The charity collector

My beloved wasn’t feeling well, and I’d arrived late home from the airport after a work trip. “Takeaway?” I’d offered, and had duly phoned in an order and popped out to collect it.

At the end of our street, I noticed a group of four smart young people, wearing charity tabards, plotting their door-to-door campaign. Sixth formers out doing a good deed, I guessed. “Would you mind not knocking on number 36?” I asked. “My fiancee’s not feeling well and is in bed. I don’t want her to have to get up to answer.”

Such polite replies. Such nice kids.

Only… when, a few minutes later, I reappeared with the food, I found one of their number – a young woman – standing at our door. She turned, saw me, and looked suddenly crestfallen. “I am so sorry. I totally forgot. And now I’ve disturbed your girlfriend and… I am so, so sorry.”

She was so sweet and polite, and so pitifully apologetic, that I felt sorry for her and re-assured her that it was OK; that it was great to see them out collecting. She looked relieved, and headed on her way.

Relieved?

Indeed.

—

“Come inside.”

Straight into the nearest room. Straight over my knees. A hard spanking, accompanied by a lecture about good manners. Then the instruction to stand, take down her jeans and bend back over, before the spanking continued harder still.

Or…

“Which school do you go to?”

She named it. A prestigious one, a few streets away.

“Then I shall call your headmaster in the morning. What’s your name?”

… and the headmaster’s secretary arriving at the classroom door during a mid-morning lesson the following day. Handing an envelope to the teacher. Her heart pounding, already dreading its contents: “Could Miss Smith please go to see the headmaster.”

… where such a good girl would find herself lectured about her behaviour, before receiving her first-ever caning – four strokes for bringing the school into disrepute.