Chapter Three

‘GET YOUR EGG timer, set it for thirty minutes, go to the corner of your room and stay there until you hear the alarm go off.’

I read through the instructions quickly then typed back.

‘Why?’

‘Because I told you to.’

I flipped my computer screen the bird and whispered, ‘Because you’re an asshole!’ but I was grinning as I went to the kitchen to carry out the task.

SecretSadist and I had a thing going on, though it was probably nothing as tangible as an affair, or as respectable as a relationship. It was, at this stage, just a thing. He sent me tasks and I completed them.

I heard the little xylophoney blurt that announced another message.

‘Have you done it yet?’

‘No, obviously, or I wouldn’t be replying.’

‘I don’t care for your tone, young lady. While you’re in the corner, I want you to consider long and hard what you have been sent there for. I want you to imagine all the things I might have in store for you, to teach you the lesson you so badly need. When you come out, I want you to tell me what you think you deserve in the way of punishment. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What are you going to be punished for?’

‘Excessive levity, sir.’

‘Exactly. Not to mention insolence.’

‘Oh, on that subject, I should confess that I just called you an asshole, sir. Sorry about that.’

‘You will be! Now set that timer and get to the corner. Thank you for your honesty btw.’

I put down the timer and put my nose in the corner, imagining SecretSadist to be sitting in my armchair, long legs crossed, hands steepled, spectacles halfway down his nose.

Now this, I thought, folding my hands behind my back, was more like it. The kind of fun that made me squirmy and damp between the thighs, without the fear or unpredictability of that awful meeting with Andreu last weekend. SecretSadist seemed to have the measure of me, gleaned from a great many evening conversations by instant messenger, during which we had pared our kinks down to the bone. They matched. And he was in no hurry to corral me into a meeting. We were going to take it slowly, see how things went.

I shut my eyes and relaxed into the feeling. I was wearing, as instructed, only my underwear, including a pair of stockings and suspenders I hadn’t seen since that wet weekend in Bognor with Gareth. My nipples were teased by the chafing lace of my bra cup, held in a state of perfect stiffness, waiting for a touch, a kiss, anything to justify their engorged ripeness. Cool air drifted down my bare spine to the powder-blue suspender belt, on which my crossed hands rested, the thumbs pulling at the elastic for something to do. My thighs were goosepimpled above the stocking tops. I rubbed them together, enjoying the friction of my silky knickers against my clit. Was I allowed to do this? Was I allowed to be frisky in the corner? I would have to ask.

Perhaps it would add to my punishment. Oh, glory. Just the thought of the word, not even spoken out loud, made my stomach tighten and my knickers drench. SecretSadist was going to punish me. But how? I pushed back my bottom, feeling the silk stretch tauter over my cheeks, imagining myself bent over for SecretSadist’s cane.

Oh God. How much longer? I peeked at the egg timer. Still ages to go.

How would his hands feel, on my slippery, sheeny bum? Patting and tapping, stroking and sliding and then, smack, a hot red handprint to remember him by. Would he be very angry with me if I unclasped my hands and slid a finger inside the elastic ..? I didn’t have to tell him.

No, Cherry, you do.

There was no point to this if I was going to cheat. I had to follow the orders to the letter, or I might as well give up.

If I was going to make it through the next twenty minutes, though, I needed to stop thinking horny thoughts and empty my mind.

Empty your mind, empty your mind …

Was Kacey McMillan really going to cut the mustard as Maria? She had quite a good voice, but it had a strident quality that didn’t really suit the gentle Hispanic heroine of West Side Story. Never knowingly seen without gum in her mouth or twenty pounds of gold hanging off her ears, Kacey had a bray that could be heard on the Isle of Wight. She had been delighted to win the role of Maria “’cos it’s like, next stop X Factor, innit?’ but had shown little knowledge or understanding of what winning that role might now entail. In a word, work. Hard work. Something Kacey wasn’t renowned for.

At least Tony was going to be played by Tunde. As a teacher, I wasn’t supposed to have favourites, but I could hardly help being won over by Tunde’s natural musicality and sensitivity. Some days, he was the only person who spoke to me in more than a monosyllable. He worked hard and with genuine enthusiasm in composition lessons because, as he said, ‘I need to work out how to get all these sounds in my head down on paper.’ He played the French horn and the electric guitar like a pro, and he had the most beautiful mellow voice. Listening to it was like lying back in a bath of warm chocolate.

But Tunde and Kacey … Hardly the pair you’d put together.

Still, Superhead thought it would work. If it failed, he would take the rap.

A rap across the knuckles.

Chastisement.

Discipline.

My thighs squeezed tight again. No matter what I thought about, it came back to the imminence of my punishment. I was supposed to be thinking about my wrongdoings. What were they? Over the course of our week-long thing, I had been guilty of flippancy, cheek and teasing SecretSadist about his job (accountancy). When I’d found out he kept a spreadsheet balance of my bad behaviour and its consequences, I started taking his qualifications seriously. Accountants made good doms, of course they did. Who better to hold one to account?

I pictured the spreadsheet, a long list of black marks in one column and then, in the other … What? What would my punishment be?

