The student

… and then the dessert dishes were cleared and the coffee was finished. And there was silence between them.

“So,” he said, “it has been a real pleasure meeting you, young lady.”

She paused, starting to tremble slightly. (‘Young lady’? Maybe, after all…). “And it has been lovely to talk to you, too… sir.”

(‘Sir’, hanging in the air between them). “Yes, you’re a good girl. I’m sure you’re going to enjoy university life. Get a good degree. Make people proud.”

“I hope to, sir.”

“Only…” The longest pause… “Only in my experience, sometimes good girls need a little help. Don’t they?”

Staring at the tablecloth now. Softly: “Yes, sir.”

“And so here is what I propose to do. With your agreement, naturally. My house is a ten minute cab ride from here. I’m going to take you with me, and we’re going to go into my study.” (Her heart was pounding so loudly now she could hardly hear him). “I am going to have you undress in front of me. Fully. And then I am going to make you bend over my knees, and I am going to spank you until you cry.”

Silence again. And then, eventually, when she realised he wouldn’t continue until she had spoken, a muttered: “Yes sir.”

“Yes what, young lady?”

Almost inaudible. “Yes, sir, that would be good.” (What she’d read about; dreamt about; written to herself about in her oh-so-secret notebook. What they’d alluded to online; what they’d studiously both avoided throughout the course of lunch. What she wanted. What she craved…)

“Once you have composed yourself, we can then have a little discussion. About whether you want this sort of support to continue. And if you do, I shall then give you twelve hard strokes of the cane to illustrate how this might work in future. If you so choose, of course. Now, let me settle the bill…”