‘He?’
‘You look up at the windows. There is movement behind an upstairs curtain. You are being watched.
‘The night is chilly and you feel the draught travel up beneath your brief skirt as you reach up to remove the knickers. You pull them down awkwardly, holding your skirt pressed to your thighs with your forearms so that the motion is stiff and tricky and you almost fall sideways, but eventually the knickers are off and you hand them to the taxi driver with a sulky grimace.
‘He feels the gusset between thumb and finger.
‘“Damp,” he says with a grin, then he takes a good long sniff. “He’ll like you.”
‘Fear replaces your outrage.
‘“Who is he? What is this place?”
‘“Go in. You’ll soon find out.”
‘He watches you from the side of the taxi while you try to ascend the steps without letting your tiny skirt ride up and show him your bum – not an easy task.
‘There is no doorbell, nor a knocker, but when you touch one of the wooden panels of the door it swings open and you step into a large, empty hall.
‘You look around at the curving staircase, the parquet tiles, the handsome coat and umbrella stands, the antique desks and furnishings. A vase of lilies stands on a table at the foot of the stairs and you are drawn to its heavy fragrance.
‘“Stand still and put your hands on your head.” The voice comes from the top of the stairs.
‘You are still carrying the envelope, so it flaps over your hands as you stand waiting and watching me descend. When I reach the bottom, I ask you to hand over the envelope, which you do, before returning to your commanded stance.
‘I open it and read.
‘“I see,” I say and you search my face for a clue to your fate. You see nothing. “Walk into the room to your right, please.”
‘You walk, hands still on your head, through a set of double doors into a large, high-ceilinged room. In the doorway, you stop short until I nudge you forward with a hand between your shoulder blades. The room is full of people. People you know. People you have sinned against, lied to, insulted, cheated.
‘“You’ll see that we were having a meeting,” I tell you. “A meeting all about you. We care about you, AtYourService. We want what’s best for you, just as the courts do. We are here to see that your sentence is served.”
‘You turn to face me, agitated. “What’s my sentence?”
‘“You are to carry out your compulsory work order here, in my service, performing required domestic tasks in that tiny little uniform dress of yours and completing them to my high standards. In between the scrubbing of floors and peeling of potatoes, you are to report three times a day to my office for a scheduled spanking.”
‘“A what?” You are aghast. Nobody has ever dared to touch a hair of your naughty little head until today.
‘“A scheduled spanking, the severity of which will depend on your attitude. The sentence will end when I am sincerely convinced of your improved behaviour and self-control.”
‘“I won’t!” you cry, looking for a way out. “I refuse to accept this!”
‘“You have no choice. The alternative is life imprisonment. Before that part of your sentence begins, there is one additional element, which we will deal with now.”
‘I take your arm and lead you to a tall stool in the centre of the room.
‘“Bend over the stool now. In front of these witnesses, all of whom have been wronged by you, you will receive 12 hard strokes of the cane.”
‘“I can’t ?
??” Your horror is strong, but you are slowly realising that there is no point resisting me. Not now, at any rate. You vow revenge, you determine to plot your escape, but for the moment you must bend in acquiescence.’
I am gasping. My clit is so fat now and my fingers so slicked that I consider removing the hand from my bra and typing a desperate one-handed plea for relief. But I don’t want to miss the caning. God, no, I don’t want to miss that.
‘You place yourself over the padded seat of the stool. I call for one of your victims to bring me the senior school cane from the rack – one of my heaviest, it packs an almighty sting and leaves raised, deep red marks on those unfortunate enough to feel its weight. Your skirt is halfway up your rear cheeks, exposing the underhang and your tight cleft behind, but I push it all the way up to your waist, so no part of your vulnerable bottom is hidden to the audience. They make appreciative noises and lean forward, hungry for your pain.
‘“Before I use this cane,” I tell them, “I would like each one of you to come forward and lay a good strong smack on AtYourService’s behind. Is that OK? One each, but make it a good one.” They queue up, all 23 of them, men and women, old and young, all known to you, some very well known. Each one spanks your arse hard, some of them wordlessly, others speaking to you as they mark your cheek with their handprint.