The egg timer buzzed and my pulse raced. I wasn’t ready to come out of the corner and face my fate. I needed to stand there for longer, letting the dread seep into my pores and permeate my being. But he would be waiting for me, so I padded over to the computer and typed in the words, ‘I’m ready, sir,’ even though I wasn’t.

‘Good. Did you behave yourself in the corner?’

‘Yes, sir! I thought about … doing things … but I didn’t.’

‘Good. I won’t enquire… So? Your thoughts? What might your just desserts be?’

I almost typed “trifle” but I held back, knowing that this would hardly be in the spirit of contrition SecretSadist had hoped to instil.

‘I’m not sure. Maybe I should get sent to bed without supper.’

‘Maybe.’

Ugh, no. Not sexy. Don’t do that!

‘Or …’

‘???’

‘Something embarrassing … I can’t say it …’

‘Say it. Go on.’

‘If you were here …’

‘If I were there …’

‘You could put me over your knee …’

‘And?’

‘Give me what I deserve.’

‘Which is?’

‘Argh! Don’t make me say it!’

‘I’m not. This is typeface. I’ll make you say it when we meet, though, make no mistake. So? I’m waiting. It’ll be worse for you if you make me hang on much longer.’

‘Damn it! You could spank me.’

‘Language, young lady! Yes, I certainly think you’ve earned a spanking. If only I were there, I’d have you over my knee right now.’

‘ … ’

‘I’d pull your scanty silky knickers down to your knees, miss, and then I’d smack your bare bottom hard until it glowed redder than fire.’

‘Ouch.’

‘And if you weren’t sorry, I’d make you fetch your hairbrush and I’d apply it to your stinging rump until you begged for mercy. And then I’d spank you some more.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘You’ll bear it on your bottom. Your bare bottom. One day. Soon.’

‘Eek. (Can’t wait).’

‘But for now your naughtiness will have to be dealt with otherwise. I can’t very well ask you to spank yourself, can I?’

‘S’pose not.’

‘What I can do is unpick the threads of what makes a spanking such an effective form of discipline and try to apply those elements in a different way. So, brainstorm for me, what’s so bad about a spanking?’

‘Umm, it hurts, for one.’

‘Right. Pain. What else?’

‘It’s embarrassing.’

‘Excellent! Embarrassment.’

‘And humbling.’

‘Humiliation. My favourite. Anything else?’

‘Makes me feel submissive and powerless.’

‘Exactly. And, dare I suggest, excited?’

‘When it’s over.’

‘It makes you wet?’

‘*blush* yes, sir.’

‘I like it when you blush. On both sets of cheeks.’

‘So do I.’

‘Do you have a vibrator?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Seriously? I thought everyone had them these days.’

‘I’ve thought about getting one … Just never got around to it.’

‘Well, that’s good.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Because your punishment is this. You will put a coat – nothing else – over your underwear and walk to the nearest adult shop. Do you have one nearby?’

I didn’t reply for several minutes. I was too aghast to type. Yes, there was a sex shop in Albert Road, about 15 minutes’ walk away, but, but, but …

‘What if a pupil/parent/member of staff sees me?’

‘It’s dark, isn’t it? And there’s no law against teachers having sex lives, is there?’

‘There might be. Even if there isn’t, I bet there’s a White Paper about it somewhere in the system.’

‘You can get a cab if you want. Straight in and out, nobody will see you.’

‘Ugh. I suppose so. It’s such a seedy little place, though, looks as if it smells funny inside.’

‘Probably does. All the better for your punishment, my dear.’

‘Humph.’

‘Don’t sulk. Once you’re inside, you will buy a pair of nipple clamps and a vibrator. But – here’s the humiliating element – you won’t browse the shelves for them. You will ask the sales assistant for them.’

‘OH GOD NO!’

‘Oh God yes. You can refuse if you want, but it’ll mean Game Over.’

‘No, I’ll do it. But can’t I go to the neighbouring town?’

‘If you want to spend the cab fare, be my guest. I don’t care which sex shop you go to, just as long as you go to one. And I want it to be the old-fashioned sleazy type. No “for the girls” frills and trappings. Do you understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That sounded a mite sulky, was it intended to be?’

‘No, sir!’

‘Good. When you’ve bought them, come back and message me. I’ll give you some more instructions.’

‘OK.’

‘Not “OK”, AtYourService. Do you need more time in the corner?’

‘No, sir. I meant “Yes, sir”.’

‘I’m sure you did. Now go and get your coat and ring that cab. I’ll speak to you later.’

‘Goodbye, sir. Thank you, sir.’

I logged off, my hands shaking. Was I going to do this?

I picked up the phone, put it down, picked it up again. Dialled the number of the cab firm I always used, put it down again. Picked it up, dialled again.

‘Hi, I need a cab to Albert Road, please. From South Parade Gardens. For Cherry. Thanks.’

I contemplated myself in the full-length hall mirror, reaching for my longest coat. The silky knickers were spotted with evidence of my arousal and my nipples formed hard protrusions through the flimsy bra cup. I was turned on. SecretSadist was evil, but he knew exactly how far and how hard to push me. Impressive. When could we meet?

I pulled on the coat and buttoned it to the neck. The satiny lining felt cold and smooth against the bare expanses of my skin, brushing my bottom where the knickers rose in a high cut, swishing around my nude thighs.

