Discipline

The girl? Early twenties, if that. In her leather jacket, too warm for this May day. Drumming her fingers nervously on her jeans; piercing blue eyes, scanning the tube carriage.

Her companion? My age. More, from the silver beard. Smart. Jermyn Street shirt. Designer glasses.

He turns to her. She breaks into a smile. He looks away. The smile vanishes in an instant, effort no longer required.

Much easier if she doesn’t make an effort. If she doesn’t think. ‎If she smiles prettily and accedes to his demands. He’ll be gentler that way. When they get to the hotel room.

She touches her cheek, involuntarily, remembering the force of last week’s slap. When he’d found her uncooperative.‎ Well, her cooperation had hardly been required after that, had it? Spreadeagled, face down on the bed, wrists outstretched and cuffed. As he seized her hair. As he entered ‎her, roughly, before deciding that using her arse would be a more fitting punishment for her insolence.

And afterwards. Not holding her. No kind words. Just the curt: “Get dressed. Get out.”

Nothing more. No matter how often she checked her mail, in vain hope. Until bedtime last night:

Discipline

Be outside my office ‎at 11.30 sharp in the morning. I shall take you to the usual place.

I am expecting that, unlike last week, you will be an obedient girl for me. And I shall cane you, hard, before I fuck you, to ensure that you understand.

Do not be late. Good girl.

x