going since he just looked at me, his arms folded over that nice broad chest of his. “Is that over the skirt? Is this legal? And if you hit my hand too hard, what if it marks me somehow? My husband might wonder.”

“Your husband is not my concern, Olivia. How you handle yourself at home is entirely your affair. While you are here at the office, you belong to me. If you are concerned that some easily visible possible bruising or mark might be questioned, I would suggest you avail yourself of the second method, that is, your bottom. And yes, first infraction will be over the skirt. After that, we shall see. As to legalities, you and I have not entered into any sort of legal contract. I consider what happens here between us to be on both a professional and personal level. That is, I expect you to behave professionally at all times, but our arrangement, by its nature, is personal. Legality doesn’t enter into it.”

He stood there for a moment, waiting. Maybe he expected me to tell him to go to hell. Maybe he was waiting to see if I would run out of there screaming.

I didn’t do either.

I just stood there staring at him like a tongue-tied idiot. Inside I was almost sick with the adrenaline rush I was feeling. My gut was churning like I was on a roller coaster and I felt giddy with anticipation, though not really sure of what. I suppose he took my silence for acquiescence, and I guess it was.

He went on, with a slight nod, as if I had spoken, as if I had given him permission. “Now, you have spilled coffee on my desk. That is infraction number one. Then you protested and argued that it was ‘just a drop coffee,’ which clearly indicates to me that you don’t value my property in a way that befits your station. That is infraction number two. I shall teach you the value of my things.”

He cleared his throat. “At the end of each day we shall tally your infractions, and I will decide upon a punishment. You will accept the punishment with grace. Failure to comply immediately with my dictate will incur another infraction. Am I clear, Olivia?”

My mouth felt dry. Part of me was furious with this arrogant man. How dare he talk to me like I was some kind of servant or slave from medieval times, and he the lord and master of the realm! But most of me was thunderstruck. Yes, that’s the word. It’s like he was speaking some secret language to me. Some language I didn’t know I understood. Something that bypassed my brain and went right to my nerve endings.

I responded in that secret language, I guess. Some kind of weird sense of peace seemed to fall over me as I bowed my head and answered, “Yes, sir. You are clear, sir. I apologize about the coffee. I’ll be more careful.”

“Good,” he nodded, looking pleased. “Now get your pad and take a letter. Punishment will be at 4:00 p.m. Sharp.”

~*~

A secret language. Tess sat still, staring at the neat writing, the ink pale and fine as insect legs on the page. It was as if she were there in the room with Mr. Stevenson, taking Olivia’s place, as thunderstruck—and as thrilled—as her grandmother had been.

Tess had started reading these journals with a sort of superior skepticism. Her sweet, innocent Nana—young Livvie from another era—subjected to the strange perversions of an overstepping boss. At the very least, it was just another hackneyed affair between a man and his secretary.

Yet, Tess found herself getting caught up in the drama of what she was reading. This talk of secret languages and punishments. Her nipples tingled, her pussy gently throbbing, stirred by the words on the page. She squirmed in her chair, pressing her legs together as she read on.

~*~

October 23, 1961

I’ve been tempted to take this journal home. Sometimes I write entries in my head while I’m washing the dishes or doing laundry or whatever. Or later, when Frank and I are lying in bed, the kids finally asleep. I’ll be reading my novel as usual, with Frank beside me watching TV, and I’ll get this ridiculous urge to confide in him. To tell him about the crazy things that are happening at work, and get his opinion.

Can you imagine? Frank would divorce me on the spot, or have me locked in the loony bin. Then he’d go threaten Mr. Stevenson with his stupid hunting shotgun.

Of course, Mr. Stevenson’s right. It would be stupid to leave this journal lying around at home. Beyond stupid. Dangerous. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Stevenson knows what I’m writing in here. If he knows that I think he looks like Gregory Peck, and that I get all excited and squirmy when he smacks my bottom.

But he doesn’t read it. At least he hasn’t yet. Maybe I really do have the only key to my desk drawers. I know he hasn’t read it so far because I’ve been doing like they do in those detective novels. I put a strand of my hair very carefully across the cover of the journal. You couldn’t really see it unless you were looking for it. And it hasn’t been moved. That makes me feel safer, I suppose. These words are just for me.

