A rare, as-ever-unpleasant foray into a McDonald’s the other night. (Hey, faced with a ludicrously overpriced hotel restaurant serving rubbish I wouldn’t feed to our cat, or a ludicrously unpleasant chain restaurant serving… Oh well, needs must, sometimes).

At the table in the window were two young ladies: sixth-formers, I’d guess. Happy, talking animatedly. Well spoken, nicely dressed. Not really in keeping with the majority of their fellow diners, shall we say.

One of them, I speculated, would be rather less cheerful before the evening was out. The front door would click shut on their return home. Her heavy bag of books abandoned on the floor, she’d wander into the living room. She’d smile at her father and give him a hug, as usual.

“How did you get on at Alison’s?”

“Really well. We revised a pile of vocab for French. Got through loads.”

His subsequent lecture would talk as much about the need for diligence in her studies as it would about her lies. She wasn’t to know he’d have driven past the burger joint – he never went that way, did he? But he had, and he’d seen her, and she’d not been at Ali’s, had she?

And no amount of pleading and apologising could prevent her jeans from coming down. He’d make her bend over his knee, and he’d hold her tightly in place whilst spanking her so unbelievably hard - for her “own good” - before sending her to bed in utter disgrace.

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