Number Twenty Five

Story by R.T. Mason from Janus 21

It was raining — cold bleak November rain — and she took a taxi because in any case she didn’t trust her limited knowledge of the London Underground. The afternoon seen through the taxi’s rain-smeared windows was an all too appropriate backdrop to her own feelings — her mood of bleak dread. She felt an irrational wish that perhaps the taxi-driver would not be able to find it but he drove without hesitation through the rain-slicked streets. Only too soon he was saying, ‘Here we are, Miss. That’ll be £2.20.’ She got out and paid him and there it was: the expensive-looking apartment block overlooking the river. Riverside Court.

On trembling legs she went in. The uniformed attendant looked curiously at her and for some reason she became suddenly conscious of the fact that under her skirt, under the rain-spotted coat, she was wearing nylons and a suspender belt. Because of course she did not normally wear them, had not in fact possessed any before being told that for this visit they were required.

In response to her hesitant inquiry the attendant indicated the lift and she took it to the 6th floor. Along a deeply carpeted corridor… and there was No. 608. With difficulty she controlled a wild impulse to leave: instead she rang the bell.

The door was opened by a smooth-faced man in his fifties: a valet-type of person with an ingratiating smile. ‘Miss Thomas? Yes, come in please. This way.’ Across a hall — even more deeply carpeted than outside — and into a small room, simply but expensively furnished, one wall displaying a full-length mirror. The man closed the door after them and gave another of his friendly smiles. ‘Now if you’ll just get ready, Miss. I assume you’re dressed as… ah… requested?’

She flushed and nodded. ‘Good: so if you’ll please take off all your clothes except the nylons and suspender belt. And then put this on.’ As the shock of what he had said hit her she saw he now held a white towelling dressing gown. Another friendly smile. ‘It’s your first time, isn’t it, Miss?’ A statement rather than a question. ‘Will it also be your first caning? Not a nice prospect, I don’t suppose, if you’re not used to it but so much better than the alternative, I’m sure.’

She couldn’t know it of course but the full-length mirror she stood before was in fact a panoramic one-way viewing screen and on its other side a man was watching these preliminaries with interest. His name was Philip Greene and he was the owner of apartment 608 and employer of the valet, George Roberts, who was now handing the girl the dressing gown. It was his first view of her — a nice-looking girl: short brown curling hair and a pleasantly attractive face. A good figure too in that blouse and skirt, but naturally he would shortly be seeing the figure in somewhat more intimate detail. He picked up a red leather-covered notebook — his Case Book — to refresh his mind on her particulars. In some ways it was his most prized possession recording as it did so many pleasurable moments… He flipped through the pages… the numbered cases each with the details and photographs (the routine pair of shots: the subject full face and then her bared bottom as seen bent over the caning stool).

This one, though, Alison Thomas — as yet with only the preliminary details and no photos — would be of more than usual interest. Not because of the girl, for the facts thus far were routine enough: aged 18, shorthand-typist, single but engaged to be married; living in Bristol, where she had been picked up. No, all that was routine, her special-ness was simply the Case number. Miss Alison Thomas just happened to be Case No. 25. And, well, that did have to be something of a landmark — a quarter of a century or ton, depending on your sport or interest. Philip Greene’s sport or interest was quite simply girls’ bottoms and being a very rich man he could indulge this interest in the flesh, as it were, and indeed could make something of an all-consuming passion of it — unlike many men who might have the same interest but were obliged to keep it in the realms of fantasy. Yes, No. 25: quite a little landmark.

Alison Thomas, subject No. 25, on the other side of the viewing screen, had now been persuaded by the faithful Roberts that she really did have to take off all her clothes, and with an unhappy look into the mirror raised her hands to the buttons of her blouse. Mr Greene put down his Case Book and, eyes gleaming, moved closer. He always found the undressing, and the seeing and not being seen, intensely exciting. He unzipped the front of his exquisitely cut trousers, releasing his full, quivering erection.

