Filming the ambassador

Monday, 14th June

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Why is life never easy?

Everything seemed to be going smoothly: filming planned for Friday, Sir James’s place ready for us to use, the usual cameraman and sound engineer booked, the script written, Henry ready to dole out the punishment, and Amanda lined up to be the unhappy recipient.

And we’ve worked with Amanda before. Four times, maybe? She’s always been one of the more popular actresses in the videos, and she certainly takes a spanking as well as anyone in the business.

And then she calls me, 10.30 this morning: “Sorry, Simon. I’m going to have to back out of Friday.”

I could have screamed. Turns out she has a new boyfriend, who found out about her film career over the weekend, and is none too happy about his beloved stripping off in front of the cameras and having her backside tanned. Stupid man… you’d think he would feel some sort of pride in knowing the pleasure his girlfriend gives to so many.

I mean, it’s not as if we’re some cheapskate amateur outfit: the whole set-up is totally professional. Professional actresses, professional crews, professionally-written scripts. Damn it, I’m a bloody professional myself – six years of a fast-track graduate traineeeship at the BBC, tipped for higher things, until I decided I wanted to do something a bit… well, different. Lucrative, too.

I’ve been phoning round all day, seeing whether any of our other actresses are free, but none of them seems to be available. Natasha made me laugh, mind, as always – “I’d love to help, Simon, but I’m working for the Royal Shakespeare Company at the moment,” – and she giggled – “and there’s some nudity involved. I don’t really think Stratford audiences are quite ready yet to see a leading lady with a striped backside!”

I haven’t told any of the others in the company, yet. They’re all annoyed enough with me as it is following last week’s argument. They just cannot understand that not all of our customers want to see really hard punishments on very video, and that this one needs to be a bit gentler. Henry’s comment still rankles, though: “You’re going soft, Simon.” And then Sir James’ hardly-veiled threat: “We trust your judgement, of course, Simon, but we have to make sure we all play as a team.”

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

Tuesday, 15th June

Salvation may be at hand!

I run an advert in The Stage occasionally: “Attractive and brave young actresses wanted for video work.” Suitably cryptic, to try to get a decent set of replies from potential starlets who might be too embarrassed to circle anything blunter in their copy of the paper!

Our follow-up letter weeds out most of the candidates, mind you….

“Dear X,

Thank you for replying to our advertisement.

Our company specialises in the production of videos for the British and international market dealing with the topic of spanking and discipline.

We are always keen to recruit new actresses to star in these, who should meet the following criteria:

(a) aged between 18 and 25;

(b) physically attractive;

(c) good acting skills – drama school study or qualification preferred;

(d) comfortable with appearing naked on camera;

(e) willing to receive strong corporal punishment on camera.

We pay competitively, in cash, and also cover all expenses. Filming usually takes place in Southern England, and lasts at most half a day.

If you are interested in appearing in one of our future productions, and meet the above criteria, then please return the enclosed application form, with a recent photograph of yourself, to me at the above address.

Thank you for your interest in our organisation.

Yours sincerely,

Simon Ogilvy

Operations Director.”

 I reckon that I get about 50 replies to each advert; perhaps five of these then send back their forms, one of whom one may then be suitable…. so not a high hit rate. (Well, not a high hit rate ‘’til they’re being caned, that is!).

Anyway… back to my immediate problem. One of the forms that came in this morning could just be what I need… if I can get hold of her in time. Claire Wells. A second-year student at RADA, so she must be pretty talented: they only take the creme de la creme of young actors and actresses. Some film experience with the National Youth Film Company. Oh, and the photo… I get some strange submissions, from time to time: anything from formal studio shots, to full-frontal nudity! Claire’s photo was a snapshot, obviously taken at a party: staring at the camera with a smile on her face, fair haired, thick blue woollen round-necked jumper, her arms wrapped around herself like she was giving herself a cuddle. Lovely. Really lovely.

But could I get hold of her by phone? Bloody students: living in Halls of Residence, shared payphones only. I must have left her about four messages – please call URGENTLY. Had to be slightly reserved in what I said to the people who took the messages: “Simon Ogilvy – following up the application form she sent in.” They asked where I was calling from – “Oh, she’ll know, I’m sure”, was all I said, although it might have been funny to hear their reactions had I said “Serious Punishment Films”!

