Wednesday had come and gone almost before I knew it — a minor washing-machine disaster had kept me busy for most of the day, sourcing an emergency repair man and drying out the utility room. By the time my husband returned from the office, I was so stressed that he suggested I take a relaxing bath and he would take me out to dinner. In the bath I wondered of Fifty Shades; I even considered rescuing it from the bin but remembered that reading it would annoy me more than excite me. So instead, I wondered of Blake and our Tuesday morning session; and I masturbated.

On Thursday morning I dressed in sexy crimson bra, pants and suspender belt, with sheer black stockings. On top of these I wore a flowery summer dress, the ‘innocent’ housewife hiding the slut underneath.

I arrived at the depot at half past nine on the dot, but there was no sign of Blake. I waited for ten minutes, then decided to walk around to the shop. He was busy with the till — apparently someone had entered something incorrectly whilst cashing-up the previous evening and locked-out the till. He was not in the best of moods. When I arrived, he passed me the depot keys and asked me to open up, saying he would be along shortly.

I did as he instructed and left the door on the latch so he would be able to get in, then began sorting a box of books. It was nearly an hour later when he arrived. He didn’t seem his usual chatty self which I put down to the morning’s problems; strangely, it did not occur to me that there might be any other sort of agenda in play.

Then, without looking up from the books he was sorting: “I didn’t have you down as a thief, Mrs Henley.”

I froze. “I’m sorry?” I managed to mumble.

“A thief. A person who takes property which does not belong to them.”

I didn’t respond, I just stared at him blankly.

“You took a book with you on Tuesday evening without paying for it or even asking if it was alright to borrow it. Fifty Shades of Grey; what I believe they call mummy-porn?”

“Oh, I see,” I responded, relieved. “I just wanted to have a look and since it was in the pile to dump onto other charity shops, I didn’t think you would mind me borrowing it.”

“Donate, Mrs Henley, not dump! Are the other charities not worthy of our concern?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No? Do you not think you should have perhaps asked me first?”

“It didn’t occur to me, Blake. I am sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“Have you returned the book this morning?”

It was only at that moment I realized that it hadn’t been mine to throw away. “No, Blake, I’m sorry. It was complete rubbish. I threw it in the bin.”

“So effectively it was steeling not borrowing?”

I was wrong footed. It seemed so trivial. Was this one of his games, or was he serious?

“I am happy to donate the money…”

“It isn’t about the money; it is about trust. Can I trust you, Mrs Henley”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yes, of course, what?” he asked.

I was slow on the uptake: “You can trust me.” Dale didn’t respond and after a few moments it dawned on me: “Yes, of course, Sir.”

“That’s better, Slut. However, there is another issue. When I arrived, the door was on the latch; anyone could have walked in.”

“I left it for you, I thought you were right behind me.”

“Really? I wondered if you had left it like that hoping a stranger might walk in and find you all alone. I wondered if I would find you stripped down to your underwear, like the dirty slut you are.”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“Sorry for being so careless, or sorry that no strangers had seen the door on the latch and taken advantage of you?”

“I am sorry that I disappointed you, Sir.”

“And I am sure that you noticed,” he continued, “I was not right behind you. I had to go back home to pick up a present which I acquired at the weekend, especially for you. However, I am not sure that you deserve it now.”

“I really am very sorry, Sir.”

“Do you think that I should forgive you? Do you think you deserve your present?”

“Only you can decide that Sir, but I promise I will do anything I can to make up for my poor behaviour.”

Then inspiration hit me. I pulled my dress up over my shoulders and removed it, folding it neatly and hanging it on the back of the chair. I then carried on sorting through the box of books, as if it was a perfectly typical thing to do. I knew he was watching me, but I pretended that I hadn’t noticed.

For a full two minutes he stood still, watching me work. Then, from the corner of my eye, I noticed him bend down and remove something from his briefcase. He came over to my work area and, almost ceremoniously, laid a leather strap on the table. It was around eighteen inches long and about four inches wide. It was black in colour, although stitched onto one end was an additional piece of brown leather, which appeared to serve as some sort of handle. The other end was split into two strips, each about two inches wide.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“No, Sir.” I replied, in a hoarse whisper.

“It is called a tawse. It is actually a ‘Strict Leather Scottish Tawse’. I bought it especially for you.”

There was a moment of silence as I tried to take in what this meant. Standing next to this man, wearing just my high-heeled shoes and my underwear, whilst he presented me with this instrument of torture. I did not know quite how to react, but could not see many alternatives, so I thanked him, then leaned right across the table, grasping the far side firmly with my hands, presenting myself to him and waiting for my punishment to start.

“You are an obedient slut; you even obey instructions before they are issued!”

His hand begins to rub my bottom. He gently parts my legs and his hand wanders down between my buttocks and caresses me through the thin fabric. However, the sensation is somehow not quite sexual, it is more about the fact that he can touch if he wishes to touch; as if he is simply confirming to me that I am his plaything. He removes his hand and moments later it returns with a hard stinging slap, which echoes around the depot. He returns to rubbing, and I await the second slap. I do not have to wait long. When it arrives, it is slightly harder and slightly louder than the first. The process continues, the third and fourth slaps each harder, louder and more thrilling than the previous ones. By the fifth, I feel myself pushing up to meet the hand as it cracks down against my waiting buttocks. The sixth is the hardest yet, but this time his hand does not linger.