----//----

What had brought Alison Thomas here as Philip Greene’s 25th ‘guest’? It had been a Saturday afternoon two weeks earlier — another wet Saturday afternoon, this one in Bristol — and Alison had been at a bit of a loose end because she had been going shopping with Ian, her fiancé, and then almost at the last moment he had been persuaded by two of his mates to go to the football match instead. So she had gone shopping alone, with a feeling of annoyance at Ian and indeed at life in general and it had really been that feeling of annoyance which had led her to do it: on the spur of the moment in the department store slipping that tank top into her shopping bag and then walking out.

It was completely out of character and she had never done anything like it before, and that was what she had told the man — the security officer — after she had been tapped on her shoulder with a horrifying ‘Excuse me, Miss!’ outside the shop. But it had done her no good as he gazed at her with that sharp coldly-appraising look. ‘I’m afraid that’s what is usually said, Miss.’

In his office a few minutes later she had despairingly offered to pay for the article but he had curtly refused. ‘We always prosecute,’ he said and she felt a pang of terror: the sheer humiliation of everyone knowing. But then, looking her up and down, he said there might be a possible alternative which could avoid all the publicity. He made her sign a statement that she had stolen the top and then took all her details: where she lived and worked, married or single… really just about everything. Still in an awful state she asked, ‘What… what’s going to happen?’

He smiled a bit grimly. ‘You’ll be hearing. As I say, sometimes these cases can be dealt with… without publicity. Anyway you’ll be hearing about it one way or the other. You can be sure of that.’

And she heard a week later. A letter from a firm of London solicitors. ’In connection with the events of the third of November will you kindly attend at the above address on the 12th at 2pm.’ She went: a rather seedy set of offices in the East End. Mr Striker, senior partner, had her statement and particulars in front of him. He smiled, but it was the smile a cat might have when playing with a mouse.

Their client, he said, had been informed of the case. Their client was a helpful gentleman who was prepared to deal personally with suitable cases — as, in this instance, shoplifting — and then if the person involved was co-operative there need be no publicity. That of course was the one factor which had been giving Alison nightmares: the possibility of it getting in the local press, of Ian and her parents knowing. She felt a surge of relief.

‘But what… I mean is there any other penalty?’

The man gave a smug smile. ‘Indeed there is. He will wish to cane you.’

She had hardly been able to believe she had heard correctly. The words hung in the air between them. ‘C…cane me?’ she repeated like an idiot. Mr Striker smiled again. ‘Yes: the cane on your bottom. On your bare bottom I believe is our client’s procedure. Not nice of course but then you don’t have to agree to it. You can if you wish let the matter go its normal course: Magistrate’s Court… the newspapers… It’s quite up to you. No one’s forcing you. The decision, my pretty young Miss, is entirely yours.’

She felt herself flushing scarlet. It seemed scarcely credible. She said, ‘You… you’re not joking, are you?’ He smiled again. ‘Oh no, Miss, I’m certainly not joking. And I need an answer this afternoon.’

And with no real option she had said Yes. The obnoxious solicitor had rubbed his hands. ‘Good! Very sensible, Miss. And really you’re a very lucky girl to be given this chance to hush things up.’ At the door, as she went out, his hand came smoothly up and squeezed her bottom as he said, ‘Mmm… I wouldn’t mind caning it myself!’

She had gone back home hardly able to believe it had happened: that she had agreed to let an unknown man cane her. But then two days later the phone call: Would next Saturday afternoon be convenient? She was given that London address — Riverside Court, Flat No. 608. She was to wear a dress or blouse and skirt, and high heels. She was also to wear nylons and a suspender belt and not tights.

----//----

And so here she was on this wet and dreary Saturday afternoon, an afternoon very like that one in Bristol two weeks ago — her mouth dry with apprehension and seeing a scared vision of herself in that floor-to-ceiling mirror and hearing this man Mr Roberts, who had just taken her coat, saying, ‘Don’t worry, my dear, it’s nothing new to me. I’ve seen plenty of girls in the altogether.’ And with an effort her hands finally going to the collar of her blouse and starting one by one to undo the little buttons.