In the cab, I shifted around, finding the silkiness too slippery to settle, pinching my coat closed in case it should fall open and reveal too much to the driver.

‘Just on the corner here. Can you wait for me? I’ll be five minutes, ten tops.’

‘OK.’

It was early evening and the street wasn’t too busy. An hour earlier it would have been filled with studenty types seeking vintage clothing and original pressings of Led Zeppelin LPs. In about an hour, it would be filled with studenty types seeking beer and snogs. But for now, it was relatively safe to keep that coat hem scrunched in my fist and run, clip-clop, across the pavement to the shop.

It could hardly look less welcoming. The frontage was painted in an unattractive brown, while the window was blanked out by beige strip blinds. Parceltaped to the door were a variety of handwritten notices, including one that said “Are you over 18?” and another than forbade smoking on the premises.

I didn’t dare look around me to see if I was observed, but quickly pushed open the door, finding the shop empty but for a bored-looking young woman reading a magazine.

‘Can I help?’ she asked.

I sighed a breath of enormous relief. Thank God she was a woman. This wouldn’t be quite so bad as I’d thought.

‘Yeah, uh, I’m looking for a good vibrator.’ The words just came out! And nothing happened, except that she smiled faintly, revealing lipstick-coloured teeth.

‘Oh right. Most of the girls like this one.’ She pulled out a flesh-pink thing with some kind of mechanism at the base. ‘Cos it’s got, like, a clit-stimulator too, yeah? What do you think? It’s our top seller.’

‘I’ll take it,’ I said without pausing to even look at it. Hearing this woman talk about clit stimulators in her flat estuarine accent as if they were vegetables on a grocery list was making me want to giggle.

She shoved it into a brown paper bag.

‘Twenty quid, love,’ she said.

‘Oh, there was something else.’ I swallowed. Vibrators were easy to buy – they had become an acceptable thing to carry in one’s handbag along with the lipsticks and breath mints – but my other item was rather less so.

She paused, hanging on to the bag, sword-like blue fingernails poised over the cash register.

I lowered my voice, hoping the words wouldn’t get stuck in my throat.

‘Nipple clamps.’

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows leapt.

‘What sort? Clover or regular?’

‘Oh … I don’t know …’

‘Hang on. Steve!’ She bellowed through a doorway hung with a plastic strip curtain.

Could I leave with just one of the items on the list? Could I just slap the twenty down and snatch the bag and run?

A huge man in dark glasses appeared. Behind the glasses it was entirely possible he was checking me out.

‘Customer wants nipple clamps but she don’t know if she wants clover or regular. Can you get the display ones out to show her?’

‘Sure.’ He took a key from his jeans pocket and unlocked a cabinet under the counter. ‘Are they for you?’ he asked, producing a box of little silvery tormentors.

No, they’re for my aunt’s Christmas stocking. Of course they’re for me.

I nodded, staring at the objects. Should I ask for a recommendation? Horribly aware of the man’s fascination, I decided to choose quickly, before he started licking his lips.

‘Them!’ I said, jabbing a finger at the prettiest pair. They looked like earrings with a series of crystal drops dangling from the ends.

‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘Not the most painful. Are you new to this kind of sensation play?’

‘Yes. How much do I owe you?’ I really didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation.

‘Thirty four pounds ten,’ contributed the woman.

‘He’s in for a treat.’ Steve smirked.

‘Or she,’ I said primly, and then he really did lick his lips.

‘Ah,’ he said.

I threw down the money, grabbed the bag and made an abrupt about-face, forgetting in my confusion to hang on to the hem of the coat as I raced along the pavement to my waiting cab.

I’m pretty sure he got an eyeful of stocking and suspendered thigh.

Oh well.

I hung up my coat, threw down the bag and logged on.

‘Are you there?’

‘Hello, AtYourService. Did you succeed in your task?’

‘I’ve got what you asked for.’

‘Good girl. Describe what happened for me.’

I typed a brief paragraph outlining the purchase of the items.

‘Was it really like that?’

‘Yes. It was really like that.’

‘Well, so you say, but I think it was really like this …’

I leant forward, expectant.

‘Are you wearing your coat?’

‘No.’

‘Put it on.’

I did so and came back.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You pushed open the door to find the shop full of men, browsing the magazines and fetish toys. Each and every one of them looked up when you entered the room, and their greedy, lecherous eyes stayed on you as you walked to the counter to make your request of the woman there. The phrase “being undressed by a man’s eyes” came into your head and stayed there, as you became uncomfortably convinced that they all knew what you were – or weren’t – wearing under your coat. Behind you, you could hear whispers, even the odd hint of a growl. They were watching you. You asked the woman to show you the vibrators. She took out a selection and, while you looked at them, she asked the men which one they would recommend. One or two of the customers were behind you now, looking over your shoulder, breathing on your neck. They asked you how big you liked it and whether you needed strong or weak vibration settings. Somehow you knew you had to answer their questions, and by the time they were finished you had outlined every exquisite detail of your penetration preferences, so that all in the room knew that you liked a big cock, a hard, forceful fuck and plenty of clitoral stimulation. The woman chose the vibrator she thought would suit you, then you asked for the nipple clamps.

‘Steve came into the shop with the tray.

‘“We have different sizes. The best way is to try a few on,” he said. “Why don’t you take off your coat?”