I wish she’d call back.

Wednesday, 16th June

Finally got hold of Claire at about three this afternoon. She sounded just as nice on the phone as she’d seemed from her application.

I tried to test her out on the phone… “You do realise the type of film that we make, don’t you?” “You are prepared for the fact that these are genuine, strong punishments?” She sounded a bit pensive, but seems to be keen.

Oh, and she’s free on Friday.

She’s coming in for an interview tomorrow morning. 10 o’clock.

Please let her be suitable.

I spent most of the day sorting out the final details for Friday: who needed to be where, when; travel arrangements; making sure the lighting people were going to be there to set up in the morning. Everything, in fact, without admitting to the rest of the company that I did not, as yet, have a leading lady for the film.

PLEASE let her be suitable.

Thursday, 17th June

If you could see the smile on my face as I write this, you would be able to tell immediately how today went.

Wow!

Claire is great – absolutely perfect for what we need, willing to give it a go, available tomorrow… and a lovely, lovely person. I need to watch out here – I could easily find myself wanting to confuse pleasure with business here if I’m not careful. But she is SO nice. And that’s before I even think about how pretty she is.

Her interview – well, we have to have interviews rather than auditions: you can’t really cane every applicant! – went really well. I asked the usual things to get a feel for her background – what acting experience she had (plenty – she seems to have lived on the stage since the age of about 10!), whether she had made any films before (she’s been in several, in small parts), what her course at RADA was like (hard work, but enjoyable).

And then I moved onto some of the more personal questions. Why did she want to take part in the video? Money, it seems: paying the rent in London without a student grant was tough. Did she understand that the punishment would be for real, and that it would probably be very painful? She blushed a bit at this one, and looked downwards, avoiding my eyes: yes she did, and she thought – hoped – she could be brave enough to cope. What would her boyfriend think about it? She blushed even more: “I don’t have one at the moment…. he… I… we split up about a fortnight ago”. (Oh good! No, behave, Simon, control yourself!)

And then: had she ever been spanked or caned before? She hesitated, still avoiding my eyes: “Well I was spanked when I was a girl… like everyone I guess. Not hard – just my Mum, with her hand on the back of my legs, if I was really naughty.” “I can’t imagine you ever being really naughty.” She laughed: “Oh don’t you believe it. And then…” She hesitated. “Go on…” “Well… my last boyfriend…. god, this is embarrassing… sometimes used to put me over his knee when we were in bed and give me a few slaps.”

“And did you enjoy that?” I don’t think I have ever seen anyone blushing so deeply, or so prettily – and then she looked up, straight at me: “Yes. Yes I did, actually. I mean… it never went very far – just a few gentle spanks with his hand. Nothing like I think you would have in mind.”

Next came the bit that often put some girls off. “Claire, you understand that the filming will require total nudity, don’t you?” She nodded. “Have you ever been filmed naked before?” Laughing: “Only with a Polaroid camera.” I must have looked shocked, as she quickly tried to recover: “I mean, only like playing around a bit, just for fun, with a boyfriend a couple of years ago. It wasn’t anything serious.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just… well, this is embarrassing, Claire, but if you’re still interested in the part, I will need to see you undressed.” “What, now?” “Well, yes, really – it’s just: we had a girl once who came to do a film, and when it came to it she couldn’t take off her clothes in front of strangers. And some girls have tattoos in the oddest of places. So now we check in advance.”

“Oh. Right.” And she reached down, kicked off her shoes, crossed her arms and pulled her plain black shirt up and over her head. Next, she stood up, flicked open the button on her shorts and let them fall downwards. God she was beautiful, stood there in her plain black bra and pants. “Do I have to go completely naked?” I nodded. She reached back and unbuttoned her bra, and pulled it forward and clear. Her breasts were lovely: not too large, firm and… well, I didn’t think it was cold in the room: was she enjoying this? And then she reached her hands inside her pants, and lowered them down, stepping out of them, revealing a small patch of dark pubic hair. She turned round: god, her bottom was caneable! And then turned back to face me: “I should feel ashamed doing this, I guess, but I trust you, Simon. Really.”

