Caught on Film

This story is about punishment: female on male. There's no sex. If that's your thing, welcome to my small and exclusive club, and please read on. If it's not your thing, you're probably going to be disappointed.

If you enjoy my writing, or even find it arousing, please leave me a comment or message me: it's always nice to know.

I'd like to acknowledge the unsuspecting contribution of Sarah, who gave me the inspiration for the story.

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It had been a strange assignation from the start. Looking back on it, Charles realised that he should have smelled a rat from the outset. Wasn't that what reporters were supposed to do? With their finely-tune antennae? He grimaced. Apparently, today had been a learning experience in more ways than one. Clicking his key fob, Charles lowered himself very, very gingerly into the driver's seat of his small car.

Ouch.

He paused for a moment, before turning the key: whatever he did, he definitely wanted to avoid speed bumps and potholes on the way home today.

*

Charles had already been working from home for an hour when the early morning message arrived from his editor, Heather. He hadn't been working for her for long: he'd only recently moved up from freelance copywriting towards the sought-after certainty of the income that a regional newspaper offered him for three days a week. It wasn't - yet - the world of louche undercover exposes that every reporter hopes for, but it was certainly a regular stream of work that could significantly support, if not entirely fund, the financial needs of his first city property. Sure, there was a fair share of dull stuff to cover - local protest groups with an obscure axe to grind, animal-based novelties, and human interest stories, frequently drawn from humans with very limited real interest beyond their own hyperactive imaginations. But there was also the occasional glimpse of genuine investigative journalism. In his first three months, Charles had uncovered a papertrail of financial impropriety within a town council, dug up some nasty skeletons in the closet of a right-wing party's local branch office, and been directly responsible for exposing the poor conditions at a local puppy farm. In short, he was something of a rising star. And Heather's latest message to him was certainly an intriguing one.

"Are you aware of the porn company on Northfield industrial estate? I want someone to go see them."

Charles was indeed aware. The site wasn't too far from his own flat, and had caused a wave of scandal and protest when its location was first mooted. There had been a few scattered days of protest from - largely - local religious groups, before the realisation dawned that performers could actually come and go without having roadside sex, or making impromptu visits to local schools on careers day. In short, by now, the premises had become a non story, and six months or so down the line, nothing much further had been heard of it.

"Yes." responded Charles. "I'm aware of it. Something specific you want me to take a look at?"

The dots blinked on his screen as Heather typed her response.

"An interview with the boss, Lauren Davies. She's keen to show herself as a success story, contributing to the local economy now. Happy for us to oblige. Areas of interest: something a bit salacious about their operations (always good copy!); risk of future expansion plans/ relocation; portrait of a strong female CEO. Take your pick. I'm thinking weekend supplement, half page: will get the photographer down there tomorrow afternoon once I've sen your copy. Contact details and link to company page/ bio to follow. Lauren's expecting you this afternoon. Need anything else for now?"

"All good thanks boss." Charles smiled at his own faux-deferential tone. "I'm right on it!"

As the further information came through, Charles opened his browser window - private mode - and began to take a look at some of the company's productions. Fairly racy stuff, to his mind at least. It seemed Miss Davies' business focused on a fairly specific niche in the market. Bondage, as he would have called it. Not too much sex, but lots of titles that involved people being whipped, caned, spanked - basically, knocked around with implements of various kinds. Intriguing. It would certainly be good if he could get a few words from one or two of the performers. What on earth would bring people to do something like this, he mused to himself?

For sure, the great thing about a career in journalism was the insight into new worlds. And this promised to be one which would make a good story not just on the front page, but also in the pub - and maybe even the bedroom.

*

At around ten to four that afternoon, Charles pulled into the car park of the nondescript industrial unit which housed Lessons Learned Productions Ltd. Switching off the engine, he took a good look. The premises was quite sizeable - about the size of a municipal swimming pool - but discreet, with no obvious clue as to the nature of its operations. It was surrounded by light manufacturing units, with a trade catering outlet directly adjacent. Frankly, you wouldn't have given it a second look. Checking his watch, he decided that he'd head in a few minutes early. There was always a chance of decent gossip from a willing receptionist or secretary, before the interview proper began. Especially if he could charm them a little.

He rang the intercom, and out of habit, positioned himself just off camera. It buzzed. "Can I help you?"

"Hi," he responded confidently. "Charles Carter here to speak with Lauren. I've an appointment at four."

Another buzz, and the door clicked. Charles pushed, and entered. Almost immediately, he spotted a young man coming towards him.

"Hello Charles, I'm James, Ms Davies' personal assistant. Please, come through to the office."