‘You hesitated, looking behind you for the door, trying to judge how quickly you could get there, but your feet wouldn’t move.

‘“Oh, she’s shy,” laughed the woman. “Boys, help her off with her coat.”

‘(Take off your coat, AYS.)’

I stood up and shrugged it off, my mouth dry. I saw that part of the lining was damp where I had been sitting. I sat back down on the swivel chair and typed, fingers trembling.

‘Have done, sir.’

‘Good. You stood in the shop, surrounded on all sides by salivating men, in your tiny silky undies, stockings and heels. Now the growling was louder, there were whistles and low-voiced comments.

‘“She’s come in here dressed for sex.”

‘“She wants more than a vibe and set of clamps, mate.”

‘“Look at that arse! And those tits. I hope she shows us her pussy too.”

‘The shopkeeper, Steve, smiled at you.

‘“Lovely outfit. We’ve got some underwear you might like here. I think a bit of latex would suit you, actually. What do you think?”

‘You told them you couldn’t afford anything extra today.

‘“Another time then.”

‘He picked up a pair of clamps, the ones that you chose.

‘Go and fetch them, AYS.’

I tipped them out of the bag. They jingled faintly. Such dainty, delicate things – could they really be that painful?

‘I’ve got them, sir.’

‘Good girl. He came around to the front of the counter and sat himself down on it, facing you. You made no sound, not even the teeniest little protest, when he reached out his hands and tucked the cups of your bra down underneath your breasts with his thumbs – though you did flinch just a little. Those big, rough thumbs rubbed across your nipples, finding them stiff and swollen. Pull down your bra cups, AYS, and caress your nipples for me.’

They were, as he said, stiff and swollen. The feel of my thumbs against the sensitive flesh made me gasp.

‘How does it feel?’

‘They’re huge, sir, and very sensitive.’

‘Good. By now, the customers were heaving and surging around you, desperate to touch you the way Steve was doing, but the woman urged them to be patient and just watch. Perhaps their turn would come later. Steve took one clamp, opened it, then placed it gently on your left nipple. You know what I want you to do.’

I took up one clamp, which was like a slimmer version of a tweezer, and opened its rubber-coated ends. Grimacing before I had even applied it, I positioned the suddenly mean-looking tips either side of my nipple, then let them move inward, slowly, slowly, until they touched the flesh. The pressure increased infinitesimally with each fractional releasing of my finger and thumb. I began to pant and then uttered a heartfelt “yeowch” when I let go. The crystals swayed and stroked the underside of my breast. It hurt, but I worked on controlling my panic and soon the immediate crisis receded, the pain becoming duller and more manageable.

‘I’m wearing it, sir.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘It was a sharp pain to begin with, but it’s not so bad now. Just a kind of throb. Still hurts, though.’

‘Good. Keep it on. Steve watched your face as the clamp bit into you with obvious satisfaction.

‘“Painful, eh?”

‘“Yes, Sir.”

‘You didn’t know why you’d called him “sir” – it just slipped out. He seemed mighty pleased with it and stroked a finger down your cheek before applying the right clamp …’

I didn’t need the instruction this time. I just did it, quicker than before, screwing up my eyes for the momentary flash of hot pain, then opening them slowly.

‘I have both clamps on, sir.’

‘Good. Keep them on until I tell you otherwise.’

‘Will do, sir.’

‘Then Steve took hold of your shoulders and turned you slowly around, to show the men how you looked with your juicy little nipples trapped in the clamps. They wanted to touch them, of course, but Steve forbade it and you were relieved, because they had never felt so unbearably sensitive as this. Once he was sure everyone had had a good look, he picked up the vibrator …’

I reached over for the plastic bag and took the pink silicone monstrosity from its box. God, did it come with batteries supplied? I pressed the button quickly and was reassured by the low buzz that issued from it. Good.

‘Got it, sir.’

‘Thank you for telling me. Steve told you that he was unwilling to sell you the vibrator until you had sampled it and found it to your satisfaction. When he ordered you to bend over the counter, you did so without question. The beads from your nipple clamps made a clattering sound over the glass top and you squeaked as the nipples made contact with the cold, cold surface.

‘Steve pulled down your knickers, nice and slowly, so that the silky material whispered over your well presented bum, tickled your thighs and came to rest by the suspender snaps. They could go no lower, which wasn’t ideal for Steve’s purposes, so he took a big pair of scissors and cut them off.’

‘Oh!’

‘Don’t cut yours up. Just take them off.’

‘OK.’

‘Then his big, rough hand slipped between your thighs and his fingers dipped into your displayed cunt, finding it soaking wet. He ordered you to spread your legs as wide as they would go, then he held up his shiny, coated fingers to the rest of the room, so that they all would know just what a horny slut you were.

‘“I think she needs this, lads.”

‘They cheered and jostled forwards, all eager to see your tight wet pussy and your fat, red clit.

‘Steve picked up the vibrator and began to insert it, with torturous slowness, up inside you. You were gasping and mewling with need, begging him to stuff it in and fill you up, but he took his time, inch by inch, opening you up in front of everyone until the silicone cock was up to the hilt and the clit stimulator rested against your little button. Shall I give you a minute?’