“Oh… er… thank you. Look – do you have any questions for me?”

“Well…. we haven’t talked about money.”

“Oh, no, sorry. Well: we pay a thousand pounds, in cash, at the end of the filming. Does that seem OK?”

“Yes. Yes, very much so. And… will it REALLY hurt?”

I nodded. “Really, really hurt, I think.”

“Right.”

I suddenly remembered: “You can put your clothes back on, Claire.”

She laughed: “Oh. Yes. Right. I suppose I should!”

As she dressed, I talked her through our standard contract that she would need to sign. “I, ……………, hereby agree to take part in a film know as ………….. I understand that my role will require me to receive corporal punishment, administered to me clothed or naked, using some or all of the following: hand, paddle, hairbrush, belt, tawse, crop, cane, birch, whip. I furthermore understand that full nudity may be required during the filming. I will at all times obey any instructions issued by the film’s director. I hereby grant Serious Punishment Films Limited full rights over the future distribution of this film and images from it, in all formats globally. In return for up to one full days’ participation in the making of this film, on the date of …………, I will be paid the sum of one thousand pounds, plus any legitimate travelling expenses. Signed ………….. (actress) ……………. (for Serious Punishment Films Limited).”

“Seems OK to me. What’s the film called, by the way?” She was now fully dressed again.

“The Ambassador. I’ll give you an outline script before you do, but essentially you play the part of Miss Smith, a young diplomat, fresh out of University, who is sent to a posting overseas, and keeps getting things wrong. And so you get called in to see the Ambassador to be taught a lesson or two. You don’t need to learn any lines – the main actor will lead things: you just need to make sure you absorb the plot and get into the role.”

“Right. I should manage. Mmm… taught a lesson…” she smiled ruefully: “sounds painful. What sort of lesson, exactly?”

“Oh that would be telling. I mean – in real life it would be a surprise for the recipient, so we try and keep it that way when making the films. But it will hurt. A lot.”

She laughed. “You’ve got a mean streak, you have!”

“Not as mean as Henry, who’ll be playing the Ambassador, believe me.”

“Oh.”

Was I going to enjoy this! She seemed so natural, so much fun – and it was going to be interesting to see how well she coped with a punishment. At least this time I had insisted that it was only going to be a mild punishment, not one of Henry’s more infamous sessions: I wasn’t sure Claire could have coped with that, and I liked her too much to want her to have to really suffer.

It took a few more minutes to finish off the admin that needed doing – the contract signed, giving her directionns to the venue, digging out a copy of the script. “And be here at 2 p.m. sharp, OK?” “OK!”

Oh tomorrow is gong to be fun!

Saturday, 19th June

OK, OK, I confess – I didn’t get round to writing up my diary yesterday. I had more important things to keep me occupied. But what a day!

I got to Sir James’ house – well, mansion, more like – just before lunch: it only takes an hour minutes in the MGF from Regent Street, where the office is, to get out into Berkshire. The rest of the crew were there as well, and the morning set up went well. The drawing room benefited from the addition of a few props – a large Union Jack, a painting of Her Majesty, a large map of South America, copies of a few worthy books on the table (Debretts Peerage, and the like).

Sir James had laid on an excellent lunch, as always, with some very fine claret. Over pudding, he turned to me: “Some of the boys are a bit concerned, Simon. They think you’re going soft. Stopping them giving out proper punishments and all that.” “Well, it’s what our customers are asking for, Sir James.” “Well I tell you what, Simon, will you do me a favour?” “Yes, Sir James?”

“Well, today… I understand we’ve got a new girl in, yes?” “Yes.” “Well, let’s give her a proper good hard flogging, eh, see what she’s made of? Then next time round, when we’ve got one of the girls we’ve used before, we can take up your idea and do something gentler.” “Well…” “Good man, that’s settled then. Henry: good proper thrashing for this lass today, you understand? And you’ll have to make it doubly hard… next time you’re just going to be allowed a few gentle love pats.”

