The Day My Boss Took Me in the Backroom for My First OTK Spanking

Sofia_xx
Aug 19
7 min read

Updated: Aug 26

I wasn’t prepared for it. Not even close.

When the customer walked out with that tight, polite smile, I thought the worst I’d get was a lecture. Maybe a tense conversation about professionalism. That was how my boss handled things—calm, controlled, always verbal. He had never touched me in any disciplinary way, and I had never imagined he would.

But the look he gave me from behind the counter was different. It wasn’t louder. It wasn’t angrier. It was heavier. Controlled in a way that made my stomach twist. The kind of look that didn’t promise raised voices—it promised consequences.

“Backroom. Now.”

The words dropped into me like a stone in cold water. Part of me wanted to protest—we had orders stacking up, the milk steamer was hissing, and walking away together would leave the café short-staffed. But my throat went dry, and something in his tone told me it didn’t matter.

I stepped into the cramped backroom, still telling myself this was just a lecture. Boxes stacked high, shelves lined with syrups, the hum of the fridge—it all felt smaller, as if the air itself had changed.

The door clicked shut. Then he locked it.

“What did we agree on last week?” he asked, voice steady but sharp.

I swallowed. “Respect. Always. No matter the rush.”

“And what did you show him just now?”

My shoulders sank. “Disrespect.”

“Why?”

“I was frustrated… and careless.”

His eyes didn’t soften. “Do you think you’ll get away with that again?”

“No, Sir.” The words slipped out automatically, which only made my pulse race harder.

He dragged the low metal stool into the center of the room and sat. “Apron off. Phone on the shelf. Then come here.”

I froze for just a second too long. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. Now.”

I untied my apron with clumsy fingers, set it and my phone—face down—on the syrup shelf, like it had done something bad too, and turned back. Everything felt smaller: the fluorescent light, the bind of my skirt, the space between us.

He patted his thigh. “Over my knee.”

It took a heartbeat to register. “I’ve never—”

“That changes now.” He didn’t raise his voice. “Over.”

With hesitation, I eased myself over his lap, bracing my hands on a storage bin. I had no choice, I needed this job. The stool was lower than the chair; in this position my hips were higher than my head and my toes barely touched the mat. His left forearm came across my lower back, not crushing, but decisive; I wasn’t going anywhere.

“This is not playful,” he said. “This is discipline for your mouth. You will keep your hands forward, your feet on the floor, and your voice low. If you argue, you add to it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The first swat landed hard and flat. The sound startled me as much as the sting—sharp in the enclosed room. The second fell before I caught my breath; by the third my mouth was open in pure disbelief: I was actually over my boss’s knee, being spanked, at work.

“Why are you over my knee?” he asked, the rhythm steady.

“Because I was disrespectful,” I said, voice tight. “To a customer.”

“And?”

“Because we agreed I wouldn’t let the rush be an excuse.”

The smacks slowed and dropped lower, right where it lingers. He didn’t fish for reactions or build theatrics; he simply delivered consequences at a measured pace that made the point. “The register area is not where you vent,” he said between swats. “It isn’t where you test me, or the standard.”

Heat gathered across both cheeks and the lower curve of my backside until I could feel the “map” of it whether I wanted to or not. He stopped long enough for the silence to press in; I could hear a faint clatter from the barista bar through the door and my face flamed hotter than my skin.

“Skirt up,” he said.

Embarrassment climbed my throat, but I reached back, tugged the fabric to my waist, and put my palms flat again on the bin.

He resumed without a speech. The sound changed slightly through the uniform panties—crisper, sharper—and I tried to keep my breathing even and failed. The backroom hinge creaked out front; I flinched and he didn’t pause. That was part of it: the risk, the reminder that the world doesn’t stop to protect my feelings when I’m careless with other people’s.

“We’re not finished,” he said quietly, and hooked two fingers into the waistband of my panties. I tensed, then let go. He drew them to mid‑thigh in one smooth motion. Cool air hit hot skin and I swallowed hard. The thought of him being able to see all of me made me feel incredibly embarrassed. Blood rushed through my body. The next swat landed bare and bright, flattening into heat in an instant. A sound escaped before I could catch it.

“Feet on the ground,” he reminded me.