I was puffing and panting with the effort of squeezing the vibrator up inside me, leaning over the computer desk with my knickers down and the nipple clamps swinging merrily. Once it was all the way in, I felt almost ready to come then and there – something about its design meant that it maintained pressure on my G-spot and was holding me in a state of near-climax right from the start. This story might be ending sooner than SecretSadist intended.

‘Are you still there?’

One shaking finger typed, ‘Yes.’

‘Close?’

‘Yes.’

‘You will not come until I say so. So … there you were, bent over the counter, clamped and spread-legged while Steve rotated the vibrator inside your clenching cunt. He invited each of the men in turn to come and see your exposure at close quarters. They would crouch, sniffing at your juicy pussy, seeing the pink latex thrust in and out, looking further up the curve of your arse, which jiggled and wobbled. Steve gave them each permission to touch your arse while he continued to handle the vibe firmly. Their hands petted and patted and parted your cheeks, unfamiliar fingers sliding inside the crack and poking at the little pucker. You came hard, over and over again, with a different man’s finger up your arsehole each time, pushing back on them, begging for mercy, begging for more. You may come now.’

It was too late. I already had, about halfway through the paragraph, as soon as he got to the bit about the strange men sniffing me. I slumped over the keyboard.

‘isaht;oiahn;ogihnwo;aihnoei,’ I typed.

By the time I was able to raise my head, having pulled the vibe slowly from my still-spasming pussy, he had typed quite a few more lines.

‘That’s the effect I was aiming for.’

Then, ‘AtYourService?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Have you passed out? That’s one good vibrator.’

I put my elbows on the desk and hit the keys slowly and haphazardly.

‘I camw reiauly harkd.’

‘So it seems.’

But now I had a confession. I had not waited for his permission. Should I tell him? Should I earn further punishment? Or would he appreciate my honesty and let me off? I waited for my fingers to stop doing their impression of leaves in the wind and pressed my lips together.

‘I have to apologise for something.’

‘Really? What’s that? Don’t tell me you faked it.’

‘No, no, I did everything you said. To the letter. But I didn’t wait for your permission to come. I was already coming when you gave it.’

Seconds ticked by. I bit down on my forefinger, desperate for the little bleep heralding an incoming message.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I typed into the silence.

Then, ‘I understand if you want to punish me.’

Ah, a response.

‘You have many lessons to learn, AtYourService, but I’m a patient man and I like to teach. If you were the fully formed submissive, I would have no challenge, and I would be bored. So don’t worry about needing instruction. I can give it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Now, you’ll need to be taking those clips off. And do it slowly. You’ll find the sensation quite intense.’

I shook my head, astonished that I had forgotten all about the clamps. The dull throb of my nipples had faded into the background once my lust had flooded in.

SecretSadist was quite right. My nipples roared back to painful life as soon as the little tormentors were removed and I danced around the room on tiptoes, making every grimace under the sun, relieved that nobody could see me.

‘OUCH!’ I typed.

‘Ha. Painful, eh?’

‘Very.’

‘What do your nipples look like?’

‘Red alert.’

‘I’ll bet. So, you mentioned a punishment. Well …’

Oh dear. The ellipse stretched out to the crack of doom.

‘Today is Saturday. Until next Saturday, nothing will touch your pussy. I am sentencing you to a virtual chastity belt.’

‘No orgasms?’

‘That’s correct. Just goodness and virtue, for a whole week. I shall expect you to check in with me every evening at approximately nine o’clock, when I shall weave you a filthy fantasy in which you will star. But you will not touch yourself, just read it and weep. Or squirm.’

‘That’s awfully cruel, sir. Brilliantly cruel, in fact.’

‘I know. Goodnight, AYS. Behave yourself.’

‘Goodnight, sir. I will.’

It was an arduous week. Every day I worked hard, every evening I did my marking, did my planning, then logged on to read another of SecretSadist’s gothically kinky sex fantasies. I felt my clit swell and my pussy flood, my knickers grow wet and my nipples grow hard, but I kept my hands on the keyboard, as ordered, throughout.

Afterwards, I would take a shower, a vain attempt to wash away my arousal, but the silky, soapy shower gel felt so sensuous and the steam so humid that it made it worse. It would take just the stroke of a fingertip …

I took to wearing a pair of those tight figure-fixer knickers to bed, just because they were so damn hard to wriggle a hand inside. I would lie on my front, thighs clamped together, hands raised up above my head, face pressed into the pillow, trying to think about anything but SecretSadist and when we might meet and what might happen at that meeting.

My dreams were vivid and overblown with sensual imagery. I was tied to a tree; I was lying in a bath of feathers that tickled me beyond endurance; a hairdryer was being blown all over my body; a thick snake parted my thighs and pressed its head to my pussy lips.

I think I must have had orgasms in my sleep. It certainly felt like it. But I couldn’t be held accountable for those, could I? I couldn’t definitively say they had happened. My chastity was intact.

By Friday’s West Side Storyrehearsal, I felt drugged with the need to come, heavy and thick-headed with inescapable sensuality. How on earth I was supposed to shake out of it before Superhead rolled up with his sharp suit and sexy voice I just didn’t know.

The kids did their best for me, though, scuffling in a corner of the hall so that I had to get my mind out of my knickers and into firefighting mode quick smart. Always a reliable bromide, the little charmers of St Sebastian’s.