Oh damn. Damn, damn, damn. What had I let Claire in for? Funny: I didn’t normally worry about the models… but somehow…

And then she was late. Twenty minutes late. Just long enough for me to have thought that she was going to back out on us. And for the crew to be getting really annoyed. “Friday afternoon, stuck out in Berkshire, the traffic home’s going to be terrible,” etc. etc.

By the time Claire did finally arrive, Henry was furious. Wouldn’t even shake her by the hand: “You’re going to pay for keeping me waiting, young lady. Get a move on.” The butler took her up to the bedroom that had been allocated for her to change into, where a new, neat business suit was laid out for her to wear.

When she had not re-appeared after ten minutes, I went to find her. I knocked. “Come in!” She was just slipping the shoes on. And she look terrified. Really, really terrified. I went over to her: “Are you OK?”

“I’m scared, Simon.” She was shaking. She leant herself against me, and I put an arm round her; she felt small, fragile. “You’ll be OK. And I’ll be here to look after you when it’s over.”

“Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it.”

We went downstairs, and I slipped into the drawing room, standing to the side behind the cameraman, leaving Claire outside talking to the Director. Henry took up his position on the sofa, and the Director walked in. “ACTION”

There was a knock at the door. “ENTER!” And in she came… goodness, she looked good. “You asked to see me, Your Excellency?”

“Yes, Miss Smith, I did. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“How are you finding life in the Diplomatic Service? This is your first posting, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I’m enjoying it, Sir.”

“I’m sure you are. Too much, from what I hear.”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

“Partying ’til all hours, getting into work late, sleeping around.”

“I am NOT. Sleeping around, that is.”

“No? What about Mr. Cassidy, from the American Embassy, then? And young Monsieur Chinon from the French embassy?”

“I have NOT slept with them. I’m not that sort of girl. Anyway, how dare you. It’s none of your business even if I do sleep with them.”

“My dear girl, the behaviour of the staff who work for me is very much my business. As is the fact that the standards of work that certain of them have been submitting is, frankly, shoddy.”

“What? Are you saying my work isn’t up to scratch?” (She sounded genuinely shocked!)

“Yes, my dear, I am. I don’t know whether it’s the late nights, or just that you’re genuinely not up to a career in the diplomatic service, but we are most unimpressed by the quality of the reports that you are writing. And, as Ambassador, it falls to me to take any actions that I deem necessary to correct the problem.”

“Like…?”

Henry paused. “Were you ever flogged at school, my dear?”

“WHAT?”

“Corporal punishment. Was it used at school? Or by your parents?”

“You… you must be joking. This is the 1990s. Are you mad?”

“Me? Mad. Of course not, my dear. But as Her Majesty’s official representative, I have to use whatever methods I feel fit. And in this case, I feel that a good sound whipping is what you need to bring you to your senses.”

“You… but you can’t.”

“Oh, but I can. If you re-read your Guide to Employment as a Diplomat, you will find it under section 23.7 – staff posted overseas must accept whatever measures the Ambassador chooses to employ to ensure a high quality of work and behaviour at all times.” And Henry walked over to the bookcase in the corner of the room, and reached down the side, bringing out a long, thick cane with a curved handle, which he flexed in his hands.

“My god… this is barbaric.”

“Maybe. But it is also effective, my dear. Now… I want you to strip.”

“WHAT?”

“You heard.”

She hesitated.

“NOW!”

Still she paused. And then.. Henry let the cane drop to the floor, grabbed her by her hair, and pulled her across the room towards the long sofa. He sat down, and pulled her over his lap, and tugged at the hem of her skirt. He lifted it up over her back, as she struggled, then grabbed her knickers and pulled them down. “Stop it,” she screamed, kicking out, but Henry lifted his leg up and over the back of her thighs, pinning her down. “Noooooooooo….”

“Now, young lady, as you are not prepared to do this properly, I am going to have to start off by trying to get you under control.” And with this, Henry cracked his hand down across her backside, with all of his might.

“Aaaaaaaaaaargh.” She cried out, and kicked wildly as best she could. “Stop this., Stop it now.” But stop it he did not: Henry continued, spanking her as hard as he could, her sweet backside quickly reddening. Before too long, her cries softened down, and her wriggles ceased, as she resigned herself to the rapid smack, smack, smack of his palm against her buttocks.

