I read the fax again.
“From: Imogen Jones, Arbuthnot Management Consulting.
To: Richard Thompson, Headmaster, St. Jacob’s School
Subject: STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Pages: 2 including this cover sheet
Message:
Dear Richard,
Here’s the letter that I mentioned to you on the phone. PLEASE call me back once you’ve read it – I’m really worried.
Love, Im.”
Imogen Jones. I’d forgotten that she’d kept her maiden name for work when she got married.
And then the second page: on formal letter-headed notepaper, an impressive looking coat of arms emblazoned across the top of the page. “From the Royal Institute of Management Sciences”. I read on.
“Dear Miss Jones,
I am writing to you following the examinations that you took recently when seeking to qualify for membership of the Royal Institute.
I am sorry to have to inform you that, due to apparent serious irregularities with one of the papers that you submitted, we are minded to reject your application. We would, however, wish to give you the opportunity to try to set our minds at rest with regard to these issues, and would therefore invite you to attend an appeal hearing at the Institute’s Birmingham offices at the above address on Friday, 20th May at 1430.
Please ask for the Examinations Officer on your arrival. You may, if you wish, bring a friend or colleague with you to the meeting, although formal legal representation will not be necessary on this occasion.
You might like to note that we have not yet informed your employer of the problems, and will not do so until after the appeal hearing has been conducted.
I look forward to seeing you next week. Please note that this is the only available date for the meeting, and so it will not be possible to rearrange it: should you be unable to attend, we will have no option but to take appropriate further steps.
Yours sincerely,
Chief Examinations Officer.”
I breathed in deeply. No wonder she was worried. Im had been working for ages to gain her professional status: at 27, she would be relatively young to qualify, and it would give her career as a Management Consultant a real boost. But now this… “apparent serious irregularities” – what on earth……..?
I picked up the phone, and dialled her number. A rather frosty, formal lady answered: “Arbuthnot’s. To whom do you wish to speak?”
“Imogen Jones, please.”
“And may I ask who is calling?”
“Richard Thompson.”
“From?”
“She’s expecting my call.”
“I’m sure. But I have to keep a note of incoming calls: the firm’s partners like to have a record.”
Quick thinking. What did I say? A close friend? Her former schoolmaster? A personal call? “Er… it’s in connection with her application for membership of the Royal Institute of Management Sciences.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. Putting you through.”
Phew. I knew Im moaned about how formal and serious the firm was – if the receptionist was like that, goodness only knows what the partners were like!
“Good morning. Imogen Jones speaking.”
“Im. It’s Richard.”
“Hi. Thanks for calling back. Do you see why I was worried?”
“What’s it all about, Im?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been racking my brains. I really don’t.”
“Is there anything that you could have done wrong in the exams?”
“No. No – I can’t think of anything. Maybe I wrote something that took exception to? But I don’t know – I don’t know what it can be. Look, could you – please – could you come with me to this hearing in Birmingham?”
“But it’s in term-time, Im. I can’t leave the school.”
“PLEASE. I mean – I trust you, you can talk people round. And you must know how to deal with examiners!”
This was difficult. As Headmaster, I tried never to have days off during term, particularly not at two days’ notice. After all, if I didn’t let my staff take time off when they were supposed to be teaching, what sort of example would that set? And the older generation of the teachers – the ones who had been against me since I was appointed Head a couple of years ago, in my mid-thirties, would never let me get away with it. But – Imogen: a truly close friend. I couldn’t let her down.
“OK. I’ll be there. Meet you outside the building at twenty past two. And don’t worry, Im, I’m sure it will be OK.”
“Do you think so?”
No. But… “I’m sure it will be fine, Im.”
“Thanks, Richard. I appreciate it.”
“Bye.”
“Bye. Thanks.”
I put the phone down. She’d sounded so worried. It reminded me – I’d heard that panic in her voice once before, ten years back, when she was my “star pupil”, and I’d had to punish her. The one and only time in my career that I’d ever had to use the cane. And the experience, I guess, that had first formed this bond between us, so that here we were, years later, still in touch even though time had moved on, both married, both successful in our careers.
I looked at my diary for Friday. No teaching commitments – that was good. A couple of meetings. My deputy could handle those. I picked the phone up to my secretary. “Hi, it’s Richard.”
“What can I do for you, Headmaster?”
“This Friday. I have to go to a meeting in Birmingham. With the people who are writing our new school prospectus. Can you get Simon to chair my two meetings?”
“Certainly. And would you like me to book you train tickets?”
“No, no, I’ll sort those out. Thanks!”