Her fumbling fingers finally had them all undone. Being told she had to take all her clothes off and put on that dressing gown and do it in front of this man Mr Roberts, it had thrown her almost as much as earlier that nasty solicitor telling her she was to be caned. But Mr Roberts, smiling again, simply said it was Mr Greene’s normal procedure. She was not the first and would certainly not be the last. Biting her lip she pulled the blue-and-green flowered nylon blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, then slipped it off.

Her hands then reluctantly went back, to the zip of the full, calf-length blue skirt. She slid it down and stepped out of it, and Mr Roberts placed both garments on a chair to the side. She looked unhappily at him. ‘Keep going,’ he smiled. Her underwear was plain cream-coloured nylon: wear something simple, she had told herself, something, well, not too sexy, if she was going to have to show it. She hadn’t dreamt of course that she was going to have to take it off. Her slip came off over her head. Just bra and knickers now, with the nylons and suspender belt and her navy blue heels. She turned away from Mr Roberts — towards the mirror — as her hands went to her bra strap. The bra came off and there were her quite full pink-nippled breasts on display. Face flushing, she put her hands over them.

‘Now the knickers,’ said Mr Roberts encouragingly. ‘Then we’ll be almost ready, won’t we?’ There was nothing for it: she took her hands from the bared breasts, her thumbs went in the tip of the simple nylon briefs and she skinned them down off the ripe spheres of her bottom. She stepped quickly out of the pants, then straightened up, one hand automatically going over that brown bush, the other arm back to cover her breasts.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Keep the shoes on.’ He took the knickers and handed her the dressing gown. She grabbed it and quickly slipped her arms in the sleeves and pulled it round her. Relief, if only temporary, at being covered again. It was knee-length with buttons down the front and a belt. As she did up the buttons and belt, though, it dawned on her that there had been another row of buttons — another vertical row from waist to hem at the back.

Any thoughts about this were quickly answered by Mr Roberts. ‘It’s a special caning gown. The back unbuttons up to the waist and that saves having to pull it up. Stand still and I’ll open the back for you before you go in. Mr Greene likes everything to be properly ready.’

He positioned her with her back to the mirror, then reached round and unfastened the back buttons one by one. ‘You see,’ he said. He pulled the two sides of the opened gown apart. She realised that although she had the gown on she was bare from the waist down at the back…

Roberts’ action in displaying the girl’s bottom was of course for the benefit of his master. And behind the mirror Philip Greene was indeed in a state of urgent pleasurable excitement: for the displayed bottom in the parted dressing gown was, you might say, the climax to a most stimulating preliminary viewing. It really was a lovely specimen, the cheeks quite full and flaring firmly out from a slim waist; and the girl herself, possessor also of those delightful pink-nosed breasts, seemed altogether quite charming — a bit shy and quite evidently embarrassed at exposing herself to Roberts. Not like some, of course, who really after a first caning one had no wish to continue with. Yes, this Alison Thomas seemed to promise to be a most suitable subject for his little landmark.

Roberts, after what he considered a sufficient interval, let go of the gown and it fell back into place. ‘So now you’re just about ready,’ he said urbanely. ‘Mr Greene will ring for you in a few minutes, but if you’d like a cup of coffee first…?’

Alison shook her head. With the way she felt, her stomach feeling like a bottomless pit, coffee was the last thing she wanted. It was like waiting to go in to see the Headmistress for some misdemeanour at school… only a hundred times worse because Miss Protheroe wasn’t going to cane you and you weren’t just dressed in heels and a pair of nylons and a dressing gown which was open at the back so that your bottom could be got at. Or trapped in a serious, adult predicament, with prosecution her only safety net.

