‘Right, Poppy, let’s have your jeans off.’
She put the cane down on the desk and Poppy’s heart began to lurch chaotically in her ribcage. She looked at the door, one eye on escape, but she knew there was none.
Why not, though?
Surely she could just say, ‘Sorry, but I’ll pass,’ and leave. Nothing was stopping her. It would mean losing the job, but at this stage, the job was low on her list of priorities, a long way after survival and sex.
Poppy unzipped and dropped her jeans, then realised that she would have difficulty pulling them over her boots.
‘It’s OK,’ said Allyson. ‘You can leave them like that.’
She pointed at the chair Poppy had been sitting on.
‘Bend over it, hands gripping the sides of the seat, bum up.’
Poppy obeyed, feeling the cotton of her knickers stretch over her rump.
Allyson walked up behind her and caressed her bottom cheeks, sending furious, itchy heat to her pussy.
‘Miss Sensible-Knickers,’ she teased. ‘Pack of seven, was it?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ Was that what Emma had called her?
‘Good. Fast learner. Let’s see what you learn from this. Hold tight.’
At least Allyson wasn’t going to make her take her knickers down, thought Poppy. They might give her a tiny bit of protection.
But when the cane swished down and bit into her, she realised how misguided this assumption had been.
She leapt to her feet, clutching her behind, wailing in pain and confusion.
‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ said Allyson, with steely satisfaction. ‘Five more. Back down now.’
‘I can’t,’ pleaded Poppy.
‘No? Then you know what you have to do. Emma!’
‘No! No, I’ll try.’
Even as she bent back down, Poppy wondered if she’d gone mad. That first stroke had been purest agony. Five more couldn’t possibly be tolerated.
She didn’t take them well.
She jumped up each time, and even made for the door at one point, but something kept bringing her back, something kept her bent over the chair, waiting for another bar of exquisite pain to be laid across her bottom.
Marks of war. Marks of shame. Marks of pride.
It felt like a rite of passage.
‘That’s five. One more, sweetheart. You’re doing well. I didn’t take more than three, my first time. And Em screamed the place down, didn’t you, darling? Oh, sorry, I forgot. Anyway. Speaking of Emma – come out of the corner, love. I want you to give the sixth stroke.’
Emma wouldn’t hurt her. Emma was her friend.
‘And I think we’ll take down her knickers, just for this last one. Ooh, look.’