Working at a central London conference centre the other day, I realised I’d left my phone in the coffee area when I popped along the corridor to check in on my exam candidates.
As I headed back, I pictured what might happen were I to find one of the cute lasses on the staff pocketing my handset. I’d demand to see the manager, who would be mortified. Would I like them to call the police – or might I be willing to deal with it in-house?
Picture a girl sent to stand in the corner of a spare meeting room for the half hour until my delegates had departed.
Picture her tear-stained face by the time I arrived.
Picture her over my knees. Picture her knickers coming down. Her protests and writhing as the first hard smacks made contact.
Her shame as, once she was sobbing, I made her stand – and strip, and bend tight over a conference room table.
Her howls and apologies as I whipped her with my doubled-over belt.
Then, ‎once she was broken: “That will suffice as punishment, young lady. Now: time for me to enjoy some compensation…”