Unable to stand still she went over to the window. Down below there was the grey river and across it the cars already had their lights on though it was barely 3 o’clock. She felt dizzy… Then there was the purring sound of a buzzer and Mr Roberts saying, ‘Ah, Mr Greene is ready now.’ He led her to the door opposite the one she had come in. ‘Just walk normally,’ he said, ‘and forget that the back of the gown is open. Mr Greene doesn’t want you worrying about that.’ He opened the door. ‘Miss Thomas, Sir.’

He looked, well, just ordinary, not an ogre or anything. Just an ordinary-looking man of about 50 who smiled and said, ‘Ah, yes. Hello!’ and politely shook her hand. His eyes, though, were sharp and piercing-looking when they met hers and she quickly looked away, at the room. It was spacious: a sofa and several armchairs scattered around, two glass coffee tables, some large plants in pots. There were modern-looking paintings on the walls and the whole of one side of the room was a picture window.

It was to this window that Mr Greene led her after Roberts had silently gone out and shut the door. The view was down onto the river, as in the other room, the same misty scene but now a wider vista.

‘Not a very bright day, Miss Thomas,’ he observed. ‘But then I imagine it reflects the way you’re probably feeling, knowing the reason you’ve been asked here.’

It was of course true. She felt a bit like crying. His hand lightly touched her waist and he asked the same question that his valet had: ‘Have you ever had the cane, Miss Thomas?’ She miserably shook her head.

‘There you are, you see.’ His voice sounded almost sympathetic ‘Corporal punishment has become virtually a thing of the past in this country whereas in, say, Victorian times a girl of 16, 17, 18 might be getting caned at least two or three times a week. And all the problems one sees nowadays were simply unknown then. Anyway I do my little bit to redress matters, and when the opportunity presents itself with a girl such as yourself who’s in a spot of trouble, I bring her here and let her take a caning rather than the official remedy which is usually quite ineffective. Doesn’t that sound sensible, Miss Thomas? It does a great deal of good.’

She didn’t answer. For one thing her mind was mostly on the fact that his hand had left her waist and slid down onto the full curve of her rump. She was acutely conscious that her only covering was the gown and it was quite open at the back. She waited tensely, knowing what the hand was going to do: because in spite of Mr Greene looking and sounding quite ordinary and, well, nice, he had brought her here to cane her and before he caned her she knew… Yes! She gave a sharp intake of breath as his fingers slid in the unbuttoned gown and she felt them on her bare flesh. She had just known he was going to do that and she couldn’t stop him. The fingers ran up and down on one cheek near the dividing crevice. ‘Please…!’ she said weakly.

Mr Greene in a mild voice merely asked her what was the matter… and slid his whole hand in to cup the smooth cheek. She gasped. The hand squeezed gently, even erotically, as he said, ‘Don’t get alarmed: just seeing that everything’s in order.’

She stood still, trembling, her hand on the window catch steadying herself against the feeling of dizziness as Mr Greene’s hand commenced to roam repetitively over her bare backside. She tried to concentrate on what was outside down there — a barge on the river, cars on the road: Dinky Toys in the slanting rain. Concentrating on that would make the intimately exploring hand less real, but at the same time Mr Greene was now asking further questions so that she couldn’t concentrate. Questions about her home, and about Ian. And whether she had ever stolen anything before. And it was when he asked her that that she started silently weeping.

With his hand still on her bottom he asked her why she was crying. She burst out, somewhat indistinctly, ‘It’s… just… this who…whole awful thing… I never… meant to take it.’ She stutteringly related how Ian had gone off to the football match. ‘And now you… you’ve got me here and c… can feel my bottom an…and cane me and do just what you want. And… I can’t do a thing about it!’ There was a fresh outburst of tears.

Unfortunately for Alison, though, her tears were just going to make her that much more caneable to Philip Greene. The tears on the pretty cheeks, and the other quite delectable cheeks that he had his hand on… He felt his excitement rising again, as it had behind the mirror, and he felt again the tightness in the front of his trousers. It really was time to get her over the caning stool. With difficulty he kept the excitement out of his voice as he said, ‘There’s no need to get upset. But you must have your lesson, mustn’t you? And think how much more pleasant it is to be here than in the Magistrate’s Court.’