Hmmm. Charming information out of the assistant was likely to be a non-starter, then, thought Charles. Glancing briefly around, he could see that the unit was laid out into a number of sets. There was an area that appeared to be a school office of some kind, all traditional oak panelling and a large desk. Next to it, a far more domestic setting, with a separate living room and bedroom area. And lastly, something far more like the dungeon that he'd been expecting, with a large wooden cross, candles, and a black leather kind of vibe. He smiled to himself. Odd, what some people got off to.

Following James though to a small anteroom, Charles nodded his polite assent to the offer of coffee - black, no sugar, thanks - and set to combing the walls and notice boards for anything of interest. Certainly, there was plenty of good stuff to be found if your proclivities were... of a certain type. The walls were fairly covered in small framed prints - action stills, "artist" portraits, and an occasional award certificate. The content focused exclusively on punishment of one kind or another - there were some pretty salty shots of welted bottoms, striped backs and even (he looked closer) bruised nipples. It seemed this wasn't a company to do things by halves.

James returned shortly to find him, mid-perusal. "Beautiful, aren't they?"

Charles started. "It wasn't the word I'd have used. Is this kind of thing popular, James?"

James smiled. "In what sense?"

"Commercially."

"Well, I assume you did your research at Companies' House. Gross profit was up by 90% last year, even with the usual accountancy magic which creates various losses for us to offset against tax. All," James added, conscious of his audience, "entirely above board and in line with normal practice, of course."

At this moment, the door at the far end of the office opened. From her LinkedIn profile, Charles immediately recognised Lauren Davies. She was shorter than he'd anticipated, at about 5'3", although her presence somehow seemed larger. She was slim, early thirties, with lustrous fair hair worn loose down to her shoulders. Jeans which, although not exactly tight, were cut skilfully enough to hint at an athletic figure underneath, highly-polished loafers, and a crisp white blouse which had more than a hint of 'designer' about it. She was immaculately made up: not overly so, but with burgundy tinted lips and a slash of dark eyeliner that accentuated her pale blue eyes. She had the kind of flawless complexion born either of extreme genetic luck, or a costly commitment to creams and spa days. Ignoring Charles altogether, she addressed her assistant.

"James. I need that quote for props, and we're still urgent for a standby performer tomorrow. Where are you with that? I don't really have time to be chasing these things."

"Sorry, Ms Davies," responded James, flushing slightly. "They say the quote should be here by five. And I'm waiting on a callback from Jen to see if she could be free. You know, the girl we used in last month's kidnap feature? I didn't want to bother you until I had something more substantive to tell you."

Her face softened a little. "Good. Reassuring to know. But chase them both at half past. I don't want anyone closing up at five and leaving us in the lurch. And..." she paused "... I assume this must be my four o'clock?"

Charles prickled a little, but remained silent. "Yes," responded James. "Charles Carter, from the Echo."

Lauren turned her head towards him, and briefly turned on a disarming smile. The room temperature seemed to rise by a degree or two, and the lights brightened. Charismatic, for sure. Nonetheless, Charles could see her appraising him: his faded chinos, his crumpled shirt, his slightly too-worn trainers. Damn. He didn't like to come off second-best - things worked better if your interviewee saw you as an equal - but he'd perhaps underestimated his opponent. Industrial estates could be misleading, like that.

"I'm very glad you could come, Charles. It'll be good to give you a direct insight into our work. And Heather, your boss, was very keen for this piece to go ahead. She thinks highly of you, you know."

Charles, slightly taken aback, attempted to regain the initiative. "Yes, she said you were asking for us to help you out with some positive coverage. I'd be delighted to find out more. James was just confirming how well things have been going commercially... You... you spoke with Heather, then?"

Lauren tilted her head to one side. "We're... connections. Business networking. It always pays to know the right people, and there are some good networks for female leaders in the area. Advice, defusing, and the occasional quid pro quo. You know the kind of thing."

"Well," said Charles, "this will of course be a piece of independent journalism. But I'm keen to find out about your success, both personally and as a business."

Lauren looked at him, a smile playing around her lips. "Of course you are. Well, you'd better come in. I see you already have coffee. James - no calls, please." She held the door, stepped back slightly, and gestured Charles into her office. He entered, through a miasma of exclusive perfume as he passed.

The office was more what he'd expected of an industrial unit. Thin grey panels made up the walling, the carpet was inexpensive, and a number of box files fought for space on a light oak bookshelf. The visitor's seat was a cheap swivel affair, with blue fabric, but it stood in contrast to the plush leather-backed affair from which Lauren directed operations. Her desk was similarly incongruous: dark wood, with green leather inlay, in an antique style that suggested craftsmanship and pound notes. It rather looked as though the business spent its money on the boss, but saved it on everything else.

Charles sat, and his ageing chair tilted slightly underneath him. Awkwardly regaining his balance, he pulled out a laptop, opened it, and perched it on his knee.

