One of Us

One of Us

I have no ‘proper job’ so I help out in a couple of charities to ‘keep me out of mischief’ — fat chance. One of them sets out to place delinquent or semi-delinquent young adults with capable foster parents. They’re anywhere between 12 and 17 and some of them are quite challenging. I enjoy the company of my fellow workers and the satisfaction of occasional successes, but I can’t claim to be responsible for the actual placements as I mainly get involved in admin, I don’t enjoy the cold-calling – fund raising – so it suits me to give up one or two mornings a week in moving paper around and doing my bit.

My fellow workers are an interesting bunch with most of them being bored housewives like me with only one or two full time, fully paid people who have all the clearances to deal with the young men and women we raise money for. Josie is a sweet, twenty-something straight out of university and slightly busty, not totally slim but not fat and very pretty with lovely blue eyes. The other one is Patrick, a massive 6’4″ hulk who’s almost as broad as he is tall and me being five foot six in my heels, I can’t do anything but look up to him. Although he’s very ‘English’ he once played rugby for Western Australia so that might describe his neck-less appearance better. Although he deserves my respect as he works terribly hard, he has one awful flaw — I’ll come to that. In the meantime, let me just say that he is terribly good at placing our youngsters with the correct families, seemingly being able to know from a glance at the paperwork who will be best placed with whom.

The flaw, though, is rather awkward as it slightly undermines his better than good image, his total ability and his almost too perfect manner. He believes that children should be beaten, beaten regularly, for good reasons and for no reason and that corporal punishment is the only way to control unruly youngsters. Given my proclivities you might think that I’d agree but my anthropology thesis has led me to the conclusion that it’s total bollocks, it does nothing but confuse young people and what I’m after is totally different, it’s a sexual thing and youngsters shouldn’t be lumbered with that. But Patrick is adamant ‘beat them and they’ll behave’.

Last Tuesday I was in the office and was having one of those conversations we all have over the coffee machine with Patrick and Josie when Patrick started to bang on again about Corporal Punishment and how much good it could do. Josie seemed to get a little flustered and left but Patrick kept on going till I was in a bit of a daze and his question caught me completely and sleepily off-guard.

“Were you spanked at school or at home?” he asked my dazed brain and so, without thinking I replied:

“No, no, neither.” But what I didn’t say was ‘I’ve never been spanked’ and knew that that was exactly what I should have said, that or ‘I’ve no experience of spanking young people.’ Okay, a white lie but the only words that would have ended the chat. However, not having said it I realised that I had given something of the game away and felt myself going very red — another means of yielding information and none of it would be lost on Patrick. There was an awkward silence and I felt him looking me up and down.

“So, if not as a child…” he drew it out “… not at school and not in the family home” he was staring at my beetroot face “then, I wonder where and when.” I said nothing but looked away.

“Well Joanna. Where and when have you been spanked, punished?” His tone was commanding, overbearing and demanded an answer.

“It’s private” I muttered, “private between me and… well, whoever.” That was my second mistake. What I did not say was ‘private between me and my husband’ but, and in my own defence, I was still in a daze, still wrong-footed by his earlier remarks and in a bit of a world of my own.

“So, private between you and whoever, not between you and John, your husband. So, Joanna, who are these ‘whoever’ people?” I was struck dumb. How does one confess such a thing? Goodness knows I should be able to, I’ve done it often enough but here with Patrick, my boss — so to speak — it was different. I know it’s not a proper job, but I am valued and to put that at risk seemed crazy but, on the other hand, I had the itch. The itch not only throughout my nates but the butterflies in my tummy, the crazy images of Patrick holding my head and thrusting into it, the anticipation of a real believer in CP as ‘punishment’ and not my normal erotic game. I could sense he was angling to get into my headspace and, at first, I resisted strongly, my instinct being to keep work and sex apart. After all, it can only end in tears, can’t it? With me leaving and being ‘outed’ as weird and him immune. On the other hand, he was kind of cute in a commanding sort of way and there are other jobs — it’s not like I’m paid anything, and his hands are very large and he is very tall, bulky, ex rugby player build, a prop build. And I did have the itch emerging, making me writhe a little bit. My decision was mad. I replied.

