The Summer Intern Begged to Be Punished, and I Obliged.

My name is Caleb Hart. Thirty-six. CEO of a mid-cap fintech company in a glass tower downtown Toronto. Six-foot-two, tailored suits, gym six days a week. I run the place with a calm voice and an iron hand. Everyone knows the rules. Everyone follows them. Except when they don’t.

Sophie Chen. Twenty-two. Summer intern from U of T. Smart, ambitious, quiet in meetings. Long black hair, almond eyes, body that made pencil skirts look obscene—slim waist, full breasts, legs that went on forever. She’d been eye-fucking me since week one: lingering looks across the conference table, “accidental” brushes in the break room, bending over the copier in skirts too short for office policy.

I pretended not to notice.

I noticed everything.

Friday night. Everyone gone by 7 p.m. except her. Lights dimmed. Floor empty. I stayed late reviewing Q3 projections. She knocked at 9:15.

“Mr. Hart? Still here?”

“Always.” I didn’t look up. “You should go home.”

She stepped in. Closed the door. Locked it. Click loud in the silence.

“I wanted to… discuss my performance review.”

I finally looked. She wore a white blouse—top two buttons undone—and a black skirt that barely covered her thighs. No stockings. Heels. Hair down.

“Sit.”

She didn’t sit. Walked to my desk. Bent over it—ass up, hands braced on the glass surface. Skirt rode up. Black lace thong visible.

Pulse spiked. I stood. Walked behind her. Slow.

“You know this is against every policy.”

“I know.” Voice soft. Challenging. “Punish me.”

I grabbed her hips. Yanked the skirt higher. Slapped her ass—hard. Sharp crack echoed. She gasped. Pushed back.

“Quiet. Security might hear.”

“Let them.”

Another slap. Harder. Red bloom on her skin. She moaned low.

I pulled the thong aside. She was soaked. Dripping.

“You’ve been wet for me all summer.”

“Yes, sir.”

I dropped my pants. Cock out—thick, hard, ready. Rubbed the head against her entrance. Teased.

“Beg.”

“Please… fuck me, sir. Use me. Punish me.”

I slammed in—deep, brutal. She cried out. Hand over her mouth.

Fucked her bent over the desk—fast, relentless. Glass surface fogged with breath. Papers slid. Monitor shook. Her ass bounced with every thrust. Breasts spilled from the blouse.

Slapped her again. Pulled her hair. She pushed back, matching rhythm.

“Take it, Sophie. Take every inch like the good little intern you are.”

She came first—shuddering, clenching, soaking my cock, thighs trembling. Muffled scream against my palm.

I didn’t stop. Flipped her onto her back. Legs over my shoulders. Pounded—hard, deep. Blouse ripped open. Breasts bounced. Nipples hard. Eyes rolled back.

She came again—loud, shaking, nails digging into my arms.

“Cum inside me… please, sir… fill your intern.”

Buried deep. Exploded—thick ropes flooding her while she trembled beneath me.

We stayed locked. Breathing ragged. Sweat slick. My cock still twitching.

Pulled out slow. Watched cum drip onto the desk. She sat up. Kissed me—deep, submissive.

“Monday?” she whispered.

I grinned. “Every Friday. Wear the red thong.”

She fixed her blouse. Left first.

I wiped the desk. Sat back down. Reviewed projections like nothing happened.

Some offices run on spreadsheets.

Some run on secrets.