Content warnings for this story (click here for guide):
Eleanor Kennick got out of the cab at 8.02am, yawning. She had expected to sleep well after yesterday’s shenanigans in court, and the indignity of being printed and tagged at the police station, but 2am found her still wide awake. She was surprised at herself. When in her career had she ever been apprehensive?
Striding up to the elegant townhouse at 113 Baxwell Gardens, she glanced at her reflection in a car window. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a loose chignon. She wore a sleek teal two-piece, nipped in at the waist, over a white silk blouse, and dove-grey brogues on her feet. On her left lapel sat an opal brooch worth a month’s salary to one of her maids.
Perfection, she thought. Let’s see Eastway melt into a gibbering wreck when he opens the door. He’s going to find it harder to enforce this court order than he realises.
They had met 15 years previously, as sales staff at luxury homewares brand Mirenne. The two had even gone on a date. During the course of the evening, Eleanor had encouraged Tom to talk about his work, sympathising over demanding clients and impossible targets. By the end of the week, she had poached his three best accounts and netted his bonus. Needless to say, there had not been a second date and Tom had moved on at the next opportunity while Killer Kennick rose through the ranks at Mirenne. When she left to form her own company, Eleanor ransacked the client lists without a second thought and went on to great success.
“It seems Tom never did get over me,” thought Eleanor smugly. “Why else would he follow my company for so long and insist on being involved in my downfall? Well, I took him down once and I’ll do it again.”
She yawned again, rang the bell and stood back, ready to dazzle Eastway.
Tom answered the door in a smart grey suit. He looked briefly at Eleanor then at his watch.
“8.04,” he noted. “You’re late.”
“A whole four minutes!” Eleanor feigned shock. “Are you going to report me to the police?”
“No, your ankle tag will do that,” said Tom, walking back inside and crooking a finger. “Close the door, please.”
Eleanor was stung. He’d barely looked at her. Hmm. Probably putting on a steely front to hide his nerves. She followed him through into the living room.
“So what are we doing for this community service nonsense?” she began. “I can assist you with the paperwork for this pretend-transfer, but we both know it’ll be a waste of time. The company will be mine again as soon as we’ve appealed.”
Tom ignored her and brought out a black nylon dress-bag.
“Your uniform is in here. Put it on upstairs and report back to me.”
“My what?”
“Your uniform.”
“Why would I need a uniform?”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Eleanor, you’re in enough trouble. I suggest you comply with the terms of your community order. Take the bag upstairs, change and come back down so you can begin work.”
Eleanor opened the bag and her eyes widened. She took out a French maid’s outfit in black satin with puff sleeves, frilly white knickers and a short flounced skirt with cute lace trim. It was the uniform worn by Pretty Maids employees.
“You absolute fuck. This is some kind of joke.”
Tom raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t care for your tone, Eleanor. Besides, this is the uniform for a feminist company. You’d never ask anyone to do anything you weren’t prepared to do yourself, would you?”
Tom strode calmly over and pinched her ear lobe, causing Eleanor to shriek in surprise. Tom steered the yelping executive over to the bureau in the corner, then guided her head down until her nose brushed a paper on the desk. It was a printout of her probation terms. He released his grip and she winced.
“Read it.”
“I’m going,” said Eleanor, rubbing her ear. “And I’m suing as well. Assault.”
“Read it,” Tom repeated. “Or I’ll have to report you as absent.”
“Fuck you, Eastway. And your stupid printout. I’ll see you in court.”
Tom pinched a tiny section of hair just below her temple and Eleanor yelped again, rising to her tiptoes.
“Oh, that IS nice,” said Tom.
“You can’t (nghhh!) do this!” she panted, her brogues hanging off her stockinged heels.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Tom, picking up the document with his free hand and holding it in front of her face. “You should always read everything you sign, Eleanor, and that is your signature at the bottom.”
“I have assistants and legal teams to read documents,” grimaced Eleanor. “No way does that document allow you to brutalise me like (nghh!) this!”
Keeping her on her toes, Tom read the relevant section:
“Ms Kennick agrees to a supervisory order under Thomas Eastway, to be enforced with appropriate guidance.”
“What (nghh!) does that mean?” grunted Eleanor.
“Exactly,” said Tom. “It means whatever I say it means. Just like the contracts you made your employees sign. And right now I say it means my new maid Elly… “
“How fucking dare –”
Tom walked her over to a chair, sat down and pulled her, face down, across his lap.
“… it means my new maid Elly has earned herself a spanking for talking back.”
Before Eleanor could think straight, Tom had unbuttoned her designer trousers and tugged down her lingerie.
“NO!” she began, swiping back at him, only to find her hand pinned behind her back. Her gym-toned bottom was fully exposed and Tom began to skate a hand over the soft cheeks.
“Here we go,” he said breezily. “My insolent little maid needs to learn her place. It’s not her fault. She’s in training. But even trainees get six good swats.”
His hard hand came down on Eleanor’s behind.
“Waughhh!” she howled.
“That’s one. Count it please, Elly. If you can count.”
“It’s Eleanor, you bastard!”
WHACK.
“We’re still on one.”
“F-fuck you!”
WHACK.
“One.”
Eleanor groaned as bottom caught fire. She tried to kick her legs but one was trapped and the other tethered at the ankle by the crumpled trousers.
“One! Fine, one!” she spat.
“Better, but I don’t want any hesitation for the rest of your spanking, Elly.”
“Eleanor, damnit!”
WHACK.
“Your name is Elly while you’re here. And at this rate, it will take us the entire morning to finish your first spanking!”
“Unnnnhhh! Two!”
WHACK.
“No,” said Tom. “That’s two. Count it.”
“Nnnntwo!”
“Good girl. You’re learning… slowly.”
WHACK.
“NNNNHHH! Three! Three!”
WHACK.
“F-four!”
“Much better. Nearly there!”
WHACK.
“Ffffffive!”
“Excellent. Last one, so I’d like you to finish your count with a nice little “Thank-you, Sir”.
WHACK.
“Siiiiiiix!!!”
“Six what?”
WHACK.
“Mmppphh! Six, damnit!”
WHACK.
“Nnnnnhhhh! OK, six, thank you!”
“Nearly there! You’re really dragging this out, Elly. What do we say after a spanking?”
“MMMMMMMHHH!” Eleanor battled herself for a second, then heard herself squeal, “Six, thank you Sir!”
“Lovely, Elly,” said Tom, beaming as he helped up the dizzied CEO. She gaped in mute outrage, one hand on her scarlet bottom.
“That’s your punishment done. You can pull your knickers up,” said Tom. “And your nice trousers.”
Eleanor suddenly remembered she was naked from the waist down, and yanked her clothing back up.
“Now then,” said Tom, “Let’s try that again. Take your uniform and go get changed in the bathroom. Report back to me when you’re done, bringing your other clothing with you. And then maybe – just maybe – we can get you started working off your debt.”
Eleanor took the bag he offered and staggered up the stairs, too shocked to speak.