I am Italian and came to this country about two years ago to work for a firm which imports artificial furs from Italy, so my ability to speak and type both languages is a great help. Shortly after I had started I was very silly. I started to cheat the stamp money - taking some for myself and writing in that some more had been used - sometimes I took œ5 or œ6 a week.
My boss found out what I was doing because he thought we could not be sending so many letters. He told me I would have to go. But if I lost the job I would have to go back to Italy, I thought, as it was conditional on you having a job. So I begged him to let me stay. He was fairly easily persuaded - efficient bilingual typists are not so easy to replace - but insisted on an alternative punishment. I finally agreed to let him cane me.
He explained to me that in England naughty little boys and girls were punished with a cane either on their hands or their bottoms. I said that I was not a little girl. Mr Greene looked at my large bust and said: 'No, I can see that, Maria!' He said he was bearing that in mind and would punish me much more severely than he would his schoolgirl daughter. He said he would give me one stroke for each year of my age. He asked me how old I was. I said 18, which was the lowest I dared to go, but unfortunately he checked my job application letter which he had filed away and which showed my date of birth. I was 24.
Mr Greene seemed quite amused but was determined. I was to get twenty four strokes of the cane. He said that he thought that number was too much to be given on one occasion, especially as I'd never been caned before, but he said that the next day would be a convenient time for the first instalment, as we would then be the only people in the office. He said that he would give me half then and the rest next Monday, when he would arrange for us to be left alone again. I was quite worried now about what I had committed myself to, but I knew that if reported I would almost certainly be deported. I asked him whether he would cane my hands. He said that he wanted me to type so it couldn't be on my hands and must be on my bottom. He told me to wear my rust-brown trousers to work the next day. They were tight-fitting and I had noticed Mr Greene eyeing my behind admiringly the last time I had worn them.
That evening I told Tony, my boyfriend, what had happened and what I had agreed to. He said that I deserved it and that it would teach me a lesson. He had been to school in England and had had the cane. He had never got more than six strokes and the last time was when he was fourteen. He was obviously excited at the prospect of me getting the cane. Then he became more sympathetic and kissed me while his hands ran down my back to caress my soon-to-be-caned bottom. He told me to be brave and that it would hurt but it would soon be over. He said he would rub cold cream onto my bottom afterwards to ease the sting if I wanted it.
Next day I arrived for work early, very apprehensive and wearing the brown trousers as Mr Greene had told me. Lying on the typewriter when I arrived was the cane. It was brown, with a bent handle. I picked it up to examine it. It was quite heavy and was surprisingly flexible for its thickness. I measured it and it was 77cm from its tip to the beginning of the handle.
Mr Greene came out from his office just as I was looking at the cane trying to guess just how painful it would feel. I had imagined the caning would happen after work, but he had other ideas. He said: 'Right, let's get this over, Maria.' He said he was glad to see I had decided to accept his punishment and had put the trousers on as he had asked. I was surprised when he asked me what I had on underneath, and did not answer, though I felt myself blushing. He said I could only have one layer of clothes and must go to the Ladies, take off my panties and put my trousers back on with nothing underneath.
When I came back he asked me to show him the panties as proof and then he picked up the cane and told me to bend over the chair, holding onto its seat. I felt the cane rest across the middle of my bottom, then it was drawn away and I waited for the first stroke. I was terribly embarrassed as I fidgeted nervously, waiting for the punishment to begin. But when it did I forgot that and could only think of the pain in my poor bottom.
I had not even come close to imagining the intense biting sting of the cane. I wanted to be brave but I couldn't help jumping upright, clutching my bottom. Through the thin material I could already feel a weal already forming. Mr Greene allowed me to rub myself for a few seconds and then told me to bend over again.
Now I knew better what to expect and I gritted my teeth and tensed myself. I managed to remain bent over for the next few strokes but yelled at each one and I was crying. He paused along time before each stroke and each time took careful aim, resting the cane across my bottom first. After six strokes he had covered the whole area of my bottom and I felt as though I had sat in a bowl of sulphuric acid.
Then he started to concentrate on the lower part of my bottom. The pain as the cane landed over existing welts was unbearable and once again I jumped up and twisted round and tearfully begged Mr Greene to stop. But he was determined and eventually I had to bend over again. I straightened again several times - I wanted any respite I could get - and Mr Greene had to hold me down for the last three or four strokes which were probably not as hard as the others but still hurt like hell-fire on my weal-covered bottom.
