Secretary
day 1. |kinktober masterlist| - dom/sub play Summary: When a small mistake at work lands you in Clark Kent’s office, he decides to teach you a lesson in discipline. Pairing: Dom Clark Kent x sub reader Tags/cw: 18+ mdni dom/sub play, impact play - spanking, arm spreader bar, punishment, meanie clark, reader refers to clark as "sir" & "mr.kent", clark calls reader "good girl" once, reader crawling. W.c: 2k A/n: This is pretty much those scenes in secretary (2002), but w/clark lol
The newsroom was unusually quiet for once, the clacking of typewriters replaced with the low hum of city traffic outside the window. You sat at your desk outside Clark Kent’s office, shuffling through the stack of documents he’d asked you to file. Except one of them was wrong.
You’d typed the wrong date on an article draft, and Perry White had caught it before it went to print. The mistake was small, but in the newsroom, small mistakes were loud. Perry’s voice had been sharp, his temper boiling, and the humiliation burned in your chest.
Clark hadn’t said a word then. He’d only adjusted his glasses, eyes flicking to yours with something unreadable.
“Inside,” he’d said afterward, his voice low and calm, but carrying weight.
Now you sat in his office, the door shut behind you, your hands folded in your lap. He stood by the window, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. Even without looking at you, he seemed to fill the room. “You’re better than this,” he said finally, turning to face you. His voice was steady, but the edge in it made your stomach twist. “I don’t tolerate sloppiness in my office. Do you understand?”
You swallowed, nodding. “Yes, Mr. Kent.”
His brows furrowed, like your meekness wasn’t enough. “Look at me.”
You lifted your eyes to his, the intensity behind the lenses making your breath catch. He leaned against his desk, close enough that you could see the faintest shadow of stubble on his jaw. “I’m not Perry,” he said, softer now. “I don’t yell. But I do expect you to learn.”
Your cheeks burned, words fumbling in your throat. “I- I’ll do better.”
Clark tilted his head, studying you, as he took a seat in his office chair. Then, with a calmness that sent a shiver down your spine, he patted his thigh. “Come here.”
Your breath hitched. “Sir?”
“You made a mistake,” he said simply. “Mistakes have consequences. Over my lap.”
Heat flooded your body at his words. The authority in his tone left no room for argument. Your legs felt weak as you stood, moving toward him. When he guided you down, your stomach pressed against his thigh, his large hand steady at your hip, the other brushing down your spine.
The first smack landed sharp across your ass, the sound echoing in the office. You gasped, the sting spreading through you, mixing with something hotter that curled low in your belly. Clark’s hand lingered over the spot he’d just struck, warm and grounding. “Count for me.”
“O-One,” you breathed, clutching at the fabric of his trousers.
The second strike came, firmer.
“Two…”
By the fourth, your thighs pressed together instinctively, your face hot against his leg. The mixture of shame, arousal, and relief tangled inside you until you couldn’t tell them apart. Clark’s hand smoothed over the curve of your ass, his touch gentle now. “Do you understand why?”
“Yes, Mr. Kent.” Your voice trembled.
“And are you going to be more careful?”
“Yes, sir.”
His hand pressed reassuringly against your back. “Good girl.” The words lit something in you that no reprimand ever had. You’d messed up. You’d been corrected. And now, you felt lighter, your heart racing, body thrumming with heat.
Clark guided you back to your feet, straightening your skirt for you like nothing about this was out of place. But the look in his eyes said otherwise, that this was only the beginning.
_
The office was quiet again the next morning, the memory of yesterday’s punishment still burning faintly in your skin. You’d barely slept, not from shame, but from the strange, dizzying thrill of it. Clark Kent’s calm authority, the way he’d made you count, the gentleness that followed the sting, it lingered in your mind like perfume.
Today, you’d been meticulous. Every article proofread twice, every form perfect, every draft without a single error. Clark had asked for the finished work on his desk by noon. You finished it well before then.
But instead of simply placing the neat stack of papers on his desk, you found yourself sinking to your knees just outside his office door. Heart racing, you pushed the door open with your shoulder. Clark was at his desk, glasses low on his nose, typing with steady precision. His eyes flicked up. Then froze.
You crossed the room on your knees, folders balanced carefully in your mouth, gaze fixed on him. Your lipstick left the faintest mark on the manila cover. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the clack of his typewriter keys stopping.
Slowly, Clark leaned back in his chair, his jaw tightening. The muscle in his cheek ticked as he watched you crawl the last few feet and place the work carefully on his desk, mouth first. You sat back on your heels, looking up at him through your lashes, breath coming shallow.
“Everything’s perfect this time, Mr. Kent.”
His glasses slid further down his nose as he stared at you, something dark and unreadable in his expression. One large hand covered his mouth briefly, as if to rein himself in, but the low rumble in his voice betrayed him. “You think this is funny?” he asked, quiet, dangerous.
You shook your head quickly. “No, sir.”
His hand came down on the papers, fingers spreading across your flawless work. “You’re testing me,” he said, more to himself than to you.
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, lips parting.