As I put down the phone, the school bell rang. I had to go – a class to teach, one of the few I still did now life seemed to be dominated by meetings and paperwork. And now this damn trip to Birmingham. I shook my head. Life was never meant to be easy.
—
Friday. Three hours in the train. Birmingham. Grey, overcast weather: miserable.
I crossed the road towards the Institute’s offices.
She was standing there already, waiting. And didn’t she look smart – black suit, sharply cut, white blouse. SShortish skirt. Dressed to impress!
“Hi, Im.”
“Hi. Look. Thanks for coming. I’m really sorry about this.”
“Don’t worry. Have you had to take the day off work as well? I feel like I’m playing truant!”
“I set up a meeting with one of my clients, who’s about 20 miles away. A big project I’m running. The office think I’m there all day.”
“Shall we go in?”
“We better had. Thanks, Richard.”
—
Sitting in a small, scruffy waiting room. Why do people always keep you waiting? Im was staring straight ahead of her, still, obviously worried.
The door opened, and a small man in a tweed jacket walked in. I recognised him immediately. “Laurence!”
“Richard! Good to see you. how are you?”
“Fine. And you look well yourself.” This was bizarre: Laurence Peters had been one of the academics when I’d been at Cambridge – an expert in microeconomics. I’d known him quite well – he’d been quite helpful to me with my thesis. I know he’d retired- but hadn’t know where he’d gone to afterwards.
“Thank you, thank you. Still teaching?”
“Yes. A Headmaster now – St. Jacob’s, down in Devon.”
“Good grief. You’ve done well for yourself!” “Thanks.”
“And what brings you here?”
“I’m with Imogen Green.” We’d almost forgotten Im, who stood up. “I’m her ‘moral support’. Sorry, Im, I should have introduced you – Laurence Peters was one of my tutors at University.”
He shook Imogen’s hand, looking grave. “Right. Well, you’d better both come in. Amazing… Richard Thompson! Fancy that. Have a seat.”
He shut the door behind him, and pointed us to a sofa in the corner of the room, and sat down on the armchair opposite, picking up a cardboard folder. A typical academic’s office: slightly disorganised, papers pilled up everywhere!
“Well, Richard, it’s good to see you again, but it’s still, a shame to meet up in these circumstances. I guess we’d better get down to the matter at hand. Miss Jones….”
He looked at Im.
“Yes.”
“Do you know why we have asked you here today?”
“No. You mentioned some irregularities – but I don’t know what they could be.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Honesty is the best course…”
“No. Really. I have no idea.”
He pulled out a bound document, and opened it at a page he had marked. He passed it to us. Neatly typed. I glanced down it: it seemed to be something about project planning. A few words and phrases were circled.
“Do you recognise that?”
“Yes. It’s my dissertation. About the project I did.” (I could remember Im having to write this – 10,000 words, sent in before the two exams she’d taken).
“I see. Quite a few errors in there aren’t there?”
“Yes But… a few spelling mistakes. That’s not serious.”
“Not in itself, no. Now, could you have a look at this.” Laurence passed over a second document for us to look at. I scanned it, then looked back at Im’s paper. They looked the same: even the same spelling mistakes had been highlighted.
“Recognise anything, Miss Jones?”
She didn’t answer.
“Would you like to explain to me how your dissertation contains exactly the same text, with exactly the same mistakes, as the one that Roger Cecil from your company submitted to us two years ago?”
Im looked shocked. This was unbelievable – she couldn’t have cheated, surely? “Well… we have a standard project planning approach in the firm. So I guess… I guess when we wrote about it, it was bound to be similar.”
“Similar, yes. But this is identical.”
She paused.
Laurence looked at her. “Identical. Right down to the typing mistakes.”
Silence.
And then she started to cry, quietly. I put my arm round her.
“I’m so sorry. I borrowed Roger’s disk and copied it onto my computer. He didn’t know anything about it.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Miss Jones. Now, I have to tell you that cheating in one of the Institute’s professional exams is a very grave offence. You are leaving me with no choice here other than to tell you that you have failed the papers, and to expel you from your student membership of the Institute. And I will, of course, have to write to the senior partner of your Arbuthnot’s, who will I am sure take appropriate action on the firm’s behalf.”
Im was sobbing openly now. I had to try to do something – I couldn’t let this happen to her. “Would you mind if Imogen left us, so you and I could have a minute alone, Laurence?”
“No. Could you wait outside, Miss Jones?”
She stood up, and went out.