When Mr Greene told me I could get up I was sobbing like a baby. My hands went to the seat of my trousers as I instinctively tried to abate that terrible pain. But even the gentlest touch on my tender bottom sent spasms of excruciating agony coursing through my body. Mr Greene folded me in his arms as I stood there trembling, sobbing my heart out and hardly knowing where I was and gently kissed my cheek. Then he went back to his office, taking the cane, and left me alone 'to pull myself together.'
For more than a quarter of an hour I stood there leaning on my desk crying my eyes out. My bottom was a blaze of fire and my whole body ached. My throat was sore from shouting and my eyes from crying. I felt quite sick. Apart from the constant agonising sting in my bottom there were sharp bursts of increased pain from time to time which caused me to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out loud.
Eventually I dried my tears and tried to tidy my face and hair up and get back to normal. I took deep breaths and tried to think of anything but the pain in my bottom.
Mr Greene came out and gave me some work to do, and in the end I started to type - standing up! It was very slow but I tried to concentrate to take my mind off the stinging. At lunch time Mr Greene told me to take the rest of the day off. The Tube was relatively empty at that time, but I remained standing! At home I threw myself stomach-down on my bed and just sobbed into the pillows. I stayed there a long time and then, when I was feeling a little better, got up and made myself some sandwiches to eat.
Then I summoned enough courage to take off my trousers and look at my poor bottom. I carefully eased the tight trousers down over my swollen bottom cheeks and gasped at the sight of my bruised and wealed behind. I changed into a skirt and made myself up ready for Tony, who was due at eight o'clock. I did not put any panties on, however.
As soon as Tony saw me he could obviously tell that I'd gone through with it. He came in and hugged me tightly saying: 'Oh, you poor baby.' He had remembered the cream. He sat down on the bed and told me to lie face down over his knees. Then he turned up my skirt and 'inspected the damage'. He was impressed. 'Wow! He really laid that on hard, Maria!' Then, slowly and rhythmically, he rubbed the cold cream across my bottom, covering the whole area very tenderly and carefully. I could feel his 'horn' rising as he did this and soon we were in bed rather than on it and what happened then almost made up for the caning!
The next day my bottom was still very painful but Mr Greene thoughtfully provided me with a cushion to sit on and the other people in the office did not seem to notice anything unusual, although I wriggled and squirmed constantly and muttered Italian swear words under my breath.
Next Monday was a repeat performance, but even more painful as my bottom was still tender and wealed from the first caning. Once more Tony provided some comfort afterwards. Later that week Mr Greene told me that I'd been very brave and offered me a large increase in salary on condition that I would accept corporal punishment for any future misbehaviour or negligence, though never again so severe. After some thought, and discussion with Tony, I agreed.
Since then I have been caned on several occasions. It has only been six strokes most times, although twice I have got eight and once ten. The canings usually take place after work and over what I happen to be wearing. I started to wear jeans to the office about a year ago, but my jean-clad behind must have looked too attractive to Mr Greene as whenever I wore jeans he would find some reason for caning me. There is no doubt that denim jeans do provide greater protection than those rust-brown trousers, but 'six of the best' from Mr Greene's cane, even over jeans and panties, still hurts and I am unable to sit properly for at least an hour.
However for minor things like typing mistakes or forgetting to bring in tea for clients, etc., I am more often smacked with a slipper. Mr Greene makes me bend down and smacks my bottom with a large leather slipper. This makes a loud noise but does not hurt so much, although it can do if he does it for a long time.
Recently, especially when I where trousers, he will slipper me (about ten whacks each side is typical) and, before the last two whacks, mark a large 'X' on the slipper with chalk. Then, after the final whacks, which are usually the hardest, the seat of my trousers or skirt is clearly marked with two large 'X's.
Only once have I been punished in front of a witness. This was when a customer complained that I had been rude to him over the telephone and had not passed his message on to Mr Greene properly. Unfortunately for me he was a close friend of Mr Greene and he invited him to see me 'dealt with'.
It was summer and I was wearing a thin cotton dress over a pair of scanty briefs. Exceptionally, Mr Greene made me lift the dress up out of the way and caned me very hard, with just my flimsy panties as protection. He gave me five strokes and I was already in tears. Then he handed the cane to his friend who gave my scantily clad bottom the final stroke.
I jumped two feet into the air after that whack! - never, before or since, has one stroke hurt me that much. Mr Greene told me later that the man had been headmaster of a boys' school and had caned dozens of boys. He certainly knew how to handle a cane! He still phones up or comes in sometimes, and I always turn bright red at the sound of his voice.