"So: if you're agreeable, I'll ask you a few questions about he business, and then perhaps we could do a brief tour of the premises? If that doesn't interrupt any current productions, of course?"

Lauren inclined her head momentarily, indicating assent. "Of course. We're only using two of the sets anyway at the moment, and they've both finished filming for the day. I wanted to avoid you stepping into the thick of things, as it were. It's good for you and I to have a little privacy." She sat back in her chair, crossed her legs, steepled her fingers in her lap, and eyed him with amusement, waiting.

"So: what brought you to this line of work?"

"Let's say: personal interest. They say that sex sells, and as a woman I've always been aware of the power that sexual fantasies have - on your gender. And of course, they say that you should always follow your interests."

"You were interested in pornography?"

"In power. Submission. Punishment. That's our niche in the market. And we focus on it relentlessly."

"It's brave of you to admit that. I mean, confessing to a submissive side doesn't entirely sit with the CEO title, does it? Still, I guess that after the whole fifty shades thing, it's more acceptable?"

Heather snorted with laughter, unexpectedly, before regaining herself. "Oh no, you misunderstand. I've never been of that persuasion. I see myself on the other side of the dynamic. And I think it's entirely congruent for a CEO to be dominant and assertive, wouldn't you say, Charles?" With obvious amusement, she watched him flush slightly.

Charles glanced at his screen, suddenly interested in pursuing a different line of questioning.

"And... this is commercially successful? What's the demand like?"

Lauren pursed her lips. "Oh come on. You've seen my accounts I'm sure - they're a matter of record. I generated a profit well into six figures last year, in our second full year of operations. I'm expecting us to more than double production levels this year, and I'm using around twenty actors on a regular basis now, as well as a dozen production staff." She paused. "Have you seen our content?"

Charles glanced up at her, meeting her eyes. He had, of course, albeit only briefly during the morning's preparation. But it would be more instructive to hear her talk about it herself. "Not really. Perhaps you could tell me more about it?"

"I can do better than that." She turned her monitor towards him, and with a few brief mouse clicks, filled the screen with a promotional video that Charles hadn't yet seen. "I had this prepared last week, for some investors I'm currently courting to support expansion. It's a content overview."

The screen was embarrassingly filled with scenes of punishment. Charles noted with discomfort that most of the victims were male, positioned in a series of humiliating positions. The montage began with a young man being pulled across a lady's knee and having his bottom smacked; it progressed through office and schoolroom scenes where adult males were paddled, caned, and struck with belts; and it climaxed (if that were the right word, in this case) with a man suspended from the ceiling, his back purple and red from the ministrations of some kind of multi-tailed whip. Charles' attention was drawn to the female actors: they were immaculate, unruffled, and matter-of-fact in the way that they inflicted maximum discomfort on their prey, in such short time. They were also invariably well-dressed, and pretty. This, he reassured himself, must be why he was starting to feel some unexpected involuntary reaction to the content in front of him. He re-positioned his laptop slightly.

"What do you think?" Lauren asked.

"It's... obviously quite high production quality. I can see that you must use good AV equipment."

Lauren stared at him. "You're rather good at deflecting, Charles. I can see why Heather has hopes for you." Charles began to ask a further question, but Lauren raised a finger to stop him. "Actually, I think it's probably about time we brought Heather into the conversation." She pushed a button on her phone. "James, get me Heather at the Echo, please? She's expecting the call."

Charles, bewildered, closed his laptop momentarily. What was going on here? He didn't have too long to wait. Heather's voice came across the speakerphone.

"Hi Lauren. Is he with you?"

"Yes, he is. You're on loudspeaker already."

"Charles? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Heather. You're confusing me a little here. Lauren explained that you know her but I thought you'd given me the full brief this morning..?"

"Well, not quite, Charles. You see, there's a secondary issue that I wanted sorting out." The line went momentarily silent, and Charles was acutely aware of Lauren, whose eyes were fixed on him as she stood up from her chair, and came to sit on the edge of the desk, almost directly over him. "Your last expenses claim."

Oh, fuck.

Charles knew that he'd massaged some mileage claims. The extra cash was, as he'd told himself, pretty much necessary if he was to get that new wall-mounted TV sorted. And a couple of fictional research trips would doubtless go unnoticed. Except, maybe they hadn't? He decided to bluff it through.

"I don't know what you mean. Heather?" He knew he was colouring up, but only Lauren could see this. Maybe his performance would be more convincing over the telephone.

"Two trips to the library in Southwood, Charles. To check local voter records, on the hard copy register. Sixty-three pounds, in expenses."

"Yes, that's right."

Silence.

"The library has been closed for renovation. Eight weeks back. It's due to re-open next month."