“They vary, it can be someone new every time it happens, or it could be old ‘faithful’s’ returning for another bite of the cherry” and, with that, I walked away. That knocked the stuffing out of him. I went back to my little office, glass-fronted and very open-door and sat down and made my way through some papers but not really concentrating, just allowing my peripheral vision to watch his progress towards my space. His knock was rather timid, but I beckoned him in.

“Um, Joanna…” He closed the door behind him.

“Patrick.” I replied flatly.

“Yes. Well, what you said just now…”

“Yes?”

“Was that, was that a joke, a tease, a way of telling me to back off?” And so, he had given me a second chance to put him off the scent and return to normal: but would I take it?

“What do you think Patrick?” I was playing for time, madly thinking it through. I could just pass it off as a joke and we could walk away and say no more. I looked at his hands.

“I’m a little unsure…” he confided.

It really was up to me now. I could end it here and move on, my job in no danger, my reputation intact or feel that tumultuous angry hornets’ nest of anticipation that always precedes a beating. I took another look at his hands. The best decisions are always made when the odds are overwhelming, and the hands are like hams. I lowered my head and my tone.

“It was no joke, Patrick. It was the truth.” He said nothing but just stared into the middle distance and stood motionless for all of five minutes.

“I see. I’ll have to think about that.” And then he was gone. I was so shocked. The very least I was expecting was an inquisition but instead I heard nothing more from him the whole day and I left feeling very down in the dumps. But about eight that evening I received a text message from him asking when I was next at the office. I replied Thursday morning, and he said I was to be sure to speak with him before I left. His tone was ominous, and I felt things had not gone the way I wanted them to.

Thursday came around eventually and, feeling sure I was facing dismissal I drove in occupying a very dark place in my head. I loved the work I did and, although unpaid it contributed considerably to the wealth of our existence in many ways other than money. So, in a contrite mood I waited till about half past eleven and feeling that all eyes were on me I walked from my own little office to Patricks’ palatial two-room affair. I knocked and, seeing me through the glass door he waved me in.

“Joanna, good, now, then have a seat.” I sat and awaited my fate.

“The other day, we were chatting about some rather, well, unusual and very personal matters concerning your discipline and how it is provided for you by other people. That is, people outside your marriage. With me so far?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a little unsure as to the suitability of such a penchant existing in an environment such as ours — given the people we work with and for” ‘hypocrite’ I thought but he went on “and I’m perfectly sure I would be justified in asking for your resignation and, indeed, were they to know anything about it the board would surely insist on that course of action.”

“Yes.” Was all I could pathetically manage.

“However, you are a valuable asset and your work and contribution highly prized so I feel duty bound to help in any way I can.”

“Right.” My tone got a little brighter.

“I have a proposition for you.” He didn’t stop but rattled on in a tone of flowing anticipation. “Turn up here next Saturday and you will receive a fully comprehensive punishment beating, no holds barred and, on a regular basis thereafter maintenance sessions say, every other month or so and I feel we can keep your desires at bay.” He paused but I said nothing. “Fail to turn up and I will know that you are going to tender your resignation within two weeks and, should you fail to do so I will ask for it and make it known why I am doing so.” I remained silent for a moment.

“I don’t understand: you say that my behaviour is so bad that it merits dismissal, yet you propose carrying out that behaviour here in this office?”

“Exactly and, by doing so, I will have satisfied myself that your desires have been seen to and that our clients are in no danger from your wanton sexual excesses. You don’t have to say anything now, you have until Saturday to decide and, even then you don’t have to say anything at all, just turn up, or write the letter. I’ll be here alone from midday to deal with you.”

I left his office in a bewildered daze and found myself nursing a cup of coffee, my nose steamy and lost above the black liquid. Josie came in.

“Are you okay? You seem lost in thought.”

“Yes, lots to think about.” But I needed to cover all the bases “I may have to come in on Saturday, could I have an entry pass just in case.”

“Of course, you can, I’ll get you a tab.” In fact, I’d already made up my mind: I wanted the job, I wanted the beating, I wanted those hands to maul me, and I knew there was the possibility of a large cock waiting to be drained so it was pretty obvious what, I had to do. So, on Friday evening I started to explain to my husband that I might have to go into the office the next day and why but he interrupted and said that I couldn’t and handed me an envelope. Inside it there were directions and instructions for the activities the next day, which were to involve a dominatrix in Bournemouth called Erica. My husband goes to so much trouble over these arrangements that there was no way I would not follow his instructions so I would have to just call Patrick and tell him I’d go the following Saturday.