After what must have been several minutes of truly fierce slaps, Henry lifted his leg out of the way, and told her to stand up. She did, pulling her knickers up as she did, and straightening her skirt back down.

“Now, my girl. I hope that makes you understand that I mean business?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied, softly, her fighting tone now replaced with a more meek attitude.

“So we can start the REAL punishment now.”

“What… but… I mean… wasn’t that… instead?”

“You must be joking, young lady. Now, I want you to strip, like I asked you to before.”

She looked at him, and there seemed to be genuine fear in her eyes. Slowly, she took off her jacket, and dropped it to the floor. Then she stopped and stared straight at Henry, a look of total defiance crossing her face. And then she started to strip. Not take off her clothes. Strip. Provocatively. Unbuttoning her blouse slowly, sliding it off her shoulders: pushing her hand under her bra, cupping her left breast, then easing the bra forwards and down, the breast falling free and the strap sliding down her upper arm. Them the same for the right breast, then reaching round and unhooking her bra and letting it fall free.

Next, she kicked off her shoes, still staring straight at Henry. Then her skirt – dropped sensuously to the floor. Then her knickers…. hands slid inside the front of them, and pulled down slowly, ’til they rested on her thighs… then she lowered them completely and revealed her completely nude body to Henry. “Is this what you want, Sir? Girls stripping off for you? Is that what you like? Bloody pervert.”

Henry looked annoyed. Furious, in fact. “You little bitch. I told you you were a tart. I couldn’t care less about seeing you naked. All I care about is the standards of this Embassy. I didn’t want some bloody strip-tease. Little whore. You’re going to pay for your insolence, my girl.” He pointed to a large, old red leather armchair. “Bend over that – over the side. I want your backside over one arm, and your head and hands stretched out across it over the other side. And by the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t be doing strip-teases for anyone, I can tell you. Now get over that chair for your flogging. NOW!”

She looked worried again. Had she gone too far? Maybe.. oh god. Slowly, she bent herself over the side arm of the chair, and stretched forward. Her forehead rested on the opposite arm, and her arms reached forward, dangling down towards the floor.

Henry rested the cane across the back of her buttocks, still red from the spanking, and tapped I a couple of times. “This is going to hurt you. A lot. As much as I can hurt you. While I flog you, I want you to stay in position, and count the number of strokes out loud, do you understand me?”

“Yes Sir… Owww!” and she screamed as the first blow landed, hard, straight, directly across the middle of her backside, striping both buttocks. “Oh God, Oh God, Oh…. Oh. One sir.”

“He paused, waiting, the seconds ticking by. Five seconds… ten… fifteen. Then the next stroke. DIRECTLY on top of the first. A cry… then “Two sir.”

Again the pause…. fifteen seconds. This time the cane lifted high above his head, and whipped down, slicing through the air and landing again on exactly the same line across her buttocks. She writhed under the stroke, and quietly muttered “Three.”

The fourth was a repeat…. the pain of these strokes landing one on top of the other must have been unbearable, and this time her count was almost sobbed out, rather than spoken: “Four.”

The next stroke was lower, striping her again, perfectly parallel to the first four. And another three followed, each perfectly on top of the previous one. Her count was almost inaudible now, the tears starting to flow freely.

The four more higher up, followed by four at the very join of her buttocks and thighs, each of which caused her to cry out gently. And then… oh so cruel… the next four traced their lines right over the first four strokes, audible sobs now filling the room. “Twenty,” she counted.

“Stand up.” Slowly, she lifted herself up. “Go and stand by the window.” She looked at him: “But the curtains are open, Sir… Please……..PLEASE.”

He flexed the cane at her, and stood silently. Slowly, she walked over to the window: anyone walking in the gardens would surely see her.

“Put your hands on your head, and keep counting the strokes.” And with her standing there, he continued the beating, quicker this time, the strokes lashing all over her buttocks at varying heights, almost knocking her over with their force, Henry scarcely pausing between blows other than for her to count the number out. But count she did… still, at first, hesitantly, quietly, tearfully… but then, as the numbers rose through the low thirties…. clearer again, more confidently, more defiantly… beaten, but not beaten. And the clearer her voice, the harder the strokes, until the total reached forty, her buttocks now ridged and wealed with the marks of the flogging.