I was reading the riot act to CJ and Lanh when Mr Marks glided on to the scene, causing a deathly hush to fall on the previously overexcited audience.

‘Can I believe my eyes?’ he asked with deceptive calm, switching a stern gaze from one boy to the other. ‘Has Ms Delaney, who is giving so generously of her free time so that you can enjoy the privilege of taking part in a performance, had to break up a fight at a rehearsal?’

‘He dissed the Buckland Boyz,’ muttered Lanh.

‘He … Are you serious? He dissed the Buckland Boyz? Well, so do I. I diss the Buckland Boyz, if this is their idea of acceptable behaviour. Are you going to fight me too?’

I held my breath. This was a high-risk tactic. There were plenty of boys who would stab a teacher under less provocation than this. But Lanh simply shuffled his feet, pouted and shrugged.

‘Take your places for the first scene.’

Lanh trudged off to join his fellow Sharks at the back of the hall while CJ took to the stage with the rest of the Jets.

Carnage averted. And – action.

‘It was OK,’ I muttered to Superhead, heading for the pile of music scores on the piano. ‘I had the situation in hand.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ he said. ‘But I’m the head. I have to stride in with my cape flying, ready to unleash the superpowers. That’s my job.’

I laughed out loud. He had to know what his nickname was.

All that and a sense of humour too…

‘I’m just glad I’ve got such a terrific Lois Lane,’ he said, turning away while I caught a breath.

Lois Lane?

No. He just meant that we were a partnership in the production of this musical. That was all. I wasn’t going to cradle him in my arms while he was fatally weakened by Kryptonite. Neither were we scheduled to fly through the stars over the bright lights of Metropolis. Alas.

‘More like Robin,’ I said to his back and I saw his shoulders shake before he looked back at me.

‘Holy self-deprecating humour!’ he said.

I’m in love.

I picked up the scores and began to distribute them, hardly able to speak for the rest of the rehearsal.

I deliberately avoided Superhead at the end, leaving with a gaggle of overexcited faux-Latinas clicking fake castanets after the first run-through of America.

I rode my bicycle super-heroically fast through the Friday evening traffic on Albert Road, whizzing past the sex shop of my shame without giving it a second glance until I was home and ready to throw something into a saucepan and log on.

It was only half-past six. SecretSadist was offline.

I picked up my phone and read Lou’s text again. There was a good film on at the cinema. Did I want to meet her at All Bar One at seven for a drink beforehand?

Or did I want to come?

What a choice. Go to the flicks or – flick.

I decided to email SecretSadist and tell him I was going out, so was it possible to reschedule our “date”.

By the time my pasta had reached boiling point, he had replied.

‘Of course. As it happens, I’m busy later too. Shall we wait until tomorrow?’

Tomorrow?

‘But I’m dying of frustration!’

‘Excuse me, AtYourService, you seem to think a week lasts six days. You don’t get to come until tomorrow.’

‘Srsly?!?!’

‘V srsly.’

Oh, the despair. I prayed for no sexy scenes during the movie, but there were several moments when I had to shift uncomfortably against the velvet and cross my legs tight.

Back in the bar afterwards, I thought about getting drunk. Would that make things worse or better? I sniffed at my first gin and tonic, seeking out traces of ardour-dampener and finding none, when suddenly the biggest ardour-dampener in the world strolled up and inserted itself right between me and Louisa.

‘So how was the film, ladies?’ it asked with a misplaced chortle. Had anyone said anything funny? I thought not.

‘Duncan!’ gushed Lou. ‘How lovely! Who are you out with?’

‘Oh, nobody. Just a Friday night out with my favourite person.’ He chortled again. Why do people chortle? It’s so unattractive.

‘How do you know we’ve been to the cinema?’ I asked, suspicion of Lou’s motives evident from my tone.

‘Saw you come out,’ he said. ‘Followed you. What did you see?’

OK, that seemed to let Lou off the hook, though I supposed even Duncan wasn’t incapable of a spot of light subterfuge.

‘All the Single Ladies,’ said Lou, beaming sweetly. ‘Kind of appropriate for Chez and me.’ I wondered if she was going to nudge him and wink next.

‘God, can’t believe you’re single,’ he said with a disbelieving shake of his puppy-like head. ‘What’s wrong with the men around here?’

‘Most of them are sailors,’ said Lou pensively.

Duncan did a weird kind of snorting thing.

‘My mates warned me against coming here when I applied for the job,’ he said. ‘Said it was rough. But it’s fine! Can I get you ladies a drink?’

‘So you’re single then, Duncan?’ Louisa moved ahead with her scheme.

One excruciatingly tedious hour later, I left Louisa and Duncan alone, the alcohol plan having failed to dull my need for orgasm.

Just another night.

In my bed, I relived Duncan’s conversational techniques in order to dampen my ardour. He was a man who enjoyed doing poor impressions of celebrities and saw no purpose to speech other than to try and make its recipients snigger. His singular unfunniness stopped irritating me after a while, and I began to feel sorry for him, which in turn irritated me again. I didn’t want Duncan in my consciousness, either as an annoyance or a figure to be pitied.

Beside my bed, my phone bleeped.