Laurence spoke first. “A bad business, Richard. Such a bright girl – the rest of her papers were outstanding. But now…. Arbuthnot’s will sack her, you know. Gross misconduct. And she’ll struggle to get another management consultancy job after that. What a waste.”
“There must be something we can do.”
“Nothing. Rules are rules. I mean, when I was at school, in the fifties, it used to be a dozen of the best in front of the rest of the school during assembly for cheats. Those were the days – when discipline meant discipline. Not like today. We’ve got too soft, Richard: we let these young people off too easily. But for the Royal Institute… no, expelling her is the only thing we can do.”
I paused. I was listening to what he had said. A dozen of the best. My mind raced. Instead of the sack, the shame of being exposed as a cheat. What if….. No.
“What if….. would a dozen of the best not do the trick, then?” I couldn’t believe I was saying this.
“You mean…”
“Well…. I am a schoolmaster, after all. What if…. I were to punish her for you.”
He looked at me, a smile flickering across his face.
“Punish her?”
“You know… your ‘dozen of the best’. Instead of being expelled. I could…. beat her, and you could then decide that she hadn’t cheated after all, and let her pass.”
“Intriguing…. But how would I know you’d actually done it? Would you send me photos, or something?”
Good grief. Photos. “Would that be necessary?”
“Well, I’d have to satisfy myself that the job had been done thoroughly.”
Bastard. “If you need evidence, I guess you’d have to have photos then.”
He paused. “This is very unconventional.”
“It’s not exactly run-of-the-mill for me, either, Laurence.”
He looked at me. “OK, let’s see what she has to say.” He walked over to the door, and called Imogen back in. She was still in tears – the smart, formal, successful businesswoman reduced to a blubbering, helpless little girl. She sat down next to me.
Laurence looked at her, an evil grin on his face. “I have another suggestion as to how we deal with this, young lady.”
“Please. I’d do anything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything. Absolutely.”
“OK, then. Back in the old days, when I was a lad, we know how to deal with naughty girls. And do you know what happened to them?”
“No, Sir.”
“They got flogged, Miss Jones.”
Imogen sat up, straight.
Laurence continued. “Now your friend Mr. Thompson is a schoolmaster, so knows a thing or two about discipline. So I’ve agreed with him that if he gives you a sound whipping, we will forget all about this little incident, and I will put you through onto the pass list for the exams.”
She looked stunned. She kept her gaze fixed on Laurence, not looking at me.
“And what would be involved in this?”
“Well, what I’d suggest is that you and he find somewhere discrete this afternoon, that you purchase a suitable implement – there must be a sex shop that can sell you a whip – and that you then strip off, and he gives you a dozen lashes, as hard as he can. And he then takes a photo, and you can send that to me. And if from the photo I deem that the punishment was severe enough, I’ll let you off. And if from the photo I decide that he was too gentle, then you still get expelled. Do you agree?”
Still she avoided looking at me. “I agree.”
“We have a deal, then.” He closed his folder, and looked at me. “Thank for your assistance, Richard. I appreciate it. Greatly. And I’m sure I can count on you to make sure she suffers enough to bring this whole matter to a close.”
I stood up, and shook his outstretched hand. “You can count on me, Laurence. Thank you. And I’ll see you again, sometime.”
“I’m sure. Well, Miss Jones, it’s been nice meeting you. I shall be thinking of you this afternoon.” “Goodbye, Sir.” She shook his hand.
And then we turned and left, out of his office, out of the miserable office block, into the street.
She spoke before I could get a word in edgeways, assertive. “Here,” she said, reaching into her bag. “Have my mobile phone. And here’s some cash.” She passed me two fifty-pound notes. “There’s a hotel up the road – the Swallow. It’s very good: I’ve stayedd there before. It’s where Clinton stayed the other week for the G8 politicians’ summit. I’m going to go straight there to book us a room. I’ll call you on the mobile with the room number. Now, you go and buy this whip, and get a Polaroid camera, and then jump in a taxi to the hotel and come straight up to the room. OK?”
Good grief. Quick-fire! Instructions by the dozen. I could see why she was so successful at work.
“Fine. But… are you OK? Are you sure about this?”
She looked at me, straight in the eyes. “If this is the price I have to pay to avoid screwing up my career, then I’ll do it. And I don’t want to mess around with it: I want you to…” and she hesitated for the first time, “….to flog me so hard that there can be no way that that bastard won’t let me off. Now, we’d better get on. The shops are that way – I’m going to get a cab over there. See you in half-an-hour or so.”
And off she went.
—
Watson’s camera shop. One Polaroid camera. With colour film, loaded for me by the assistant. Paid in cash.