“Turn round.” She turned to face him, hands still on her head. “We now come to the final part of your punishment.” Henry picked up a cushion from the sofa, and threw it down onto the middle of the long, low wooden table in the middle of the room. “Lie down on that, face down, with the cushion under your middle.”

She walked forward, slowly, her face tear-stained, and lowered herself over the table, her head over one en, hands on the floor to support herself, and feet sticking out at the other. The cushion raised her buttocks up perfectly, showing how marked they were.

Henry moved to the side, eyeing up his target, and measured the rod across her backside. He lifted it high, so high into the air, and cracked it down across her, causing her whole body to jolt. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh.” Through deep breaths, she called out “Forty one”. The next blow was even harder, almost as if he was trying to cut her body in two with the sheer force of the cane. She sobbed: “Forty two.”

As the following strokes landed, she dissolved totally into sobs, her temporary defiance now gone, broken by the strength of these final harsh blows. 43, 44, 45, 46… when would he stop? 47. 48 – bringing an agonised yelp from the poor writhing girl.

Henry stepped back, and laid down the cane – had he finished at last? Her sobs slowly died down, as relief began to wash over her.

And then… “Turn over.”

“W..w…what?”

“Turn over. I want you with your back on the table, cushion under your hips.” She rolled over, gingerly, positioning herself on the cushion. “Take your ankles in your hands.” She looked puzzled, but reached down, bending her knees to clutch at her feet.

“Lift your knees up.” Slowly, she moved them higher, up towards her breasts. Henry walked round to the end of the table, looking down at her, then reached out and took an ankle in each hand, and slowly drew her legs apart. She was totally exposed, her most private parts lifted up, bare to him.

He picked up the cane again. “These last two are going to hurt. But they might make you think twice before you next sleep around.”

Slowly, he lowered the cane straight out, placing it straight up between her legs, resting it across her most private parts, right between her legs. Surely not……………. The cane rose up, high, above his head, and cracked down. Silence… for a second… then the scream, a cry of sheer agony and pain. Cries, desperate cries.

“You aren’t counting.”

“F…f….f….forty…. nine…. sir.”

The cane nestled again between her legs. He slid it slowly backwards and forwards, rubbing against her, humiliating her. And then the final stroke………. oh so hard…. lashing against her, another agonised scream filling the air.

A pause. Her sobbing filled the room.

Henry looked at her with disdain. “Fifty, I think. Stand up, get dressed, and leave. I don’t want you in my sight any more. NOW. Get on with it.”

Painfully, she lifted herself to her feet. Shaking, sobbing, racked with pain. “Hurry up, girl, get out of my sight.” She looked round, and clutched at her clothes, pulling them on as best she could.

“Hurry up or I’ll whip you some more.”

“N..n…no sir, please.”

She was dressed now, and turned to leave.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, young lady?”

“Er… er… I don’t know sir.” Terror in her voice.

“I have just spent quite some time in my busy schedule trying to help you to improve your performance, and make sure you manage to stay in your job. I would have thought you might have shown some gratitude for that.”

She looked at him, incredulous. Then, reluctantly, “Thank you, sir. Thank you for the flogging. I will try and be a better girl in future.”

“Very good. Now get out. And shut the door behind you. And I hope to see some significant improvements in your behaviour and performance in the coming weeks. GET OUT!”

Head down, still trembling, she reached for the handle, opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind her.

“AND CUT!” shouted the director. “Very satisfactory, I feel. Thank you Henry.”

I followed her out of the room as soon as I could. Rushed up the stairs. Found her in the bedroom she had used to get changed, collapsed face down on the bed. Sobs racking her body. Sat next to her; pulled her head gently onto my lap. Stroked her hair. “My poor girl. I’m so sorry. Claire, believe me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was going to be that bad. Honestly. Please. I’m so sorry.”

She looked up at me through a mist of tears, nodding gently. “I know. I don’t blame you.”