More silence. Charles was blank, unable to come up with an excuse.

"Heather... I'm really sorry. Look, I can explain. Can we discuss this in the office tomorrow? This doesn't really feel like the right time..." he tailed off.

"On the contrary, Charles. It feels like exactly the right time, Because being where you are gives you some options."

It was at this point that Lauren lifted the laptop from Charles, placed it on the desk, and folded it shut, all whilst holding his gaze. Bewildered, he looked at her, his mind racing about how to respond to his boss. But he didn't need to. Heather's voice rang out once more from the speaker.

"Normally, this would be gross misconduct, and the sack. An untrustworthy journalist is worthless. And I wouldn't rate your future chances in the sector much, particularly if HR insist on getting the police involved. Which, they might." Charles swallowed, hard. The telephone voice continued. "However, I've been impressed by your work to date. And I was wondering whether there might be alternative ways to dissuade you from dishonesty. And that," Heather concluded, "is exactly why it was so fortuitous to have Lauren in my network. Do you see where I'm going with this, Charles? Journalist that you are?"

Lauren, still seated uncomfortably close to Charles' personal space, crossed her legs, folded her arms, and looked down at him. There was silence.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Heather?" fumbled Charles, his self-possession now almost entirely gone.

"What do you think she's saying?" asked Lauren. "Let's be clear. Tell us."

"I - I - I think she's suggesting that I allow myself to be punished, here. That can't even be legal though. I mean, it's assault, if I'm not an actor."

Lauren chuckled. "Well, that would depend if you consent. Of course, you might prefer to decline the second chance that Heather is giving you. Personally, I'm not sure I'd be as generous."

"But - it's not even that much. Sixty three pounds!"

Heather's voice came back. "And what if it had been a local councillor pocketing that sum? Would it be important then? Would you act on that information, Charles? Or would you ignore it? Be careful, because there's only one right answer for an aspiring journo."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Charles was trapped. He could feel the sweat pricking on his brow, the uncomfortable stickiness under his armpits, the heat from his face as his blood rushed to it. "What exactly are you suggesting as my punishment? I mean, I know what you're suggesting, but how would this work?"

Heather's voice, again. "Lauren: I'm going to leave the details with you to work through. He's in your hands. If you're through with him before half five, and you've the inclination, do call me back on the mobile. I'll definitely want to know that he's been compliant. Otherwise, it'll be plan 'b'."

"Of course, darling," said Lauren smoothly. "I'll make sure there's no likelihood of recurrence. Speak soon." She pushed a button, and ended the call. The tension was almost unbearable in the room as Charles waited for her to speak.

"So, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to personally see to it that you leave here with a purple backside. You genuinely won't be able to sit comfortably for the next few days. You're going to be spanked, paddled, caned... I've a few implements here, as you'd imagine, and you'll be feeling a few of them across your ass. Sixty three pounds, wasn't it?"

Charles nodded, looking at the floor.

"That's not really very much though, is it, Charles?" She smiled. Sensing a chance of partial reprieve, Charles eagerly nodded agreement. "So..." continued Lauren, "sixty three strokes shouldn't be too hard a penalty for you to bear, I'd guess." She pushed herself off the desk, inches in front of him now, so that he moved his chair back almost involuntarily. Her tone changed. "Stand up, young man. Now."

Charles, embarrassed, did as he was asked, almost on autopilot now. And: 'young man'? She was only about five years older than him, but this didn't seem like the right time to be nit-picking. "Shoes and trousers off, please."

He fumbled with his laces, suddenly feeling exposed as he bent down to untie them, and with a quick glance at his uncompromising captor, undid the buckle on his belt. He pushed his trousers to his ankles, and stepped out of them, awaiting further instruction.

"Good. Put them on the chair, and come with me."

Charles recoiled. "You can't want me to go out there, surely? Not like this?"

"What, you don't think my employees are accustomed to seeing a punishment or two? And surely you don't think I keep implements in my office, do you? Perhaps you think I discipline my PA over the desk?" Charles remained silent, although he had to admit that the thought had occurred to him. "No, young man, all of our equipment is on set. And we'll make good use of it. Now, I shan't ask a second time. This way."

Lauren grabbed his wrist, and led him out into the anteroom. James looked up, but said nothing. From here, they proceeded into the open studio area, where Lauren guided him firmly towards the mock up lounge. A couple of female actors were sitting on the sofa, but rose at their approach. "Hi Lauren. You need the set?"

"Yes," said Lauren. "A little real-life discipline to dish out. Sorry to put you out. You could use the seats in the bedroom area if you want though. Oh and Tammy - I don't suppose you'd bring me the hairbrush from the dresser, would you? The ebony one?"