It took me some time to find the next place. I headed for the seediest looking part of the town centre. Loveaid Licensed Sex Shop. Boarded up window. But the door was open. An unbelievable display (I’d never been into one of these places before) – sexual gadgets of every description. And in the corner: a pile of canes, so like the one I’d used last time on Im, and next to them a viscious-looking lash. I picked it up by its black leather handle, unfurling six long, thin lashes, each about two feet in length. This would do. “Good one, that, mate” the assistant said, “that’ll do a fair amount of harm, that will.” Paid cash again. And walked out of the shop, praying I wouldn’t meet anyone I knew (unlikely as that was in a strange city).
And then the phone rang as I stepped back onto the main street. (How I hate mobiles!) “Have you got the things?” “Yes.” “I’m in room 804. Swallow Hotel. It’ll take you five minutes in the taxi. Come straight to the room: the lifts are to the left of the reception desk; we’re on the top floor, turn right out of the lift.” So focused. So…..determined to see this through.
And in the back of the cab. Trying to believe that this was really happening.
In the hotel. Into the lift, before the concierge could ask me if I needed help. Up in the lift. Along the plushly-carpetted corridor. Room 804. The door was slightly ajar. I went in.
Im stood there in front of me, wearing a white bath robe. She looked at me. I took the whip from its bag, and her eyes opened in shock.
“Do you really want to do this?” I asked her.
“I don’t have an option.” Her voice was quieter now, some of that bossiness, that assertiveness, disappearing as the moment drew near. “And I trust you, Richard. I trust you more than anyone. Do you remember when you caned me last time, when I was at school?”
“Could I forget?”
“I’ll always remember it. God knows, nothing’s ever hurt me like that. But you were so kind with it, even though you’d just beaten me so hard I could hardly bear it. How many other people have you caned since?”
“You were the only one.”
She bit her lip. “Sorry. And now, today, you’re going to save me from something I simply couldn’t bear. So make sure you do your job properly – I don’t want there to be any risk that tthe Institute won’t think you’ve been sever enough.”
We looked at one another. Suddenly, she undid the bath robe, and let it fall to the floor. She was even more beautiful than I’d remembered. Her fair hair tied back. She made no attempt to cover herself: her breasts – not too big, firm; her pubes neatly trimmed. And her nipples – hard: was she cold? Surely…
She brushed past me, into the bathroom, and hung the bath robe on the back of the door. She came back out. “Where do you want me?”
I looked round the room. It was huge. Goodness knows how much she must have had to pay for this. Dominated by a beautiful, wrought iron four poster bed, with crisp plain white sheets.
There was a plan, iron bar across the bottom end of the four poster, at just the right height. “I want you to bend over the foot of the bed.”
She walked calmly across to the bed, and draped herself over it, wincing slightly as her bare body touched the cold iron. She lay forward on the mattress, her hands stretched out in front of her, her head to one side, her breasts flattened under her. The bar was just high enough to ensure that she had to stretch slightly – almost on tiptoe, presenting a perfect target to me.
I threw my jacket over the table at the side of the room, and rolled up my sleeves.
“I’m going to give you twelve lashes. You won’t flinch, or you’ll get another stroke. You’ll stay silent: don’t even count the strokes. And as you want me to, I’m gong to do this as hard as I can. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” A small voice, almost feeble.
I lined myself up lifted the flogger up, high above my head, and thrashed it down on her buttocks, the whip cracking loudly. She cried out.
“Silence.” No wonder she’d shrieked, though: the six lashes had fanned out across he buttocks in perfect lines, each already drawing out an agonising-looking red weal. And that was just the first.
Again I whipped it down, even harder. You could almost see the stroke ripple through her entire body. She clenched her fists, hard, and banged them gently down on the sheet.
And then two strokes together, this time across the top of her legs. How she was standing this, I really didn’t know. But still she didn’t move.
I moved round a little, standing now straight behind her. And then brought the whip downwards, very quickly, letting the lashes catch the centre of her arse, from top to bottom. She howled loudly.
And then the sixth and seventh – again in quick succession. Again from top to bottom of her buttocks, one stroke on her left buttock, the next on the right.
She was sobbing uncontrollably now. But still she stayed in position.
Then to stand on her right side. Two backhand strokes, catching her buttocks from right to left, criss-crossing them with the marks of the lash.
And the tenth and eleventh – forehand again, cutting across her backside the other way. And on the eleventh – she finally jumped up, screaming, clutching her arse, jumping from foot to foot.
She didn’t look at me, though. She took a deep breath, then settled back down over the foot of the bed.