‘Y did u go home? Me n D goin 2 TigerTiger, come on, dont b a killjoy x’.

They’d end up snogging and then she would regret it and there would be an awkward atmosphere between them for the rest of the academic year.

‘Gone 2 bed. B careful x.’ I texted back, wondering how I had the gall to advise somebody else on self-preservation when my own life seemed such a high-risk enterprise these days.

SecretSadist took pity on me in the end and didn’t make me wait until nine o’clock at night to end my orgasm ban.

Instead we arranged to “meet” online at three o’clock that afternoon.

I had to get a messy, hungover Lou off the phone by five to, which was difficult, because she had many lamentations on the theme of having just kicked Duncan out of her bed to express.

I invented a hair appointment and promised to meet her for brunch the next day, then sat down at the computer and waited with bated breath.

I was wearing my favourite underwear set, for some reason, with my Chinese silk wrap over the top, barefoot and perfumed. It felt like an Occasion, so I’d even put on a necklace and some lipstick. I wanted SecretSadist to see me. I wanted him to watch this. I decided to ask about Skyping with webcams as a next step.

When he started things off with ‘Good afternoon, AtYourService,’ I replied quickly and eagerly, tapping with manicured nails.

‘Good afternoon, sir, I wish you could see me now.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve dressed for the occasion.’

‘Oh good – what are you wearing?’

‘Very little. I have my silk wrap on – it’s red with a pattern of blue butterflies and pink and green flowers, and some black and gold around the hems. It’s very delicate and very thin. I can hardly feel I’m wearing it.’

‘And is it all you’re wearing?’

‘No. Underneath I have my new red and black bra and knickers. They’re mesh fabric – like fishnet – with tiny red bows at the front and red ribbon ties at the side of the knickers.’

‘Easy to undo, then.’

‘Very easy.’

‘Stockings?’

‘Sorry, no stockings. Didn’t have a matching suspender belt. I can put on some hold-ups if you like.’

‘No, don’t worry. I’m picturing you. Take off the wrap.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m wearing dark red lipstick too, and a thin silver chain around my neck and wrist. I wish you could see me.’

‘So do I. But for now, I want you to spread your legs wide so they dangle off the corners of your chair.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m going to tell you a story. And you aren’t to come until the very end of the story. But, while I’m telling it, I want one of your hands inside your bra, playing with your nipples, and the other down the front of your knickers, pressed up close to your clit. Can you do that for me, AtYourService?’

‘Yes, sir.’ But could I? Could I wait until the end, in that position?

I found one of my warm, hardening buds inside the bra cup and fiddled with it while my other fingers slipped down, every knuckle visible through the mesh, burrowing into the humid wetness between my pussy lips.

‘Are you ready? Then I’ll begin.

‘You have been sent to my house tonight, knowing nothing about who I am, with an envelope to give me. When you left the bureau after your case conference, the taxi was called for you and all you had to do was get inside and be driven to the destination predetermined by the court. Sitting in the back of the taxi, you are nervous, butterflies in the stomach, hands folded neatly in your lap, neck twisted to your right so you can look out of the window without having to face or converse with the cab driver. You were in an isolation booth while the caseworkers met to discuss your fate, so you have no idea of the sentence they have handed down. It could be a compulsory work order. It could be period of detention. It could be – something else.’

I bet it’s something else.

My clit swelled, pushing into my fingertips. I didn’t dare move.

‘You are wearing a simple prison-issue smock dress, short and white, just about covering your bottom and skimming your thighs, with flat white tennis shoes and bare legs. You keep your knees tightly together in case the cabbie is perving on you. If you parted them, he might see the plain white cotton briefs that are the only things standing between your cunt and the curious eyes of the world.

‘After a ten minute drive, the cab pulls into a wide gravel drive behind a high brick wall. You crane your neck, spying a house at the end. The house is large, but it doesn’t look institutional. It looks like someone’s home, with welcoming lights in the windows and hanging baskets by the door. Could this be where you will pass your sentence? It seems so … nice.

‘The driver opens the door for you, and you step out on to the gravel, preparing to climb the steps. But before you can make a move, he holds out a hand. “You’ll need to give me your knickers,” he says.

‘“Excuse me?” You sound indignant and ready to argue, but he simply crooks his fingers, cold and implacable.

‘He’ll be watching, and if you disobey, he’ll be harder on you.’

‘He?’

‘You look up at the windows. There is movement behind an upstairs curtain. You are being watched.

‘The night is chilly and you feel the draught travel up beneath your brief skirt as you reach up to remove the knickers. You pull them down awkwardly, holding your skirt pressed to your thighs with your forearms so that the motion is stiff and tricky and you almost fall sideways, but eventually the knickers are off and you hand them to the taxi driver with a sulky grimace.

‘He feels the gusset between thumb and finger.

‘“Damp,” he says with a grin, then he takes a good long sniff. “He’ll like you.”

‘Fear replaces your outrage.

‘“Who is he? What is this place?”

‘“Go in. You’ll soon find out.”

‘He watches you from the side of the taxi while you try to ascend the steps without letting your tiny skirt ride up and show him your bum – not an easy task.

‘There is no doorbell, nor a knocker, but when you touch one of the wooden panels of the door it swings open and you step into a large, empty hall.

