The Spanking Writers

Waking up with Haron in a rented apartment not long ago, I glanced out of the window to check the weather. (Europe, summertime: yep, it was raining).

Opposite was a large, imposing, austere–looking building - which, it being a Saturday - was completely deserted.

I imagined it as some educational institution - soon to be filled with students called in for a weekend detention. Inevitably, the morning would culminate with a queue of girls outside the Headmaster’s office, awaiting their five minutes of shame.

That room up there - top floor, far end of the corridor. That’d be the one. He’d draw the blinds, of course, but on a clear day the retort of the cane and the punished pupils’ squeals might well echo around the courtyard…