At least for the unhappy girl the bottom-feeling stage was now going to be over. With a final squeeze Mr Greene removed his hand. ‘I think anyway it’s time we got on with things.’ He walked away from her, to a cupboard across the room. And took out a cane. Alison, now somewhat recovered from her outburst, looked at it as if mesmerised.

‘Over here, please,’ he said, and went to the other end of the room where, set out by itself, was a stool, or really more of a pouffe, square and about two foot in height with the top of padded white leather. ‘This is where you get it,’ he added and lightly thwacked the cane down across the seat top.

She hesitated, wiped her eyes with her hand, then walked over. ‘Get over it,’ he ordered. ‘Bottom up on the top and hands on the carpet on the other side. Let me see. Shoplifting: first time, you say, but we need it to be a nice little deterrent, don’t we? Shall we say 10 strokes, Miss?’

She was down over the leather seat now, her face near the floor and her voice, a bit indistinct, said, ‘Please… I just can’t… take that many!’

‘It’s got to be enough to be a deterrent,’ he repeated firmly. The split gown had slid half open under its own weight in the girl’s prostrate position. He reached out and pulled the two sides fully apart. The bare defenceless bottom was now fully revealed: smoothly rounded, ripe — ripe for caning — and the slimmer thighs, tightly together, nylons tautly suspendered. Yes, a rear indeed ripe for caning.

He flicked the cane lightly across the bare thighs above the nylons. ‘Stretch the legs out a bit, Miss.’ The navy blue pumps slithered obediently out across the thick carpet. ‘Good! Now just try and keep the bottom still. It’s going to sting of course but then that is the object of the exercise, isn’t it?’

He positioned himself. The exquisite sensation of having a cane in his hand and a pretty girl in position, bare-bottomed and waiting, over his caning stool. And not just any pretty girl but this rather special No. 25 who seemed in every way to be living up to the notable number. A truly sweet young lady with an exquisite rear who without doubt would soon be shedding more of those delicious tears. He raised the cane and brought it sharply, crisply, down: THWACK!… squarely across the crests of her twin ripe cheeks.

A strangled gasp, and the bottom started writhing. A red stripe coming up almost immediately. He watched, letting the sting develop properly before the second was applied…

The worst of her writhing abated. He raised the cane and brought it crisply down again: THWACK!… juddering the bare flesh. A sharp gasping yelp. Two red stripes now about an inch apart on the crests of the cheeks. She was undoubtedly feeling it and he watched with gleaming eyes the agonised writhing. Wait… let her feel the whole of it before… Yes, she was now about ready again…

The cane once more raised and aimed this time lower down at the full undercurve. THWACK!… A howl of anguish. This stripe about four inches further down than the other two. The bottom and legs desperately squirming and one hand coming back to grab at the seared flesh. He let her rub it… then pushed the hand away with the cane. ‘Both hands back down please, Miss Thomas.’

She was crying now. Sweet, salty tears showing that the cane was doing its work well, forcing home through those desperately stinging buttocks the lesson that in Philip Greene’s estimation all young girls should be taught. She finally seemed ready again… and once more the cane was swung crisply down, aimed again at the lower curves. THWACK!… The crying became an anguished howl again. The hand shot again back desperately trying to rub away the pain. A wait… as she rubbed and wriggled. Then her hand was pushed away and the cane came sharply down once more: THWACK!…

This time as the girl sobbed and rubbed her stinging rear he put the cane down. ‘You can have a short break now, Miss. But stay down over the stool.’ He reached out and pressed the bell push on the side of the coffee table. It made no sound in the room but almost immediately Roberts silently entered, in his hand a camera loaded with fast colour film. As the girl lay sobbing he quickly, efficiently, took a number of shots of her displayed rear. A glance at his employer and he went out again as silently as he had entered. The girl had no knowledge that she had been photographed in this manner: in her present state she probably would not have cared too much.