Well, Friday afternoon was amazing. I actually think Mr. Stevenson manufactured one of the infractions in order to increase my punishment. It was during dictation and I swear he said “confidant” but he said no, it was supposed to be “confidence.” After lecturing me about being precise in legal documents, he said, “Infraction number three.”

It was very hard to concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t do much of anything at all from three thirty to four o’clock, except check my face in my compact, reapply my lipstick and powder, adjust my stockings, go to the bathroom, fluff my hair. It was like I was going for an audition or on a blind date!

When four o’clock arrived, I sat on tenterhooks, waiting for his one-word command.

“Olivia.”

I got to my feet, trying to keep my jangling nerves under control. The door was ajar so I walked in, feeling like I was heading into the principal’s office after being caught with cigarettes.

He was sitting at his desk, his pen poised over some document, head bowed. The rat kept looking at his papers, like they were too important to stop reading, even though he was the one who had called me in. I told myself he was just doing that to make me feel more ill at ease—more nervous. More compliant.

Well, it worked! I stood there, trying not to shift and shuffle like a little kid.

Finally, he looked up, as if only suddenly aware that I had entered the room. He looked me slowly up and down. I blushed. I know I did, because I could feel the heat in my face and neck. I tried to stand still—to act calm and collected, like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. And Mr. Stevenson was every bit as handsome as Gregory Peck in that movie. So dashing!

I actually had a sudden fantasy of rushing over and kissing him, right on the mouth! Of course, I did no such thing. He’d probably have fired me on the spot. I do not believe my crush on Mr. Stevenson is returned. At least not in a schoolboy kind of a way, all gushy and nervous like me. No, he is far too calm and collected for that sort of behavior.

Mr. Stevenson is into control.

He stood up and walked over to the leather couch on the far wall from his desk. He sat down and took his ruler, that ever-present ruler, from the arm of the couch where he’d obviously placed it before, in anticipation of my punishment.

“Come here, Olivia. How many infractions today?”

Like he didn’t know.

“Three, Sir,” I answered, knowing he would count the confidence/confidant dispute.

(Why did I just capitalize Sir? I don’t know, but somehow it just seems…right.)

“That’s correct. I’m going to give you a choice of punishment. You can take thirty over the skirt or”—he paused, his eyes boring into mine—“ten underneath.”

Sweat prickled under my arms and my nipples pressed hard against my bra. I pursed my lips, pretending to weigh my options, but I’d already decided. If we were going to play this game, I thought, then let’s do it right.

I’ll admit something here.

I wanted to feel his hand on my bottom. Not my bare bottom, mind you. I’m not ready for that.

Yet.

Oh my God, did I just write that?

The idea of those long, tapered fingers touching my body in such an intimate way, such a dangerous and forbidden way, gets me all hot and bothered.

Trying to sound calm, I responded, “Ten, under the skirt.”

He actually raised his eyebrows, as if he were surprised by my choice, and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “Very well. Take off the skirt. It’s too narrow to hike up.”

And I did it.

Mrs. Old Married Woman unzipped her skirt and laid it carefully over a chair. I stood there in my girdle and underpants, feeling very self-conscious indeed.

Though I feel kind of sorry for his wife—look what he’s doing behind her back—in a way knowing that he’s married makes me more comfortable. He’s obviously seen a woman in this state of undress many times before. Probably doesn’t even think twice about it.

He looked me over with a frown while the heat crept up my cheeks as usual. “I don’t like girdles. Why do slender women like you wear girdles?”

Well, I liked that he called me slender. But married or not, he obviously didn’t know much about women’s undergarments. “To hold up my stockings, of course,” I snapped, and then bit my lip, worried I had sounded “impertinent.”

He let it pass, answering, “There are much nicer ways to do that, Olivia. Next Monday on your lunch hour, you will go to Slone’s Dress Shop in the village and pick up a package. It will be in my name at the counter. You will not wear a girdle again in my presence, once you have the garter belts that will be waiting for you. Understood?”

The man was buying me underwear!

Instead of slapping his face and quitting again, I nodded, but I was thinking, “Garter belts?” I was going to dress like a common whore for this man who was my boss. I knew I was going to do it and I’ll admit here, the notion excited me.

