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words to my brain.
    Until he stopped and I flopped my head down from its tense upward crick and sighed.
    „Think I‟ve finished, do you?‟ he said. „Have you been listening to a word I‟ve said? Eh? What did I just say?‟
    „Oh … I don‟t know! I sort of lost consciousness a bit there,‟ I meeped apologetically.
    „Well, it‟s an intense experience, Kat, but don‟t forget, the whole point is to learn from it. What have you learned so far?‟
    „That you have a hard hand.‟
    „Hmm. Well, that‟s true. I think you need to come up with a bit more than that though. Let‟s see if this will make any difference.‟
    „Oh God!‟ I spluttered as he began to peel the knickers down over my tingly-warm rear, tugging at them until they rested mid-thigh, exposing all my most hidden fleshy parts to close inspection.
    „Let‟s get serious, shall we? You‟ve been getting away with things for far too long. It‟s time for some consequences. Are you ready for the consequences?‟
    31

    „Ah … I … think so.‟ A slap that must have printed the shape of his hand on my bottom descended. „Ow!‟
    „I think so what ?‟
    „I think so, sir .‟

    I‟ve had many more spankings over his knee, or leaning over his table, or over pillows on his bed since then. Some have been by his hand, but these days he often moves on to something, as he would say, „a little more salutary‟.
    Perhaps a hairbrush or a belt or a long thin rod or a thing with lots of whippy strands. But that first occasion is the one that stands out, the one I often go back to in my sleeplessness. It is not so much the heavy hand falling on my bottom, or the humiliating nakedness, or the extensive and ear-burning lecture he delivered; it is more to do with the feeling of being cared for. I know that must sound insane. But afterwards, after he had straightened me up and pulled up my knickers and sat me down next to him on the sofa and stroked my hair and given me a tissue and made everything better again – that time was priceless and precious. And addictive.
    I came back for more, and more, and more again.
    Twice a month, regularly as clockwork, I presented my backside for a blistering at his cruelly refined hands, and he never disappointed. On the second visit, he asked me if I wanted a little … relief … after my spanking, and I let him put the hand that had hurt me between my legs to wring pleasure from the pain. About a month later we started ending up in the bedroom – it seemed such a natural and logical extension of the unnatural and illogical way our interactions had begun. He cared for me, enough to see that I did not get away with being any less than I could be, and I loved him for that, and wanted to give the gift back to him.
    32

    And now, six months later, I am in line for promotion at work. I drink less, avoid dodgy people and situations, keep myself safe and clean and fresh. But there‟s only one problem – I don‟t want to get involved with anyone but him. Professor Strict. OK, that‟s not his real name. He is called Aidan.
    I‟m a fool for love, and there‟s no spanking hard enough to help me with that.
    So I think this one will be our final session. I have to walk away before I fall apart. Only when I call to make the appointment, he says that he is shutting up shop.
    „What do you mean? You don‟t want to spank girls for money any more? Are you mad? That‟s so many men‟s dream gig … are you OK?‟
    „Fine,‟ he said with a slightly defensive laugh. „Meet me for a drink. I‟ll tell you about it. Can you be in O‟Malleys later on, about six?‟
    A drink! A proper social-type situation! As if we were friends, or something.
    I hope he might at least offer me one final bottom-warming for the road, but when I see him in a corner booth, nursing a whisky with about half a polar ice cap in it, my heart jumps a little, then sinks. He looks so pensive.
    I slip in opposite him with my wine.
    „What‟s gone wrong, Aidan?