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The First Spanker


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Six months after the inauguration, the nation was still not used to the fact of a woman president. The press made much of her, the television cameras were always on her, and her every word and action was the matter of discussion and debate. Of course, her looks didn’t hurt all this. Tall, slender, with fair skin and shoulder length red hair, Patricia Shane looked much younger than her 45 years, almost as if she were still the coed she had once been.

And yet the presidency is a wearing, stressful job, with responsibility to match the power of the office. Scarcely anyone, Patricia thought, seemed to keep that in mind. One July afternoon, Robert Bolton, one of the many unseen and unnoticed civil servants in Washington, answered his phone—and then his eyes went wide. The caller explained that he was from the White House, and that President Shane wanted to see him the next day.

Bolton hung up, and let a long breath out through pursed lips. The White House! He couldn’t imagine why President Shane wanted to see him, of all people! Bolton woke early the next morning, shaved and dressed with a bit more than the usual care, and caught a taxi to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, submitted to the usual security screening that had become all too necessary, given the world situation, and waited to be escorted to the Oval Office.

Within a few minutes, he was ushered in to see the President, trying hard not to stare at his surroundings like some gawking tourist. President Shane entered through another door, with a word of thanks to the Secret Service agent posted there. She entered, smiling slightly, and sat behind one of the most famous desks in the world. “Mr. Bolton. Thank you for coming. Please have a seat.” He sat nervously—trying not to look it, of course—and attempted to control his breathing. “Thank you for asking me, Madam President.”

President Shane opened a file on her desk and scanned it for a moment. “I see you’ve been with the government for a number of years, Mr. Bolton, and most of it fairly satisfactorily— until recently.” She looked up over her reading glasses and made direct eye contact. Bolton swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.” “To be specific,” she continued, “you’ve been given oral warnings, and now a couple of written ones, regarding your use of the Internet on the job, using government computers.” He could feel his face getting redder. “Yes, that’s true, Madam President, but—“ 

She raised her hand, and he stopped. “Mr. Bolton, although I am the top law enforcement person in the country, I didn’t call you here to call you on the carpet about a violation of policy. I am interested, however, in just what you were looking at,” she said, with just a hint of a smile. Bolton licked his lips, and swallowed. “Where was this going?” he wondered. He knew all too well what had to be in that file. President Shane rested her elbows on the desk and templed her long, slender fingers. She rested her face on her hands for a moment, then looked up.

“You’ve been visiting spanking websites, Mr. Bolton! What about that? Is this an interest of yours?” Looking down at his lap, Bolton nodded. What else could he say? She had him dead to rights. Raising his head, he said softly, “Yes, Madam President, for a long time now.” “I thought so, Mr. Bolton. And that’s why you’re here, at my request.”

Staring at her in astonishment, he blurted, “What do you mean?” President Shane stood, leaning forward on the desk. “Do you have any idea of how much I carry as president, Mr. Bolton? How much power I have, and with it how much responsibility?” “It must be an awesome amount, Madam President.” “That,” she said softly, “is an understatement. It is enormous power, really more than one person should ever have, but I have it—it’s part of the job. And you may not believe this, Mr. Bolton, but there’s more than a little guilt that goes with it. I’m a woman, like any other woman, but I have people hanging on my every word, carrying out my every whim, bowing and scraping—and it gnaws at me, it gnaws every day, and that’s where I need your help.”

He was so surprised that he couldn’t speak for a moment. “Me, Madam President? How can I possibly help?” “Mr. Bolton,” she began, “ I need for someone else to have the power for a short while— power over me, over my very person, in a way that helps me deal with this guilt I carry. And since you have this interest, as we’ve just covered, you’re ideally suited.” It took a few moments for this to register.

“You mean—you mean—“ he sputtered. “Yes, Mr. Bolton,” she smiled. “I’ve been pondering this for a long time, and what I need, two or three times a week, is to be on the receiving end of a good, long, hard spanking—to be in a position of submission, even for a short while. And that’s why I want you to join my staff.” “Your staff?”

 “Yes, my staff. You’ll come on as one of my assistants, for public purposes. And let me be very clear, Mr. Bolton. This whole arrangement calls for the utmost confidentiality and discretion. If even a hint of this matter ever became public, my presidency would be seriously crippled. And you would be sorrier than I have words to express. Have I made this sufficiently clear?” Somewhere in the jumble that his thoughts had become, Bolton had the presence of mind to answer, “Absolutely, Madam President.”

A few days later, the change had become official. Robert Bolton became the latest addition to President Shane’s staff, with a desk, several file cabinets, and impressive stacks of paperwork, even by Washington standards. So much so, that working evenings was soon routine, and so when President Shane asked him to bring some files over to the East Wing, no one took notice.

