The Seventh Floor
(by Verity)
Routine is important to most of us, but to Miss Svenson, more than most. It helps her know that all is right with the world. She catches the 7.50am train without fail even though as the chief of Marketing & Development, the entire Seventh Floor, she could amble in at any time she chose and nobody would raise an eyebrow. Perhaps they wouldn’t dare.
She uses the hour-long journey through commuter land productively – running over the day ahead, circling phrases in presentations that people have given her, answering emails from naughty nephews (no reason ever to give up on that side of her life) and updates the londonspankingservice website. Sometimes for a few brief minutes before they arrive at Waterloo she dozes, but she has the knack of knowing just when her laptop is about to slip too far forward and runs the risk of tumbling to its death.
She likes the fact that she recognises half the people in the carriage; the elderly man with the brown brogues and equally polished red face who sometimes grins at her, and though he’s had that smartphone at least six months, handles it as though an unexploded bomb; the vague-looking woman with the out-of-control ringlets and the furrowed forehead who devours classic literature, at least one doorstep of a book a week (she must be one of these eternal students) – Elsa’s often tried to guess her age and has come back with anything from late twenties to mid-forties, or whether she has children, or an earnest and academic lover maybe; the girl with the brown hair tucked into an infinite variety of designer caps and hats, snappy trainers, long slender legs always in jeans, who often has to stand because she gets on a couple of stops after Elsa, then does very little other than gawp nosily around the carriage, earphones feeding tinny music to her brain. Whenever she suspends from a grabrail above Miss Svenson somewhere, Elsa is tempted to ask her to make proper use of volume control on her machine; and the tousled but quite attractive lad who always seems to be in the same tee shirt and once-white trousers – he can’t have only one set of workclothes really – his trade advertised by the bespattered colours top to toe … perhaps he decorates the mansions of rock stars and footballers. If that is the case, maybe he parties with them too — he looks permanently exhausted.
It’s Tuesday morning and Elsa has had a frustrating couple of hours dealing with a graphic designer who doesn’t seem to want to design, two hours she could have been using for more important things.
The girl’s arrival over the threshold of Miss Svenson’s office is announced not by a knock but by a cough. That immediately irritates her.
“Can I help you?”
“Sorry Miss Svenson, but I was told to come to your office. I’m Clara by the way.”
“Well I don’t recall arranging anything, so if you don’t mind . . “
“No, it was Mrs Macpherson – she’s my boss, in Distribution. She said she’d email you. I’m one of her secretaries you see.”
“Yes, well, I might have figured that out. But I’ll ask again, what can I do for you?”
“Well it’s a bit embarrassing but, you see, Mrs Macpherson is really cross with me, coz she says I’m not putting any effort in, but I am, but not enough, and she said she happens to know that you, er, have your ways. A special way. And you correct things. Well, people.”
“If that’s the case, surely it’s for Mrs Macpherson to sort this out. I’ve never even seen you before, let alone have any interest in whether or not you’re putting in appropriate effort. So if you don’t mind, please give Mrs Macpherson my regards.”
Miss Svenson turns to the screen and begins to think about some invoices she needs to check and approve. Another cough from the doorway, more insistent this time.
“What now?” Elsa bristles.
“But Miss Svenson, Mrs Macpherson said that you’re the only one who can really deal with me. And I mustn’t come back till I’ve got dealt with. Properly.”
Elsa looks at her directly for the first time. “You have thirty seconds to tell me exactly what you’re talking about or to leave. Otherwise I’ll call Security.”
“Well, I already said, it’s embarrassing.”
A withering look spurs Clara on. “But I’ve got to be strong and just do it – I know that you punish people. Er, that you smack them. That you make them go over your knee sometimes and then er smack their bottoms and that it really hurts but is so good for them and, well, I just really want . . “
As if to reinforce the point, Clara turns, bends forward so that her not unattractive posterior is presented to Miss Svenson. With one hand she smooths the tautness of the black dress over her bottom, then lifts her hand and gives it a slap.”
“Young woman – Clara, did you say? – what I may or may not do in my private life, and only with consenting friends or colleagues, stays private. And you waving your rump at me like a primitive baboon might do is not necessarily going to get you what you want either. Though with some, men particularly, it may well of course. I’m extremely busy and don’t have time to mess around. Please leave now, go back to where you came from and get on with some work. ”
A defeated look registers in Clara’s eyes for a moment, only to be replaced with a wickedly sly smile — mischief written across her face. She looks around, sees an antique bookcase – one of Miss Svenson’s family heirlooms though she doesn’t know that – and aims a harsh little kick at its base with the toe of her stiletto. “For Christ’s sake! Thanks a bloody bunch! Bloody bloody shit!”
Another kick, this time harder – is that a chip now out of that carved leg? –
and another sly grin. Daring her.
In that instant all around Clara changes. She hears Miss Svenson calmly tell her to go to the door of the outer office, lock it and pull down the blind. From that instruction until the first slap rings out, everything happens in silence. She sees Elsa switch her mobile to silent and set the large phone on her desk to divert. Clara’s heart rattles as the other woman takes an upright chair from the furthest corner and places it deliberately in the centre of the room, a plump cushion on its seat. Without rushing, Elsa sits down and shifts position once or twice until she’s absolutely comfortable.
Clara feels Miss Svenson’s hand on her wrist guiding her, steering her around to the left hand side. It’s not a tight grip but it leaves no doubts. The movement continues, takes the wrist over the waiting lap, beyond, and almost to the floor the other side so that Clara, having no choice but to follow it, is brought toppling across Miss Svenson’s knees. A hand touches her bottom through her dress as though assessing it, measuring, steadily pulls back, and the spanking begins.