Charles flushed at his public humiliation. He consoled himself that whatever was going to happen, it would be over in the next half hour or so. It was like root canal work. You just had to go to your happy place for a while. Although, as he found out next, Lauren was keen to keep him as an active participant in his own demise.

"Fetch me that chair, Charles. The wooden one. And bring it here." He padded towards it in his socks, and picked it up. A straight backed oak chair, with no arms. He placed it uncertainly on the carpeted floor, in front of her, and looked up. Just as in the films, she was cool, collected and very much in control. And he was standing in public view, in socks and underpants, with a draught around his thighs, and the expectation of a very sore bottom. It was, frankly, humiliating, and he wished she'd just get things over with. Suddenly, he felt a sharp impact on his left buttock, and jumped.

"The hairbrush, Lauren," said the female he now knew to be Tammy, as she reached forwards with the implement. "Looks like he's going to have fun with this one!"

Lauren smiled at her, took it, and arranged herself deliberately on the chair. "Over you go, Charles." She waved a hand across her lap, as if there could be any misunderstanding. Charles knelt, awkwardly, and moved himself forwards. He heard her sigh, exasperated.

"For a journalist, you don't have an eye for detail, do you? I'm left handed. That means I need you the other way round. He pushed himself back up, collapsed forwards a little, and repeated the exercise in reverse. He was now staring down at the carpet, and if he lowered his chin he could see back past Lauren's impeccably polished shoes to his own socks, tiptoed on the ground to support the ungainly position that he now found himself in. The blood was rushing to his head, and he closed his eyes, wishing it would all go away. Lauren's voice brought him back into the room.

"I'm going to warm you up with the hairbrush, Charles. Twenty strokes, I think. It'll hurt, a lot, but believe me when I say that it will be nothing compared with the cane, when we get there. And as we go along, I expect you to count for me. I like to hear you struggle for breath, when you're losing composure, and even maybe stifling a sob or two. It helps me to know that I'm having an effect. After all, this isn't for my benefit, is it?" She tapped the brush on his left buttock. It felt deceptively cool, and not entirely unpleasant through the fabric of his thin underwear. "Have you ever been spanked like this before?"

He shook his head, miserably.

"Oh dear. Well, this should be quite the introduction."

He felt the brush lift from his backside, and then without warning, it crashed down again onto the exact same spot, but with a degree of venom that entirely took his breath away. The sounds echoed around he set, and from the corner of his eye he could see the two girls look across, upside down as they were now.

"Jesus!"

"Hmm. Is that some kind of foreign tongue? Is there a language in which that means 'one'? Only: I'm sure I told you to count. Let's use that as a rehearsal, then, and see if you get the hang next time." The brush crashed down onto his other cheek, leaving a red hot imprint that seemed to spread right the way across.

"Two! Two!"

Lauren sighed. "If the first was a rehearsal, then that should have been 'one', shouldn't it? I can see we're going to have some trouble with you, Charles. Listen, for the avoidance of doubt, we're going to keep doing this until you get your part right. In a moment, I'm going to hit you, and you're going to say 'one'. Clear?"

"Yes. Yes!"

Lauren resumed her labours, with aplomb. The first few spanks were hard, with a few seconds between strikes: just enough for Charles to find breath to gasp out the requisite number before she resumed. The pain was intense, but subsided to a bearable level just as she hit him again, timing to perfection so as to maximise his discomfort. But as she reached a dozen, two things happened. Firstly, he saw her place the brush onto the floor, on the far side of the chair, polished fingernails descending into view and relinquishing their grip before disappearing upwards again. Secondly, and a brief moment afterwards, he felt her reaching slightly inside the waistband of his briefs.

"Of course, you've had an easy beginning," said Lauren. "You should be getting accustomed to this by now. But, to be honest, I don't want you getting used to it. You know what they say - familiarity breeds contempt? So now we're going to up things a notch. You'll be bare for the remainder of your punishment." She pulled down the rear of his underwear, leaving both cheeks pretty much entirely exposed.

Charles now felt the brush directly against his skin, as she rubbed it in small cooling circles that seemed to provide a momentary relief. He felt sorry when it left his skin, and sorrier still when it re-connected.

"Thirtee... ahh! fourt... fuck! Fift- oh god oh god.."

Lauren delivered the remaining eight strokes in a flurry which left him no time to catch his breath, and he squirmed uselessly as she pounded his bottom, her right arm across his back now and holding him in place.

"There we go," said Lauren, with satisfaction, as Charles hyperventilated rapidly, willing the intense sting in his backside to subside. "We're about a third of the way there, now. Stand up, would you?"

Charles stood, and pulled up the rear of his briefs. She looked at him, unimpressed. "Did I tell you to pull those up, young man?"