Another. Another. Sometimes two in quick succession, sometimes a deliberate pause long enough to make me wish I could vanish into the rubber mat. “Tell me what you will say to the next difficult customer,” he said.

“I’ll be polite,” I answered.

“Specific,” he said, punctuating it with a firm, centered swat that lifted my toes.

“I’ll correct the order without attitude. I’ll keep my tone level. I’ll ask how I can fix it.”

“Good,” he said, and placed three solid smacks low enough to etch the message in.

The bell out front chimed faintly. He waited it out, lifted his arm from my back, and tapped my hip. “Up.”

I stood unsteadily, skirt rucked to my waist, panties tangled at my thighs. I reached to fix them.

“No,” he said evenly. “Turn around.”

I faced the shelf. He slid open the top drawer of the old metal cabinet and took out the small wooden spoon we use to stir large syrup batches. I’d forgotten it lived there until that exact second. He balanced it in his palm like chalk.

“Back over.”

I exhaled, folded back across his lap, and set my hands where he’d told me. The spoon’s first pop was quick and precise, smaller in surface than his hand but far sharper in bite. He pinned my waist with his forearm and worked methodically—neither rushed nor slow—dotting the sit‑spot with clean, stinging swats that built on everything his hand had already laid down.

“This,” he said, pop, “is for your tone.” Pop. “This is for the eye roll you thought I didn’t see.” Pop pop. “And this is so you remember the backroom lock is not soundproof.”

That last line made my face burn worse than the sting. Voices murmured faintly beyond the door—staff, not customers—and I fixed on his instructions like a rope.

“Hands forward. Feet flat.”

I obeyed. When he sensed me bracing, he paused, pressed the spoon cool to the hottest place for a beat, then resumed with a cadence designed to keep me present. “Almost there,” he said. “Last ten. Clear voice.”

The spoon snapped against the same two inches until I felt light‑headed with the sting. I kept my voice level because he’d told me to, and because this was still a workplace. Anyone could hear us otherwise. What if someone would call the police and then find us here, me naked over his knees getting a spanking like a small girl would get...

When he set the spoon down, quiet returned like a weightless thing. He didn’t ask if I was okay, didn’t soften it. He checked his watch, set a timer, and pointed to the far corner by the mop bucket.

“Corner. Skirt stays up. Panties stay where they are. Hands at your sides. Ten minutes.”

I shuffled into position with as much dignity as possible, which wasn’t much. The wall felt cool against my flushed face. From beyond the door: the hiss of milk steaming, a knock of ceramic, the doorbell’s soft chime. I stood there bare from the waist down, aware of every second. The timer ticked in silence while the humiliation settled into the lesson. It wasn’t cruel. It was proportionate. Earned. And if someone did open that door, there’d be no pretending this was anything else.

Halfway through, I heard him move—just the scrape of the stool—but he didn’t leave. His presence filled the small space without crowding it. At seven minutes my legs started to tremble. At nine I was counting breaths, cheeks burning from the exposure as much as from the spanking.

When the timer finally buzzed, he said, “Face me.”

I turned. He stood.

“Repeat the standard.”

“Respect to everyone, no matter the rush,” I said, steadying my voice. “No attitude at the register. If I’m overwhelmed, I ask for help; I don’t take it out on customers.”

“Good.” He nodded toward the shelf. “Fix yourself.”

I pulled my panties up carefully, smoothed my skirt, retied my apron without being told, and slid my phone back where it belonged. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t smile. He glanced at the clock.

“You will apologize to Mateo for stepping away mid‑prep,” he said. “Then you’ll take the register for twenty minutes and demonstrate the standard. After that, you’ll mop the front. Questions?”

“No, Sir.”

“Anything to say?”

My throat tightened. “Thank you for correcting me,” I said quietly.

He held my gaze for a beat longer than was comfortable, then turned the lock. The café’s living sound folded back around us—milk steaming, bell chiming, chatter rising and falling. I washed my hands like I hadn’t just been over his knee a foot from stacked sleeves of lids and stepped to the counter.

The next customer was already approaching, card in hand. I met his eyes, greeted him clearly, and took the order without a flicker. For the rest of that shift, nobody would’ve guessed what happened in the back—except that my tone stayed even, my patience intact, and the standard exactly where it belonged.

Because it was my first correction. And I learned, quickly, exactly what that meant.