Three minutes in and she’s not so stoical. One or two of the smacks have elicited little grunts, or a suppressed whimper, and one foot knocks against the floor at the more stinging volleys. Miss Svenson is finding her rhythm, taking her arm higher and slicing across the target with the skill of the tennis player she used to be. Clara’s leg is flinching unashamedly now, with a pronounced paddling of the feet every time Elsa accelerates for a few seconds. The hand on her waist only pins her more securely but her uncontrolled movements do Miss Svenson’s work for her; the back of her pleated dress rises inch by inch until it flops forward over Clara’s upper body leaving her underwear exposed, fashionable black pants with a delicate pastel frou frou trim.
Miss Svenson pauses to let the secretary feel her vulnerability, the cool air across the seat of her knickers. And then continues with greater resolve, slap after slap after roasting slap. The cheeks that dimple out below the line of the fabric are radiating a blotchy pink. To admire the work in progress Elsa, without ceremony, hooks the fingers of both hands under the waistband stretches the material wide and effortlessly slips Clara’s panties down a few inches. They are let rest at the level her tan hold-up stockings begin.
The deep sniff deters Elsa not one iota. She does rest a hand lightly on each buttock first, stroking in a circular motions, feeling the warmth, pinching the skin between thumbs and forefingers. When she judges that Clara is ready to know how it feels, a bare bottom spanking at the hands of Elsa Svenson, she begins.
The feet drum on the floor, the abdomen weaves and little gasps echo around the office, shrill and breathy. To secure her Miss Svenson simply loops one leg over Clara’s calves and tucks them in towards her. The poor girl is scissored in a hold a wrestler wouldn’t escape and the hiding continues. In between interminable bursts of slaps Clara is conscious that her hair has fallen forward and is touching the floor– but she doesn’t care any more.
Eventually after long minutes the grip on her is relaxed, she’s stood up and gently manoeuvred into the corner, told to stay there facing the wall. The sound of the chair being lifted and placed back down. Footsteps at the far side of the office, a cupboard door opening, the movement of objects inside, searching maybe, and the door closing. Footsteps returning, the chair moving again, right next to her, then she’s told to turn around. On the cushion is a thick brown leather strap. Miss Svenson picks it up and taps it a few times on the palm of her hand.
“Come over here … Feet just here, yes. Bend right over, please, over the back of the chair and place your hands flat on the cushion. Bottom right up!”
“Please Miss Svenson, I think I’ve had enough. But thanks. Thank you for spanking me.”
“Clara! If you come to my office, uninvited, take my valuable time, and ask me to deal with you to fix a problem, provoke me with a silly temper tantrum, then I shall deal with you. In the way that I wish to deal with you. I shall decide when you’ve had enough. I’m going to give you four sets of twelve strokes now, with this three-tailed tawse, two sets from each side. We’ll see how you get on. And then you’re going to go back across my knee so that I can spank you some more. Is that clear my dear? Now lean right over please!”
And so Clara finds herself bending forward, hot bottom high in the air, underwear still stretched just below her cheeks, waiting to feel the first stroke.
Miss Svenson makes real inroads with her workload that afternoon and, on a whim, decides to pay a rare trip to The Fourth Floor, most particularly Distribution. She’s interested to meet Mrs Macpherson and perhaps let her know the tearful and penitent state in which her secretary was eventually allowed to wriggle from her lap and totter off towards the lift.
No sign of Clara in the main reception area but Miss Svenson is greeted by a very personable secretary, Gina. When she asks if Mrs Macpherson can spare her five minutes Gina is clearly puzzled.
“Mrs Mac’s on secondment. To Tokyo. Another company. Coming back though. Went four months ago.”
As though to be sure herself, Gina takes one of the in-house company magazines from the display rack on the desk, flicks through to page 20 and shows Elsa a tiny article announcing special appointments and retirements. “See . . still with us, but out the picture at the mo. Can’t wait for her to come back, mind.”
The following morning it’s 8.00am and Miss Svenson looks up as the train takes a lively jolt forward from the station. Yes, her hand still throbs a little but all is right with the world; the elderly man is opposite her, painstakingly typing a text, correction by correction. The perpetual student is engrossed in her battered copy of ‘Jane Eyre’ and the chubby young man’s head lolls forward in sleep, over the collar of his paint-smeared tee shirt. Nobody missing. The girl in jeans and garish trainers today sports an Armani cap. She’s at the far end of the carriage, but at least she’s got a seat today. She sits awkwardly, though, as though trying to keep one cheek lifted an inch away from the seat. At that moment she looks up, catches Miss Svenson watching her; a sly smile turns immediately to a rampant blush as she stares straight back down at her magazine.
That smile. It couldn’t. The same smile — Mrs Macpherson’s secretary, the smile that had made Elsa so cross! Clara’s smile. Yesterday. But, no, not really possible is it. Elsa stares, though, and makes the changes in her mind – jeans off now, cap lifted (let’s throw that from the train window), hair set free, yes, now shoulder-length – put her in a smart black dress and waspish high heels , and — devious little minx! But this girl can’t even work at our place, Elsa tells herself, racing forward, I’d bet any money on that. Could she have followed her to the office maybe? But, most of all, how on earth did she know that if she were to present her bottom to Miss Svenson like that, on a platter, well, there was such a strong chance it would soon find itself being smacked into the middle of next week? Questions tumble over themselves.
It’s Elsa’s turn to smile – you think you have a sore behind now, my girl . . well, you just wait! There’s plenty more where that one came from — by the time I get all the answers, and I will, every single one, young lady, your bottom will be … As though hearing the conversation, Clara winces ever so slightly and shifts position.