Red-faced, Charles shook his head.

"Turn around."

She pulled his briefs down again, and delivered two stinging blows. "Now," she said, "take this brush back to Tammy, please."

Charles walked into the adjacent room, aware that the girls had been watching him all the while. Without meeting Tammy's eye, he held the brush out to her wordlessly. She took it, and giggled. "Thank you, darling. You need anything else?"

He shook his head slightly, and shuffled around back toward the lounge, where he could see that Lauren had already moved towards the large padded sofa. She beckoned him silently, with a single red-tipped finger.

"Over there." She pointed at the arm of the sofa, and he looked back at her quizzically. "I want you to put your ass up - head on the cushion, feet on the floor, head at the highest point. Oh, actually - no, not yet. Would you just be a dear and pop over to that drawer in the corner for me? If you open it, you'll find a black leather belt. I'd like you to bring it across. You'll be getting better acquainted with it in just a second."

Charles looked at her. Right now, sixty-three was beginning to seem like a very large number indeed. Sighing, he trotted off to the drawer, acutely aware of the itching pain in his backside, and the fact that it must be glowing bright red for all to see. Now that he was less focused on the pain of the hairbrush, he was beginning to notice the odd crew member and actor passing through, although none of them seemed inclined to pay him much attention. Clearly, thought Charles, there was nothing very unusual in this scene, at least from their perspective. But he hoped he wouldn't encounter any of them again.

He opened the drawer, and looked inside. There was a fair collection in there - a ruler, a kitchen spoon (why?) and even a small wooden paddle. In the corner was the belt, coiled thickly up on itself: properly wide, with a brass buckle and an expensively oiled look to it. Reluctantly, Charles picked it out, using both hands as if to avoid thinking about how Lauren would be holding it momentarily. He walked across and handed it to her.

"Briefs down, assume the position."

"But they're already down?"

"I want them at your knees. You see, the great thing about this position is that it allows me to access the sensitive part at the bottom of your ass. Right now, that's protected. And I did promise your boss that I'd make this an experience you'd remember. Now get on with it, or I can simply tell her that you didn't play ball with me?"

Charles pulled his briefs down, slowly, his hands moving to the front to cover his modesty. But Lauren pushed him forwards, her hand in the small of his back. "Over you go."

He knelt awkwardly in front of the sofa's arm, then lifted his upper body across it. He didn't know quite what to do with his hands, but after letting one hang uselessly at his side, he decided that he should fold them, and use them to rest his head. His backside was now very much raised, defenceless, and - of course - sore. Lauren stepped to the side of him, so that he could see her as he looked up. She grasped the buckle in her hand, and coiled the belt two or three times around it, leaving a couple of feet of heavy leather dangling down.

"You don't need to count this time, Charles. Although, I guarantee that you will, in your head, because you'll want to know when the pain will be over. But you might find it difficult to speak properly while I'm punishing you with this. This will be another twenty strokes. Unless you move, of course, or put your hands in the way, in which case it will be more. Understood?"

Charles nodded again, just an extra now on the film set, unable to do anything other than take direction and play his part. He took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Clenched his cheeks, ready for impact. And - silence. Just as he began to open them to see what Lauren was doing, she took the first swipe. It caught him off guard, and unready. He felt the soft leather bite into his backside, ten times worse than the brush. Jesus wept. Mouth agape, he tried desperately to think of other things, but in the corner of his eye he could see Lauren raise the belt again, her hand at shoulder height as she deftly whipped it forwards an instant before he felt the inevitable impact. He couldn't take this, he really couldn't. But he couldn't stand, and he couldn't leave, because there was no question of taking extra strokes, and because he needed this damned job. So he stayed in position, willing himself down, feeling the adrenaline coursing through him and smelling the perfume of his tormentor as she bruised and welted his rear end, a stroke at a time, slowly, deliberately, methodically.

She'd been right about that area at the base of his ass, too, as he discovered near the end, when she targeted what she called his 'sit spot.' It was all Charles could do to hold position as the belt connected with his thighs, producing a pain that he hadn't previously thought he could handle. But he was a little light-headed now, and for a moment it felt like he was looking down on the scene from above, showing reserves of control that he'd never known he possessed. And then - it stopped. The pain now was uniform, all-consuming, but strangely manageable; it was as if his whole body was throbbing, but becoming attuned to these sensations as the new normal.

"Good. Get up."

Charles did so. He looked at her to see whether he should pull his underwear up but as she gave no sign, he left his pants awkwardly at his knees. She handed him the belt. "Put it back, and then step across to the study area with me." Turning on her heel, she walked coolly off towards the school setting, not watching as he shuffled awkwardly towards the drawer, and then fifteen yards back towards her as she waited to deliver the next part of his punishment. He kept his hands in front of his genitals, although even as he did so he was asking himself whether things could become more embarrassing anyway.