Bolton walked beside the Secret Service agent who was his escort. He wore the usual government navy blue suit, the usual earpiece—and the usual large caliber handgun under his coat, Bolton mused. He definitely looked all business. They stopped at the door of the private residence, where the agent knocked on the door. “Madam President?” he murmured.

The door opened, and she quietly said, “Show him in, Johnson.” Agent Johnson took him through the door, then withdrew, quietly closing it behind him. Bolton looked at the door, then turned—and there she was, in a simple dress, as pretty as a coed, with her hands clasped in front of her. “Shall we begin?” she said softly.

The ground rules, of course, had already been laid. There was to be no attempt at sexual touching—this was to be a spanking, pure and simple. She wanted him only to use his hand, and Bolton knew that Johnson would be at the door—if he stepped over the line, a word from her would bring him in. But he was free to say what he liked, and the position and the state of her dress, or undress, was his option.

“Yes, I think we’d better begin, young lady,” he growled softly. “I’ve been watching you on the newscasts, so poised, so confident. Everyone thinks you’re pretty hot stuff, don’t they?” “Y-yes, I suppose they do,” she whispered. “But in reality, you’re just a woman who won an election over some pretty good opponents. So you don’t belong on any high horse, do you?” “No, I don’t,” she said, eyes downward.

“Well, I think you need a good reminder of that,” he said, warming to the role he was picked to play. Stepping over to a couch, he sat in the middle and beckoned to her. She slowly walked over and stood beside him. There was something in her presence, standing so close; he could feel his pulse quickening, and his breathing seemed shallow. Taking her wrist, he pulled her, with no resistance, over his lap. As her hands touched the floor, he pulled her dress hem up to her waist and had his first sight of what he’d been thinking about for days. Long, shapely legs came up and joined to one of the most well-curved bottoms he’d ever seen. Only a thin layer of cotton knit was between him and the cheeks of the most powerful woman in the world. They were perfect—not too large, not too flat, not the least bit of flab.

She turned her head to look back at him, her brilliant red hair falling free. “Is anything wrong?” “No, young lady, nothing’s wrong, so you’d just better get ready for what you’re about to get.” As he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, she raised her hips slightly so that he could pull them halfway down her thighs. “It’s the First Bottom,” he thought, “and I’m the First Spanker.”

With his left hand on her back, he raised his right hand and brought it down smartly on the right side. He had to admire her self-control—a small “umph!” was her only reaction. So he felt free to continue what he’d started. He continued spanking her, landing blows alternately between left and right, covering the whole area, from the top of the cleft to the “sit spots” at the junction of the buttocks and the thighs. Her small grunts and moans were getting louder. He was glad that Johnson had been thoroughly briefed for this.

As he spanked, he continued scolding her, telling her that this was what she deserved for thinking herself above the rest, for her pride, for her insolence. “Yes, you’re right, I do deserve it!” she hissed between her teeth, as his hand turned her buttocks first pink, then increasing shades of red. She was wiggling now on his lap, kicking, her feet beating a rhythm on the carpet, her hands clawing at that same carpet. Those earlier grunts and moans were now almost screams, and he was glad that the other staff had been cleared from the area. The skin on those perfect cheeks was now very hot and very red, and he was sure he’d seen tears in her eyes.

He didn’t want to stop. He’d fantasized for so long about having a woman over his knee, spanking her, over and over, and to have this woman over his knee was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. But he knew this had to come to an end. She only had so much time for things like this on her schedule, and a crisis might erupt any moment. So he stopped. She lay over his knees, sobbing, limp, no longer moving. Taking a small tube of cream from his pocket, he began to rub it into her toasted buns, and slowly she began to catch control of her breathing.

As he continued to rub, he could almost imagine that he heard her—purring? “Bolton, I think I can get up now.” He released her, and she stood, only a little shakily, using her hands to push up off his lap. She pulled up her panties, wincing a little as the waistband scraped over her sore tush, then smoothed the dress back down as it had been before. He was right—there were tears in her eyes, but she smiled through the tears.

“You did really well, Bolton. I feel a lot better, for a little while, anyway. Thank you.” He rose, grinning—he just couldn’t help it. “You’re welcome, Madam President. Anytime.” Gently rubbing, she grinned back. “I think we’d better give it a few days before we do this again. But thanks again.”

As they walked toward the door, she gave his hand an unexpected squeeze. “Take care, Bolton.” Johnson, looking as if nothing had happened at all, escorted Bolton to a waiting cab. “Gotta admire professionalism,” Bolton chuckled to himself.

The next night, Bolton met a couple of friends at a nearby bar, and, as the beers arrived, he caught sight of a newscast showing President Shane at a diplomatic conference. As he looked at his boss, he noticed—wondering if anyone else did—that she seemed to be squirming, just ever so slightly, in her chair. “That’s my girl,” he chuckled to himself, as he raised the mug to his lips.

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