“Still two to go,” I reminded her. I remembered my instructions: I HAD to make sure the flogging looked harsh enough to satisfy the Institute.
So stepped back, and brought the whip down across her again.
Again, she was on her feet.
“Get down.”
I said nothing this time, but waited until she was in position, and moved directly behind her, at an angle. I aimed the flogger at the right hand side of her behind, and cracked it down hard, the lashes wrapping themselves right round the side of her ass. She yelped, but remained prostrate on the bed.
And then the final stroke. The one I wasn’t going to let he forget. Aiming the tips of the lashes right at the top of her legs, a really sharp crack of the whip, its tongues exploring into her most private parts, reaching their lick as far as they could.
A full-blooded scream this time. She pounded her fists onto the bed, her whole body shaking.
I walked away, and threw the whip onto the floor. “It’s finished, Im. You can get up.”
Slowly she stood up, and then dropped to her knees on the floor, clutching her buttocks, rocking slowly backwards and forwards. The tears were running down her face, dripping onto the carpet.
I walked into the bathroom, and reappeared with the bathrobe. I draped it over her shoulders as she crouched there. like a small, wounded animal, then went and sat in the armchair in the corner of the room.
She looked up at me, and managed a half-laugh. She spoke softly. “If that’s what you do if you’ve only ever dealt out two floggings, I’d hate to get dealt with by you if you’d had some practice.”
“It must have been awful.”
“Mmmm… I must be getting soft in my old age, but that seemed to hurt a whole lot more than last time. Still, at least I should still have a job.”
She stood up and looked at me, still holding her behind. “I guess I’d better have my photo taken now, then?”
I’d almost forgotten. “Why don’t you lie on the bed?” I suggested, pulling the camera out of the bag.
She pulled back the cover, and lay down, backside in the air, using the sheets to cover her breasts. She may not have been coy with me, but she obviously had no plans to let our friend from the Institute see more than was absolutely essential.
I pointed the camera, and clicked. A pause, then the photo appeared. She twisted round, and held out her hand for it. She watched as the photo developed in front of her eyes. “Shit! Do I look that bad?”
“Well, put it this way. I can tell why you were in tears.” I snapped again, a lose-up this time. “Do you think two’s enough?”
“He’s not having any more. Sadistic bastard – you can just imagine him looking at these, can’t you.” She breathed in deeply again, and covered her cheeks up with her hands, burying her face in the sheets. “Oww…”
I picked up my jacket. “I must be going, Im.”
“No!” She jumped up, almost panic in her voice. “Please stay. Don’t leave me on my own. I need to be with you.” She grabbed me by the hand and led me to the bed, pulling me down on it next to her.
“Im…”
“Hold me.” She buried herself in my arms. I held her tightly to me, hugging her. But what was I going here, lying in a hotel room with a naked woman, both of us married to other people?
Suddenly, she kissed me. Not a half-hearted kiss. Full, open, on my mouth. She kissed again, and tried to roll on top of me. I grabbed her arms, and shook her off. “I really should be going.”
But she was reaching down, her left hand unzipping my trousers. “It doesn’t feel like you want to go.” By now, I had an erection so hard I could scarcely believe it. She reached down, and pulled my trousers and boxer shorts away, climbing on top of me, trapping me under her. She stroked my prick with one had, the other between her legs. “Make love to me, Richard,” she murmured, as she straddled me, sinking her wet, gaping hole onto my rock-hard length. She started moving backwards and forwards: I had never felt anything so good.
I wriggled upwards, into more of a sitting position, and reached forward, cupping her bruised buttocks in my hands as we screwed, stroking them, feeling the ridges and weals that I had inflicted on her with my whip. Although she winced, this seemed to turn her on even more, and we fucked still harder, driving one another one to an explosive, simultaneous climax.
—
We fucked twice more that evening before I finally had to leave – there was no way I could explain away missing the last train. We did it with wild abandon, exploring one another’s bodies to the limits. And then we showered together, then dressed – and then I left, after a long, passionate final kiss. “I’m going to stay here for the night,” she explained. “After all, I’ve paid for the room – I might as well enjoy it.”
“Sure. But one thing, Im…”
“What?”
“DON’T FORGET TO POST THE PHOTOS!”
She laughed. “Don’t worry – I won’t! I don’t want to have to have a repeat performance – at least, not of that part of the afternoon. At least, not for a little while.”
And I opened the door. She blew me a farewell kiss as I stepped out into the corridor. “Thanks, Richard. Take care. And remember – I know where to come next time I’m a naughty girl.”