"Now then. You'll be pleased to know that we won't be using the dungeon area today. I don't think you're quite ready for that: it needs a degree of tolerance that even our actors don't always possess. But I think you'll find that we can make your visit to the Headmistress' study quite memorable enough." She smiled, without warmth, and stepped behind the large desk that occupied centre stage. Opening the drawer, she drew out two items and placed hem on top. The first was a wide leather strap, with splits at the end, leaving three vicious and thick looking tails. "Tawse," nodded Lauren, seeing his gaze. The second item was a large wooden bat, with holes drilled in it, a good couple of feet long. "A paddle, that one. They're very popular in the US. Almost enough of a punishment in themselves. And lastly..." - she walked to a tall oak cupboard in the corner - "the cane." Taking out a long crook-handled stick, she swooshed it diagonally downwards three or four times, producing a noise that made Charles wince involuntarily.

"So I'm thinking..." she put a finger to her chin, and pondered, "... six with the paddle, six with the cane. And that would be us done. Do you think that's about right, young man?"

Charles nodded. He had no choice, but also - although it sounded pretty dire, it was a lesser sentence than he'd been anticipating. And then she carried on. "Apart from the tawse, of course. Because I hadn't forgotten - we need to reach sixty-three, don't we? Tell me, does that feel like a slightly higher number, now?"

He nodded, again, not meeting her eye. "Look at me." He dragged his gaze upwards, watching her standing hands on hips, still immaculate, the cane hanging loosely from her left hand. "Does it?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I claimed the money. I'm so sorry. Please - I don't know how much more I can take."

"Don't worry, Charles, we're going to give your bottom a break, for a moment. Step towards the desk." She put the cane down next to the other implements, then thoughtfully picked up the tawse. "They used to use these in Scotland quite a lot. Mostly, they were for punishing the hands. Very memorable, I'm told. It left the recipient struggling to use their hands for a short while, I believe. So - it would have been difficult for them to fill out... oh, false expense claims, for example. Hold out your right hand. Left hand underneath it, supporting, And keep those thumbs to the side." She stepped forwards, arranging him to her satisfaction, and then retreated a pace. Holding the tawse out, she rested it gently on the open palm of his hand. She looked him directly in the eye. "I want you looking at me as I do this. I want you to remember why you're here, and how you were made to feel small, humiliated, and sore. And I want you to think about that every time you fill out a claim form in the future. Now prepare yourself."

She looked momentarily down at his hand, raised the strap to shoulder height, and brought it crashing down. The air seemed to be sucked from the room, and the walls closed in as Charles felt the pain. He bent double, clasping his hand to his chest.

"Stand."

He looked up at her, pleading with his eyes, but it was no use. He extended his right hand again.

"No, left one this time. Seven strokes, and we're going to alternate. Other hand underneath for support." She widened her stance slightly, measured the distance, and repeated the stroke. Charles, in turn, repeated his part of the dance - bending double, gasping for breath, tears in his eyes now. The next five strokes passed in a hazy blur, but what he remembered most clearly was her piercing look as she held his gaze through as much of the punishment as possible. Intimate, almost, as he submitted to her will. As she punished him so comprehensively, with just a few short minutes of her time, in between meetings. He shook his hands, blowing uselessly on them.

"Now how's that bottom feeling?" He'd almost forgotten what was to come. She gestured towards the desk. "I want you bending slightly forward over there. You can rest on your hands, arms straight. You'll need something to steady you." The tawse was replaced in the drawer, and she picked the wooden bat up. As he took up position, she stepped behind him, holding it in both hands. Jesus, he thought. This must be what a tennis ball felt like. And, as he was to find, her forehand stroke was pretty remarkable. Six times she struck him, each time refreshing the pain of his previous beating, and adding further to it. When she'd finished, he felt like he could hardly raise himself to stand straight again.

Stepping towards him, she touched his rear with the back of her soft hand. "My gosh, that feels very warm. I'm guessing it's pretty sore by now. You've got - " and here, she paused to poke some particularly sensitive spots with a shiny fingernail - "some real bruising coming up, there. That's the thing about the paddle. The holes do tend to create bruises. Which I quite like, if I'm honest, because it means you'll be feeling this for a good few days yet. And you will be, won't you?"

Charles looked down. "Yes. Yes, I will," he agreed ruefully.

"Home straight now though. Just six of the best to go. Touch toes, then?"

Charles bent awkwardly forwards. He could barely reach his shins, but hoped this would do. She watched his struggle with an air of amusement. "Oh dear. Someone's a little inflexible, are they? Guess that's your future as a spanking model out of the window. You'd need to work on that first. Otherwise, though, I'd say your tolerance has been pretty good, especially for a first time. Tell you what, put your hands on your knees. That should do the job, for now. But whatever you do, don't stand up. Or: you know what happens..?"