‘You look around at the curving staircase, the parquet tiles, the handsome coat and umbrella stands, the antique desks and furnishings. A vase of lilies stands on a table at the foot of the stairs and you are drawn to its heavy fragrance.

‘“Stand still and put your hands on your head.” The voice comes from the top of the stairs.

‘You are still carrying the envelope, so it flaps over your hands as you stand waiting and watching me descend. When I reach the bottom, I ask you to hand over the envelope, which you do, before returning to your commanded stance.

‘I open it and read.

‘“I see,” I say and you search my face for a clue to your fate. You see nothing. “Walk into the room to your right, please.”

‘You walk, hands still on your head, through a set of double doors into a large, high-ceilinged room. In the doorway, you stop short until I nudge you forward with a hand between your shoulder blades. The room is full of people. People you know. People you have sinned against, lied to, insulted, cheated.

‘“You’ll see that we were having a meeting,” I tell you. “A meeting all about you. We care about you, AtYourService. We want what’s best for you, just as the courts do. We are here to see that your sentence is served.”

‘You turn to face me, agitated. “What’s my sentence?”

‘“You are to carry out your compulsory work order here, in my service, performing required domestic tasks in that tiny little uniform dress of yours and completing them to my high standards. In between the scrubbing of floors and peeling of potatoes, you are to report three times a day to my office for a scheduled spanking.”

‘“A what?” You are aghast. Nobody has ever dared to touch a hair of your naughty little head until today.

‘“A scheduled spanking, the severity of which will depend on your attitude. The sentence will end when I am sincerely convinced of your improved behaviour and self-control.”

‘“I won’t!” you cry, looking for a way out. “I refuse to accept this!”

‘“You have no choice. The alternative is life imprisonment. Before that part of your sentence begins, there is one additional element, which we will deal with now.”

‘I take your arm and lead you to a tall stool in the centre of the room.

‘“Bend over the stool now. In front of these witnesses, all of whom have been wronged by you, you will receive 12 hard strokes of the cane.”

‘“I can’t …” Your horror is strong, but you are slowly realising that there is no point resisting me. Not now, at any rate. You vow revenge, you determine to plot your escape, but for the moment you must bend in acquiescence.’

I am gasping. My clit is so fat now and my fingers so slicked that I consider removing the hand from my bra and typing a desperate one-handed plea for relief. But I don’t want to miss the caning. God, no, I don’t want to miss that.

‘You place yourself over the padded seat of the stool. I call for one of your victims to bring me the senior school cane from the rack – one of my heaviest, it packs an almighty sting and leaves raised, deep red marks on those unfortunate enough to feel its weight. Your skirt is halfway up your rear cheeks, exposing the underhang and your tight cleft behind, but I push it all the way up to your waist, so no part of your vulnerable bottom is hidden to the audience. They make appreciative noises and lean forward, hungry for your pain.

‘“Before I use this cane,” I tell them, “I would like each one of you to come forward and lay a good strong smack on AtYourService’s behind. Is that OK? One each, but make it a good one.” They queue up, all 23 of them, men and women, old and young, all known to you, some very well known. Each one spanks your arse hard, some of them wordlessly, others speaking to you as they mark your cheek with their handprint.

‘“You deserve this,” they say, “after what you did to me.” You make small yelps with each stroke, but you are determined not to give them the satisfaction of tears or struggles. As the last one retires, you are glowing all over your bum, feeling the soreness radiate out and dampen your pussy. This can’t be turning me on, you think, mortified, but you aren’t the only person who has noticed the telltale glisten at the split of your thighs. All the 24 other occupants of the room have seen it too.

‘“You need this,” I tell you, and the first stroke of the cane whistles down, catching you unprepared, and you scream as the first line throbs into life across the broadest section of your bum.

‘I make you count, and I make you thank me for each breathtaking stroke. By six, your resolve is wavering, and by nine you are wailing and sobbing while the audience murmurs approval, some of them laughing and calling out to you. “About time you got your come-uppance,” they say. Nobody seems moved by your misery and indeed, after I lay the twelfth and final stroke, some of them insist that you should get more.

‘“I’m sure she’ll get more,” I tell them. “Just not today. I think she’s had enough for an introduction. But don’t worry. I’m accountable to you. This girl will be punished until each one of you feels she has repaid what she owes you and the rest of society. You will each be intimately involved with her ongoing discipline. Trust me.” This satisfies them and I invite them up in turn to closely inspect your throbbing welts, feeling them with curious and delighted fingers, pinching and prodding.

‘Once the last witness has gone and only you and I remain, I place a damp cloth over your bottom, pressing it close and caressingly to your burning flesh. You are crying. I stroke your hair and murmur words of comfort. After all, you don’t know what’s coming next.’

Yes, I do! I am!

There was a hideously tense silence and I began, beside myself, to rub at my clit. Say the word, please say the word.

‘OK,’ he typed. ‘I’m not going to drag it out any further. I’ve been cruel enough, haven’t I? You may come.’

I doubled over in ecstatic gratitude, working my fingers harder than they had ever worked, pinching my nipple so hard I yelped. My orgasm lifted me out of my body and threw me around the air, bump, bump, bump, until I fell back to earth with my forehead on the computer desk.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said.

‘YW,’ he said.