6 of the Best Discipline at Work Stories (4 page)

"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 Isabel 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."

Isabel sat up, straight.

Laurence continued. "Now your friend Mr. Sherwood 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, Robert. 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 stayed 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 Isabel, and next to them a vicious-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.

Isabel 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, Robert. 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 the Institute won't think you've been severe 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 going 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 her 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, Isabel. 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 close-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, Isabel."

"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?