Correction in the Copy Room: OTK Spanking and Ruler Discipline

Sofia_xx
Jul 3
5 min read

I was already pushing it. The phone tucked under my blazer during the meeting wasn’t exactly subtle, and I knew it. But the thread of boredom, the temptation to check just one message—it was stronger than my common sense. I could feel his gaze when I opened it under the table. Not furious. Just steady. Controlled. The kind of look that didn’t yell, didn’t react. It promised something quieter. More serious.

I didn’t look up. Just locked my screen and shoved it into my bag like it never happened. The meeting dragged on another half hour. He didn’t say a word to me. Not afterward. Not when I passed him in the hallway. Not when I tried to make eye contact and offer a casual “You good?” smile. Nothing.

It was the silence that got to me.

That, and the way he followed me into the copy room later that afternoon.

I didn’t hear him at first. I was crouched in front of the machine, trying to fix a paper jam, half-grateful to be out of sight for a few minutes. When I finally stood up and turned around, I nearly walked right into him.

He closed the door behind him.

Locked it.

Then turned and looked at me.

“Was it worth it?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You were told: no phones in meetings. That’s not new. It’s not unclear. And it wasn’t the first time.”

My mouth opened to form some excuse, but nothing came out. His tone wasn’t angry. Just calm. Decisive.

“You don’t get to ignore rules without consequences. So I’m going to remind you exactly what happens when you forget who’s in charge.”

I backed up half a step as he pulled the low office chair away from the wall and sat down.

“Come here.”

I hesitated. “You’re serious.”

He didn’t answer. Just patted his thigh.

The copy room wasn’t large. The blinds were drawn. The floor was carpeted. But the walls? Thin. Anyone walking past might not see us—but they could definitely hear us if I wasn’t careful.

That risk made my stomach twist in the most conflicting way. I hated the thought of being exposed, caught, humiliated. But I hated the thought of being dismissed without discipline even more.

I walked forward slowly.

He took my wrist. Guided me to his right. And then, before I could breathe twice, I was over his lap.

My skirt tightened across the curve of my backside. My palms met the carpet. His hand rested on the small of my back, keeping me in place.

“This is real discipline,” he said, pulling my skirt up to my waist. “This isn’t about fun.”

Then I felt his fingers curl around the waistband of my panties.

“Wait—please—”

“No. You don’t get to act like a brat and then negotiate. This is what correction looks like.”

He tugged them down—firm, slow, purposeful—baring my bottom completely, all the way to mid-thigh. The chill of the air made my skin tighten before the first spank even landed.

And then it started.

SMACK.

Sharp. Direct. Immediate. I gasped, gripping the leg of the chair.

SMACK. SMACK.

He didn’t ease in. He didn’t ask if I was ready. This wasn’t about readiness.

“This is for the meeting,” he said, spacing each word with another hard slap. “This is for the attitude.”

SMACK.

“And this…” SMACK. “Is for making me come in here to fix what you should’ve already understood.”

Each spank left a deeper sting, building into a hot ache across both cheeks. I bit my lip, breathing harder, tears prickling—not from pain, but from the layered humiliation of being exposed like this, handled like this, disciplined like this.

He paused, rubbing a slow circle over the burning skin.

“Count the last ten,” he said.

I swallowed. “Yes, Sir…”

CRACK.

“One.”

CRACK.

“Two…”

Each one echoed louder than the last. My voice shook by six. My legs trembled by eight. And when ten finally came, I wasn’t thinking about my phone or the meeting or how smug I thought I’d been.

I was thinking about how hot my bottom was.

How humiliating this was.

And how much I needed it.

He helped me up slowly. “You’ll think twice next time,” he said simply. I nodded. My voice was too shaky to trust. And I understood him loud and clear.

I thought it was over. I really did. I turned to the copier, reaching for the jammed tray, still trying to collect myself—when I heard it.

A pause. A shift in energy. The unmistakable sound of something light tapping against his palm. I turned my head.

He was holding a ruler. A long, transparent one that had been resting on the supply shelf. Simple, school-like, and somehow more intimidating than the spanking that had just ended. He tilted his head. “Bend over the table.” I froze. “Now.” The word carried no heat, no drama. Just authority. I obeyed.

With trembling fingers, I lifted my skirt once more and bent over the edge of the copier table, palms flat, back arched slightly as I waited. The ruler rested against my skin briefly, cold and deliberate, before it snapped down hard.

The sting was instant—sharp, narrow, and focused. I gasped, legs twitching.

Another crack.

And another.

Ten in total. No countdown, no speech. Just fast, tight, precise lashes that made my toes curl in my shoes.

Then he spoke again.

“Six more. Count them.”

“Yes, Sir…”

Snap.

“One.”

The sound of the ruler hitting bare skin was louder than I expected, echoing in the enclosed space.

“Two.”

It stung more than his hand. Less weight, more bite. By five, my voice shook.

“Six,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

He rested the ruler against my bottom for a moment, like punctuation. Then he placed it gently on the table beside me and tugged my panties back up with a finality that made me flinch more than the ruler had.

“This,” he said, “was the final warning.”

I stood slowly, my skin hot, my mind spinning, my entire body flushed with adrenaline and something else I wasn’t ready to name. He didn’t say anything more. He just unlocked the door and walked out like nothing had happened.

I stayed a moment longer, gathering myself, adjusting my skirt, staring at the copy machine like it had something wise to say. My bottom throbbed with the memory of every strike.