Grounded. To be caned.

A few months ago, an ever-so-lovely attendee on one of my courses instigated a discussion about her teenage switchings. (Some of you might remember the post that inevitably resulted).

Well, T and I have stayed in email contact since. All very vanilla, very professional. Very subtext of “I like you. A lot.” Both ways.

Now, I learn, she’s coming over from the States to attend a course that I’m running at the start of July. Nothing will happen, of course: “Thou shalt not spank thy clients” ranks top of the list of my business commandments, even ahead of “Thou shalt not bed them”!*

But I can dream. And dream I did, last night, entirely in keeping with my self-imposed rules.

There’s a course dinner on the first night of the event. I’m packing up at the end of the day’s workshop, chatting to the participants. T waits for everyone else to leave, then sidles up to my side, downcast: “I’m afraid I can’t come to dinner tonight.”

“But everyone’s supposed to be there.” (Especially you. We’re going to sit next to one another, and talk, and flirt ever so harmlessly).

Avoiding my eyes. “I can’t. I’m grounded.”

I made her explain: her partner had imposed his authority, following a fiesta of breaking their clearly- and mutually-agreed rules. She could go to work, but she would be home by 6pm every evening. Prompt. No excuses.

Pause. Gulp. “And on Thursday night I’ll get caned, and then the punishment will be over.”

She’s single. She’s thousands of miles from home. She won’t be grounded. There’s no partner to cane her. And it’s probably a good thing I’m not staying in the same hotel. Although I am looking forward to that course dinner