Irritated, believing someone deserved punishment.

I marched into the kitchen, my cheeks remaining a bright shade of crimson. The BBC looked at me with a raised eyebrow, seeming unsure of what was going on.

"You good?" He asked bluntly. Placing a pot onto the stove, he approached me.

"No! Some fucking weirdo decided to cup my ass like a disgusting pervert!" You shout, letting out your anger. "I wasn't paid to deal with this kinda shit!"

The BBC's originally warm expression went cold, his eyes resting on yours with a cold, painful look. "One, you haven't been paid. Two, I don't care. It isn't my problem. If some customer wants to touch you, fucking let him. You have no idea how much they pay for the food and service here so I think you should shut your fucking gob and deal with it, understood? Now, I agree that he's a creep and it ain't right to touch a waitress, but this ain't your normal restaurant. Three, don't make a scene like that again."

As you open your mouth to start speaking, he grabs your wrist and drags you into the locker room, pushing you onto a bench face-down. Without any sense of remorse, he raises your skirt and yanks down your panties. He sighs as you try to wriggle free, feeling one hand grip your neck and **** you to stay still. With his other hand, he smacks your ass.

"I want you to count each hit. For each smack, I want you to say sorry, understood?" He says coldly. You nod helplessly and feel his hand smack your ass again.

SMACK!

"O-one! I'm sorry!"

SMACK!

"Two! Sorry!"

SMACK!

"Th-three! I'm sorry, sir!"

SMACK!

"F-four! I'm sorry!"

SMACK!

"Five! I'm sorry!" You feel his grip on your neck weaken and his hand pulls away. He sighs, stands and walks out of the locker room.

"Finish your job, faggot." You hear him mutter.

Getting up and adjusting your clothes, you realise that you had gotten an erection. You sigh and try to take your mind off things by thinking about work.