A poster for an amateur production of some play or other sparked the kinky fires…

I pictured a school play. The audience was packed for the one-off performance – the Headmaster and Chairman of Governors sitting proudly in the front row; staff, students, proud parents packing the hall.

I can tell you little of the plot, other than it being a rural scene, set in the distant past. Yet I do know that the lead girl – a tall, strikingly pretty lower sixth-former – had rather a thing for the lead boy, one of the school prefects.

The climactic scene called for her to be whipped; the director had pondered the staging long and hard. It needed to look authentic; clearly a real flogging was out of the question.

So she would bend over the chair facing the audience. As her skirt was lifted and drawers parted, the shorts underneath would be invisible to the crowd. As the hero took up the rod, the music would blast out so loud that the absence of the crack of wood on skin as his strokes fell short would be barely noticeable.

Only neither hero nor heroine felt that the scene was quite right. And after the dress rehearsal, they walked, they talked, and she finally plucked up the courage: “I want you to whip me for real…”

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