He drew me back to the matter at hand. “Come here and bend over my lap.”

I felt awkward and sort of ridiculous, a grown woman balancing over a man’s knee in her girdle and stockings.

But I did it.

Thwack! He smacked me really hard. Much harder than the little taps I’d been getting up until then.

“Ouch,” I yelled involuntarily.

“Come now. This is nothing. Take it like a true submissive, Olivia. Silently.” Again he smacked me, and I managed not to yelp out loud, though I did kind of grunt. I mean, it stung, even through the rubbery fabric of the girdle and my panties. Imagine it on bare skin. He did it eight more times, covering my entire bottom.

Here’s the really weird thing.

The secret thing.

Afterward, my panties were soaked.

I was so aroused by that paddling that I couldn’t wait to get home to Frank. Lucky for me it was Friday, so I was pretty much assured of some sex.

When Frank made love to me, after I finally got the kids off to bed, I think I actually might have had an orgasm. I’m not exactly sure, but I think I did. Anyway, it felt really good, and when he pressed my sore bottom against the sheets, it just made me so hot. I’m sure Frank must have wondered what had gotten into me. He isn’t crazy about a woman showing too much emotion during sex. “Isn’t seemly”, he’d say if pressed. Not that he’d talk about it, but after eleven years, I know that’s what he thinks.

I wonder what it’s like for Mr. Stevenson and his wife. Does she get punished too? Or would she divorce him if he tried this stuff with her? And where is this going with Mr. Stevenson? Are we having an affair?

What am I doing????

 

October 23, 1961 – later

I’m spending too much time writing in this thing, but Mr. Stevenson assures me it’s not a waste of time, so here goes—entry number two of the day.

The garter belts are beautiful. Elegant satin, one in cream, one in black and one in pearl gray. The place was so upscale. Nothing I’d ever go into on my own. They actually keep the door locked and have to buzz you in, and there’s no price tag on anything. I guess if you have to ask…

The saleslady was very posh and sophisticated, and she acted like I was the Queen of England as she handed me the beautiful box wrapped with a pretty ribbon. When I got back to the office, Mr. Stevenson told me to open the package and select a belt. He says I’m to leave them at the office each evening, and put one on each morning when I arrive. He said I could wash them out here as necessary.

I’m wearing the pearl gray garter belt with my stockings. It really does feel better than a girdle, though it doesn’t control my figure as well. I feel almost naked under there. I’ve been wearing a girdle for so long. I mean, everyone does. Still, I have to admit, it feels really sexy. Right now, as I’m writing, I’m fingering one of the satin ribbons at the bottom of the garter.

I can’t wait for him to call me in to show him!

 

It’s 4:15 and I have to leave in fifteen minutes so I’m home in time to cook dinner for Frank and the kids, but I have to get this out first.

I’m so annoyed. And confused!

I’ve been waiting all day, but nothing. Zilch. When he called me in for dictation, I thought, this is it, he’ll ask me to raise my skirt and show him. The whole time he was dictating, I could barely keep my mind on what he was saying. Finally, he said, “Thank you, that will be all.”

I just sat there, dumbfounded.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Was there something else, Olivia?”

I had to bite my tongue, let me tell you. Mr. Stevenson has yet to experience my sarcastic side. I lost my nerve though, muttering, “No, Sir. I’ll get these typed up.”

The whole rest of the afternoon went like that. When 4:00 came, I thought, well, this is it. Finally. Now he’ll call me in to show him the sexy garters.

Well, 4:00 came and went, and nothing happened. Just now Mr. Stevenson came out of his office, barely stopping as he said, calm as you please, “Good night, Olivia.”

That’s it! Just good night. He took his overcoat and his hat, and, after reminding me to lock up, left.

Now I’m sitting here, just fuming! Is the man made of flesh and blood, or stone and metal? Aren’t I an attractive woman?

I just reread what I wrote, and I think I’m losing my mind. Here I am, furious, because I’ve been waiting around all afternoon like an idiot for my boss to call me in and demand to see the garter belts he paid for. There is definitely something wrong with me. I wonder if I should see a doctor.