“I think you are getting much better at this, Slut. I think you might even be ready for your present now. I had intended just showing it to you today, then saving it for the future, but you seem very eager. In fact, if you were to beg, I think I would use it on you right now.”

There was another silence. Then almost as a bystander, I heard myself respond: “Please Sir. Please use the strap on me. I deserve to be punished, Sir”

“Tawse, Slut.”

“Yes, Sir. I beg you, Sir. Please use the Tawse on my bare bottom, Sir. Your Slut needs to be punished Sir.”

“Bare bottom?”

I stand and remove my pants, then resume the position.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Before we start, we need to set some parameters, Slut. I propose six strikes for steeling the book and a further six for leaving the door on the latch. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Be strong, Slut,” he said, almost gently.

Then the tawse came down hard against my bare skin. I was completely taken by surprise; this was a different league to the spankings I had so far received. The second one followed very quickly after the first. Neither of us spoke. The third one was slightly harder. I was now in real pain, rather than the mild discomfort from the spankings. And there was no gentle massaging between blows. Each one hurt more than the last. The fourth and the fifth both made me gasp slightly but still I did not complain. The sixth was different again, I thought if he had drawn blood. I wanted to rub myself to ease the pain, but I knew that wouldn’t be acceptable. Suddenly another six blows seemed impossible to contemplate. I would have to say something. However, the seventh seemed marginally less painful than the sixth and before I even had time to complain the eighth and ninth blows had been delivered.

“You are doing very well, Slut,” he said.

“Thank you, Sir,” I replied; however I was unable to hide the tears in my voice.

By the time the tenth came down, the tears were running down my face and the eleventh one seemed to sting more than any of the others. Then there was a gap. He was toying with me, making me wait not allowing me to get it over with. I wriggled my bottom in the air as if taunting him, tempting him to deliver the final blow; I wanted it over with. Finally, it arrived, and it was considerably harder than any of the others, the noise reverberating around the depot and I felt sure echoing around the surrounding streets. I gave an involuntary cry, such was the sharp stinging pain which the final blow left me with.

“I am impressed, Slut; I thought you might ask me to stop.”

“Thank you, Sir”

He crossed to his briefcase and returned with a small jar of some sort of cream, which he began to rub into my stinging bottom. Whilst this eased the pain a little, the initial touch of his fingers as they rubbed it in made me realise just how sore I was. I began to wonder how marked I would be and how difficult this might be to hide from my husband.

“Am I badly marked, Blake?”

“Not too badly, shall I show you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he took his mobile phone from his pocket. All of this time, I had maintained the position, leaning across the desk with my hands gripping the far side. This was partly obedience and partly a desire not to risk movement. He took several pictures of me with my sore bottom sticking up in the air, proud but battered! Then he asked me to stand up straight, which I did, rather tentatively. He took some more pictures of me from behind, but now standing up. Then he told me to turn around. Rather surprised at the request, I did as he instructed. He continued snapping away with his camera-phone.

Finally, he stopped and looked at the pictures, selecting one he showed me the extent of the damage. It was not a pretty sight; there were bright red wields across my bottom and some bruising was beginning to show. Thankfully, the skin wasn’t broken and there was no blood.

“Would you like to see some other punished bottoms, Slut?” he asked.

Again, he did not wait for a response but pressed a few buttons on his phone then passed it to me.

“You can scroll through those, tell me what you think.”

There were about a dozen or so pictures of bottoms of all shapes and sizes in varying degrees of disrepair, some with handprints, some with belt marks, one with what appeared to be the marks of a fairly severe caning. Whilst I looked, he put more cream onto his hands and began gently massaging my aching rear.

“See anyone you recognize?” he asked.

I laughed and shook my head.

“You would be surprised,” he continued. “You know at least three of those bottoms.”

His fingers had been gradually working the cream to the crack of my bottom and as he spoke, I felt one finger start to probe my most secret place.

“So very tight, Mrs H. Has your sluttiness not ventured that far yet?”

“No Sir.”

“Well today might not be the right moment, but we will certainly have to deal with that one day soon, won’t we Mrs H?”

“Yes Sir.”

“I bet you would like to know whose bottoms you have been looking at, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes Sir.”

“But of course, if I told you who they were, I would have to tell them about you and your tight red little arse. That would be only fair, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so, Sir.”

“And would you like me to do that?”

“No Sir.”

“Quite. It will remain our secret, at least for now. I suggest you remove your stockings and suspenders, otherwise the clips might irritate the wields on your bottom. Then put your dress back on.”

“Yes Sir.”

He went to the bathroom, presumably to wash, leaving me to tidy myself up. When he returned, he went straight back to sorting books, as if nothing untoward had taken place that morning. I tried to do the same, but I was having some trouble concentrating. I kept thinking of the other photographs of the other women with whom he enjoyed ‘special’ relationships.