The bus slowed for the lights, the driver breaking a fraction too suddenly. Jolted from her Kindle, she looked up, glanced out of the window.
The hustle and bustle of commuters rushing in and out of the tube. Parents leading recalcitrant kids to school. The usual barrage of staff handing out free newspapers and magazines, to be skimmed then discarded.
Him.
She glanced down, suddenly, turning her head away from the window. For it was 7.25, and she knew the rule: the 7am bus, then seated at her desk at work by 8. “Making a good impression,” he’d told her. Good for her career at this stage, they’d agreed.
—
The email arrived at 8.05. “How are you this morning?”
Short, a tad sharp. No mention of cuddles or hugs.
“Good, sir. Busy day ahead in the office. Hugs x”
Busier still for being late. Busier still for being flustered, unable to concentrate.
—
“I do not like it when you break rules. I like it less when you attempt to mislead me having done so.”
“Please, sir…” Not the start to their evening she wanted. The start she most dreaded.
“Upstairs, now.” Following her: not even allowing her the chance to compose herself.
Pulling her straight over his knee. The humiliation of her smart work dress being lifted, her pretty-for-him knickers being tugged down without comment.
The pain of the spanking, too hard for her to plead or apologise.
The tears that came from letting herself down. Letting him down. And then the most dreaded phrase of all: “Now go and fetch the slipper…”