For a moment, silence hung thick between you. Then Clark leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was gravel. “You want me to lose control in this office? To forget I’m your boss and not-” He cut himself off, nostrils flaring. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
Your lips curled into a small, dangerous smile. “I do.” Clark’s chair scraped back suddenly, his height looming as he stood. He rounded the desk in two long strides, his shadow falling over you where you knelt. His hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up toward him, the faintest growl in his throat.
“You’re going to make me ruin you,” he muttered, thumb brushing your bottom lip where the paper had pressed.
And so God help you, that’s exactly what you wanted.
_
Clark was quiet the next day, more unreadable than usual. You’d thought maybe he’d let yesterday’s… stunt slide. But when you arrived at your desk, there it was waiting for you: a polished wooden bar with leather straps fixed at each end. You froze, heat rising in your cheeks.
Clark appeared moments later, tie perfectly knotted, glasses in place, looking every bit the picture of modest professionalism. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t smile. He simply picked up the bar, weighed it in his hands, then held it out to you.
“Arms,” he instructed, voice calm but unyielding. Your heart pounded as you obeyed, extending your arms so he could secure the straps around your wrists. Once fastened, the bar locked your arms slightly out at your sides, pulling your shoulders back, chest forward.
Your body instantly felt exposed, posture forced into perfect submission. Clark adjusted the straps, tugging them snug before stepping back to admire his work. “Better,” he murmured, like he was pleased with how you looked.
Then, without explanation, he set a fresh stack of newspapers on your desk. “Organize them. One pile by headline category. Neat and accurate.”
You blinked. “Yes, sir.”
The task was simple enough if you hadn’t been bound. With the bar fixed across your arms, reaching and stacking were clumsy, your movements awkward. Every time you bent forward, the bar shifted, tugging at your shoulders, pressing against your back so your blouse stretched tighter, buttons popping and exposing your cleavage and lace bra.
You knew Clark saw. His office door was open just enough. You could feel his gaze every time you fumbled a page or had to twist awkwardly to line up the piles. At one point, you dropped an entire section. Pages fluttered to the floor.
Heat burned your face as you crouched to gather them, the bar forcing your arms apart so you had to bend low, skirt pulling tight across your thighs. From inside his office, Clark’s voice rumbled low: “Careful.”
The single word made your breath hitch. By the time you finished, the piles were perfect, not a page out of place. But you were flushed, your back sore from the forced posture, your entire body humming from the slow humiliation of it.
Clark finally emerged, looming over your desk. He picked up one of the neatly stacked piles, flipping through it with deliberate calm. His eyes lifted to yours, dark behind his glasses. “You see what happens when you take your time?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Kent,” you whispered.
He leaned down, one large hand braced on the bar across your arms, tilting you back slightly so you had no choice but to look up at him. His mouth curved the faintest bit. “Good, you're learning,” he said, voice low enough only you could hear. The praise sent a shiver down your spine, and suddenly, you didn’t mind the bar one bit.
The newsroom had emptied for lunch, the usual clamor of phones and chatter fading until only the hum of the lights remained. The silence wrapped around you like a dare. The papers you’d been tasked with organizing sat perfectly stacked on your desk. Neat, precise, flawless. You’d checked them twice, wanting no excuse for another reprimand.
Still strapped into the bar, your arms pinned out stiffly, you rose from your chair. The leather creaked faintly as you picked up the stack, awkward in your grip. Your chest rose higher with the strain, breath shallow as you walked toward Clark’s office. The door was closed. You hesitated, balancing the work between your fingers and palms, before nudging it open with your hip.
Clark looked up from behind his desk, glasses catching the light. His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze swept over you slowly, the bar across your arms, the neat stack held awkwardly in your bound grip, the flush already creeping up your neck into your expression.
You stepped forward and placed the work down on his desk. You had to bend more than usual, the bar forcing you to lean in. The papers landed neatly in front of him, your lipstick faintly smudged against the top page where you’d steadied it with your mouth on the way in.
Clark’s eyes lingered on that mark. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. He simply set his pen down and leaned back in his chair, studying you in silence. “Presentable,” he said finally, voice low. “Very.”
Your stomach tightened at the praise. “Thank you, Mr. Kent.” His gaze sharpened, a faint heat behind the glass of his lenses. He reached out and dragged one finger along the edge of the stack, slow, deliberate. Then his eyes lifted to yours.
“On your knees.”
The words dropped like a stone. Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, legs folding as you sank to the carpet at his feet. The bar pulled your arms awkwardly, keeping you open, your chest thrust forward, your breathing shallow.
Clark leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees as he loomed over you. One large hand slid under your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. “You wanted this,” he murmured, voice like velvet with an edge of steel. “You wanted to be… tested.”
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.
His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, eyes dark with restraint. “And now? Do you want to be rewarded?”
The ache between your thighs throbbed at the question, heat burning in your cheeks. You nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Kent.”
Clark’s lips quirked at the corners, the barest shadow of a smile, one that promised he’d give, but only when he decided you’d earned it.
“How’s your focus now?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.
You swallowed, breath shaky. “Better, sir.”
“Mm.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses, lips twitching with the faintest smirk. “We’ll see. Keep it on until you finish the White story. Then bring it to me.”
The implication was clear; bring it to him the way you had before. On your knees.
And suddenly, deadlines had never felt so thrilling.