I held her, tight, so tight, arm around her shoulder, until the crying eased. She spoke up: “I must be going: I have to catch a train.”

“Please, no. I’ll give you a lift. Please.”

She looked at me. “Thank you. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“No, no, honestly. Look…. give me ten minutes. You put your own clothes back on… wash your face. I’ll see you outside the front of the house.”

“Are you sure.”

“Yes. Course I am.” And, not knowing what possessed me, I leant down and kissed her gently on the head. “You’ll be OK.”

Climbing into an MGF with as soundly caned a backside as Claire’s was not an easy experience for her. She was still trembling… in shock from her ordeal, I wouldn’t wonder.

The journey back to London was remarkably quick. Before too long, we started chatting – about music, food, theatre, opera, travel – we shared so many interests – anything but what had happened. As we reach the centre of London, she started to give me directions to her Halls of Residence.

I plucked up the courage. “Could I offer you a drink at my place first? It’s not too far away. You could have a shower or something before going back to the Halls.”

She agreed straight away – no hesitation. “Yes, yes please. That would be good.”

Which is how fifteen minutes later we were in my living room, her lying on her side on my sofa, me sitting next to her, glasses of vintage champagne in hand. Well – I thought it might take her mind off her ordeal. And I like a glass of good champagne to start the weekend, anyway.

Two bottles later, after a quick meal of pasta that we cooked together in the kitchen with much giggling – and after much conversation, sharing things with one another, chatting in a way that I would not have thought possible with someone I had known for so little time – she fell asleep, there on the sofa, next to me. Sound asleep, so soundly asleep that when I picked her up – carefully, trying not to touch her buttocks and re-ignite the pain – she hardly stirred.

I laid her down on my bed, and flicked the soft white duvet over her, before creeping out of the room and curling myself up on the sofa in the living room to sleep.

I woke up later, much later, with the light on, to see her standing next to me, hair wet, wearing my white dressing gown. “You OK?” I asked.

“As well as can be expected. Sore.”

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock. I woke up. Had a shower.”

“Right.”

“You can’t sleep here.”

“I’m OK.”

“No. You can’t.” She reached down and took my hand. “I trust you. Come and sleep next to me.”

How can you refuse such an invitation? But sleep I did: we climbed into the bed, and looked one another in the eyes. “You were so brave, Claire.” “Thank you.”

I rolled over, and fell back asleep, but not before I felt her nestle herself against me. She felt warm; nice.

And then… morning light flooding into the room, both awake…. we looked one another in the eyes again… and moved simultaneously to kiss one another. A long kiss, open, passionate. And then another. And another. And then she wriggled on top of me, still kissing. And moved slowly down, sucking the (few!) hairs on my chest, kissing, sliding down, her hand taking me as I hardened, her lips lowering themselves.

I am not going to describe the rest: it was too personal, too passionate, too loving. Suffice it to say that I have never made love to anyone so beautiful, so sensuous, so wonderful. Sex like I had never dreamed it could be. Kissing her backside, trying to soothe away the wounds. Kissing where those final two strokes had landed. Fucking, screwing…. making love. Oh god was it GOOD. Good for hours, ’til she had to go in the middle of the afternoon.

I have fallen for her in a BIG way. WOW. Oh when can I see her again?

Saturday, 27th June

One week. One week of sheer joy. Getting to know her. Getting to know her body. Loving her. Her loving me back.

God, she is wonderful. So sexy. So much fun.

And last night. We’d arranged to stay in – a quiet evening together. Celebrating one week of our relationship.

And she was late. Quite late… an hour. The dinner was spoiled. I didn’t mind. She can spoil any dinner, as far as I am concerned.

But then… looking me in the eyes. “I’ve been a very naughty girl, Simon. Being late.”

“Don’t worry, my darling.”

“Very naughty.” Leading me into the living room, and sitting next to me on the sofa. “I need you to teach me a lesson.”

“WHAT?”

And she stood up in front of me, sliding down her leather trousers, sliding down her knickers. “Been very naughty.”

Moving to the side of me. Draping herself over my lap, the marks of last week fading still clearly visible.

“Very naughty. Need to be taught a lesson. Teach me a lesson, Simon…”