Executive Disfunction

Chapter 1
When power bottoms out

Chapter Description: Discipline found it's mark - lower than ever before

He was already panting when she brought her hand down again—harder this time, echoing off the bare walls of his loft like a crack of thunder. The sound, the slap of flesh against flesh, startled him more than the impact, but the heat blooming across his skin a second later grounded him. Pulled him deeper.

"Count," she reminded, voice low, steady.

"Eight," he gasped, voice rough against the sheets.

Her fingers ghosted over the rising welt before striking again, a punishing slap just below the last.

"Nine."

The numbers were less about keeping track and more about submission—about obedience, about showing her he could take it. That he wanted to.

She’d told him at the club that she liked quiet ones. Liked the way they fell apart slowly, not all at once. He hadn’t fully understood then, but he did now.

"Up on your knees."

The order came sharp, and he obeyed without hesitation, breath catching as the air hit his flushed skin. She moved behind him, circling like she was studying a sculpture she'd only half-finished.

His cock was hard, untouched, aching with a desperation that made his thighs tremble. She hadn't let him come. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

"Had enough?" She purred, heals still on, striking the floor as she walked around him, assessing.

"...no," he whispered in a small voice.

And just like that—another strike. This one from the paddle. Thicker, duller, the kind of blow that echoed inside his bones.

He choked on the breath it stole from him, exhaled it into a moan.

"Ten," he managed.

"Good boy."

The praise hit deeper than the wood had. It loosened something behind his ribs.

She stepped closer, one hand bracing on his lower back, the other trailing between his thighs, cupping him briefly—not enough. Just enough to tease. Enough to remind him who controlled what.

"This isn't just about pain," she said softly into his ear. "It's about the surrender. And you look beautiful when you give up control."

He shuddered. Not from the pain. From the truth of it.

The only light in the penthouse suite came from the city skyline—faint, silver reflections glinting off glass and steel. But inside, everything was shadow and breath and heat.

He was bare from the waist down, pants puddled at his ankles like a discarded identity. She spread him back over her lap, the man who’d barked orders all day now grunted through clenched teeth, fists curling in the fine wool of his own discarded suit jacket.

Her skirt hadn’t shifted an inch. Pencil-straight and immaculate, just like the rest of her—black blouse buttoned high, sleeves rolled with surgical precision, heels sharp enough to cut glass.

Another strike. Her palm, practiced. The slap echoed.

"Count," she reminded calmly, as if asking for a quarterly projection.

"...eleven," he grit out, the word catching on a ragged exhale.

"Good." She adjusted him slightly, legs firm beneath his weight. Her tone didn’t change. "Tell me why you’re here."

"Because I need to be taught a lesson," he said, not yet broken but already cracking.

Smack. This one low, at the curve where thigh met ass.

"Twelve," he choked.

She leaned forward, close enough for her perfume to envelop him—dark florals and cold command. "What kind of boy are you, Matthew?"

"A bad one," he breathed. "A selfish one."

Smack.

"Thirteen."

Her voice turned silkier, slicing deeper. "You act like you’re in control. Suits, corner office, barking at assistants. But you come to me and beg to be stripped down and spanked like a disobedient schoolboy."

His body tensed—humiliated, aroused, helpless.

Smack.

"Fourteen."

"Why do you need this?" her voice was silky, innocent, wondering mockingly. 

"Because I need someone to take it all away," he said, voice barely audible. "To make me feel small. To make the world stop spinning."

Smack.

"Fifteen."

She stroked his burning skin, just once, before gripping a fistful of his hair and tilting his face to glance at hers. Icy composure. Perfect lipstick. No pity.

"And who do you belong to when you're like this?"

"You," he gasped.

"And what are you going to say when I make you cry for me?"

"...Thank you."

Another fleshy slap.

"Sixteen."

She smiled faintly, satisfied but far from done. "That’s right, darling. We’re just getting started."

Her palm lingered on the swell of his ass, skin flushed and hot beneath her touch. His breath came in shallow bursts now, hips subtly shifting with every teasing pause. He was holding on—barely.

She let her fingers drift, trailing down the curve she’d reddened so expertly. Her nail skimmed just along the cleft, feather-light. He twitched.

“Still such a mess,” she murmured, almost idly. “And yet... you keep presenting yourself like this. Back arched. Mouth panting. Just waiting for me to touch you.”

She let her finger circle lower, teasing the rim—just barely brushing.

His head jerked up. “Please.” It came out strangled, eager. “Please. I want it. I need it—you.”

“Oh?” Her voice purred with delight. “You want me there now?”

He nodded, pressing back into her touch without shame. “Please, Ma’am.”

She spit softly into her fingers and returned, pushing gently, slowly. His muscles tensed, then opened for her with a need so raw it was almost sweet.

But then—her brow furrowed. Something met her fingertip. Smooth. Artificial.

She stilled.

His breath hitched, but not in alarm—in desperation. “Don’t stop,” he whispered. “Please—just—spank me, please—”

She pulled her hand back, inspecting her fingers subtly as if nothing had happened. Her palm came down hard.

Smack.

“Count.”

“Seventeen!” he gasped, shuddering, barely able to keep his knees from collapsing.

She resumed her rhythm, one hand raining down stinging punishment, the other ghosting between impacts—light touches, gentle circles, back to his entrance. But her mind stayed fixed on that strange resistance.

There was something inside him. Something he'd put there before she arrived.

Smack.

“Eighteen!” he cried.

She leaned in close, lips nearly brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Did my good little finance boy play with himself before I got here?”

He shivered violently, breath catching. “Yes.”

She let her voice harden—low and sharp like the crack of her palm.

Smack.

“Nineteen.”

“You’re filth,” she said, not unkindly. “Beautiful, desperate filth.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he whispered, back arched again, ready for more.

Her hand settled gently across the flushed skin of his backside, a moment’s grace that felt more like coiled threat than relief. His shoulders were heaving, damp with sweat, but he didn’t plead for mercy.

She let her fingers trace down again—soft this time, dragging through the cleft with the teasing rhythm of a thought half-formed. He arched under the touch, eager, offering himself without hesitation.

“Still want more?” she murmured.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he gasped, pushing back into her fingers.

She rewarded him with a slow press—her fingertip slick with her own spit—circling his entrance. He moaned openly now, shameless, nearly undone by the sensation alone.

But as she slipped just the tip of her finger inside, she paused.

Loosened. Willing. Expectant.

She smiled, unseen.

“Oh, such a good boy,” she murmured. Her free hand slid into the pocket of her blazer—still buttoned, still crisp—retrieving a small foil packet she’d brought with no announcement. Her movements were efficient, practiced.

He wouldn’t even notice. Not yet.

As her palm landed hard against one cheek—smack—her other hand worked lower. He cried out, “Twenty!” not realizing the cold, small suppository was already pressing at his entrance.

It slid in with ease.

Smack.

“Twenty-one!”

His hips bucked, but only from the sting. He didn’t know. Not yet. She rubbed in gentle circles again, following the same rhythm, and pressed the second one in behind the first.

“Still want to be my good boy?” she asked, almost conversational.

“Yes,” he whimpered.

“Then you’ll take everything I give you.”

Another spank—twenty-two—and her hand returned to his lower back, grounding him.

In ten minutes, maybe less, the first would melt. He’d start to feel it then. The warmth. The urgency. The betrayal of his own body.

But by then, she'd have him kneeling at her feet, flushed with more than just shame and arousal.

By then, he’d be hers completely.