"You repeat the stroke."

"No, no. You're used to this by now. So there are no excuses. What happens is, we start again from one. Think you can stay down?"

Charles genuinely wasn't sure. But he knew damned well that he didn't want extra strokes. So with all the willpower he could muster, he bent forwards, looking at the briefs still around his knees, and behind him, to the left, at Lauren's polished loafers as she took up position and tapped the cane gently against his bottom.

Of all that days' punishments, Charles was never sure quite which was the worst. For sure, he wouldn't want to repeat any of them. Ever. But it was certain in his mind that the caning he received next was right up there. The cane bit into his already tender flesh with a venom that he'd thought impossible, leaving a brief white stripe - as Lauren told him, with a running commentary - that quickly faded and melted into the reds and purples of his throbbing posterior. The final stroke was delivered right at the base of his ass, again, and he could have sworn that she was willing him to stand up. He almost did, but he was focusing so hard on holding his knees now that he managed to stay down, and he took a deep breath as he heard her step to one side.

"There. We're done. Collect your things, get yourself decent, and meet me back in the office."

She walked off. Charles slowly pulled his briefs back up, and stepped slowly off towards the lounge area, heading back to the office at a snail's pace. Tammy and her co-conspirator below him a kiss as he limped past them, and as he reached the anteroom he saw that James was, mercifully, absent. Then he knocked and opened the office door, to find the two of them in conversation. He discreetly picked up his trousers and shoes from where he'd left them in the corner.

Lauren was handling a piece of paper.

"Great work, James. Please go ahead and approve the quote, and tell Jen we're looking forward to seeing her tomorrow. Actually - would you order her a bouquet? We'll give it to her when she comes in. She's saved our bacon there."

James smiled, then turned, and saw Charles, who was now in the middle of pulling on his trousers. He looked down, and Charles could swear that he smirked as he brushed past on his way out the door. Lauren spoke to him.

"Well, I'd invite you to sit, Charles, but I don't imagine you'll want to." The phone buzzed, and Lauren picked up the receiver. "Yeah, hi. Hang on, I'll get you on speaker." She sat down, crossed her legs, and pressed a button.

"Well, Heather, we're done. I've a very sore young journalist here in front of me now. Standing up, of course. You want to speak with him?"

"Charles?"

"Hi, Heather." Charles pushed his feet into his shoes, deciding not to bend and do the laces up for now.

"So I understand that Lauren has given you something of a lesson today? About your expenses? That right?"

"Mmmm, yeah," mumbled Charles.

"Do speak up. So what exactly did she use on you? We haven't had time to discuss the details."

Charles flushed. "A brush. A cane. A strap. A belt, A paddle. And another strap thing..."

"Tawse," cut in Lauren. "He felt that one particularly, I think. We almost had full on crying for a moment there, if I'm not mistaken."

"And you think," came the voice from the loudspeaker, "that this will put a stop to any future naughtiness, Charles?"

He was about to speak when Lauren cut across him. "Well don't forget, Heather, you don't have to trust to chance on that."

"How do you mean, darling?"

"I'll send you the recording."

Charles' mouth hit the floor.

"I mean, it won't be edited and all, but the on-set cameras will have caught quite enough of the action. Just imagine an inadvertent leak!" She put her hand to her mouth in mock horror. "Not just professionally embarrassing, pretty much career-ending I'd have thought. Won't bother me in the slightest - my presence would simply add a further frisson of excitement for our clients. Probably increase sales. Hmm..." she eyed Charles momentarily..."I'd never thought of you as a possible marketing ploy." She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm just having you on. But not about the recording. It'll be in your inbox by the morning, Heather. And now - if you don't mind, I've got some things to do before I head off to yoga tonight. All good, Heather?"

"Absolutely. And - thanks so much. I'll look forward to seeing the piece that Charles writes for you. I'm sure it'll be very positive. And I'll make sure you get a prominent spot in the weekend publication. Pleasure doing business. Ok... Bye... bye... byebyebye."

The phone went dead. Lauren looked up.

"I'm looking forward to seeing that piece myself, Charles. I know you're independent and all but - you'd have to agree, we do know how to do things properly around here. Can you show yourself out?"

Charles nodded, but she'd already looked down, and was opening up a file on her computer. He didn't see her look up and smile at his retreating rear, as he exited her study, and headed for the car park. Two things were sure. First, he'd not be fiddling his expenses again. And second, he was going to be in the office for the remainder of the week - because that was where they had the upright standing desks.

He winced, and pulled out his keyfob.