‘Good!’ said Mr Greene. ‘Well, Miss, are you ready to take the remaining five now?’

It was not a question he expected an answer to and the only one he got was an indication of renewed weeping. That was the last thing to deter Philip Greene because a caning was at its best when it drew tears; and he proceeded to give her the other five strokes exactly as before, concentrating on the arc of her bottom from the crest down to the confluence with the thighs. As before he took his time, as before the girl produced frenzied writhings, desperate yelps. By now indeed things were so desperate that she could no longer keep her thighs so tightly closed. In her desperate straits the thighs relaxed… parted… and Miss Thomas’ private parts were no longer quite so private.

At last, though, it was over. She remained prostrate over the stool, sobbing profusely, two hands clutching at a viciously stinging rear. He looked with satisfaction, then said, ‘All over now, Miss. You can get up.’

She made no immediate move to do so. ‘Come on,’ he repeated. ‘It’s over now.’ He gently shook her shoulder, then rang the bell for Roberts.

The valet was quickly in the room again. ‘Coffee please, Roberts, and bring her handbag.’ When Roberts returned, a few minutes later, Alison was standing, on uncertain legs, dabbing a handkerchief at still tearful eyes. Mr Greene gave her her bag and asked if she would like to wash her face. She nodded and he took her to a bathroom. When she returned she was looking somewhat better, her face freshened and with fresh pale pink lipstick on her full mouth.

‘Much better!’ said Mr Greene. ‘Now, do you think you can sit down?’

She flushed. ‘I…I think so.’

And sitting — albeit on a still viciously stinging rear — drinking coffee with her host it seemed incredible that this charming man had a short while before been vigorously caning her bottom. Though the fact that she was still wearing just nylons and the dressing gown, plus that dreadfully smarting backside, told her that she certainly hadn’t dreamt it.

At least now there was the relief that it was over. It had hurt dreadfully, at the time perfectly unbearably, and there had been the quite awful humiliation of it — being bent over like that with your bottom bare and probably showing goodness-knows-what. But it was over: there was no longer that awful churning feeling in her stomach to match her glowing, throbbing, churning buttocks, which before would have made her feel sick at the very thought of coffee. Now… well, coffee was just what she needed.

So she drank her coffee and in fact had a second cup while all the time Mr Greene was asking her more questions about herself and she was answering in a reasonably relaxed manner. Among the things he asked was how much she earned and, though thinking it was really none of his business, she told him: £50 a week.

‘Not much if you’ve got to pay your mother for your keep,’ he said.

She agreed, it wasn’t.

‘And you’re also trying to save to get married.’

She grimaced. ‘Yes: trying to.’

Then he said that the train fare to London would have been quite expensive for her. She said Yes — in fact she had felt she couldn’t afford it and, as she had when she came to see the solicitor, she had taken the coach which was only half the price; but she didn’t tell Mr Greene that. Anyway he got up and went over to a bureau by the wall. He was writing something, then came back and handed her a cheque. It was for £100.

She gasped. ‘It…it wasn’t anything like that much!’

‘I know… but I’m sure you can use it. For your bottom drawer! Anyway, I’m going to want to see you again,’ Mr Greene purred.

This statement was like a shock of cold water to her. She had assumed she had paid her penalty and it was all over. The shock evidently showed on her face. He went on evenly, ‘Yes, I may as well tell you — I’m going to have you here again… and I’m going to cane you again.’

As the second shock hit her he continued, ‘I could say of course that you need it: that really it’s needed to stop you from taking up a career of shoplifting. But I don’t honestly think that: you’re not really the shoplifting type. But, perhaps unfortunately for you, you do have a lovely bottom for caning.’

Her face was scarlet. ‘You… can’t! You can’t do that…’

He smiled but his voice now had a harder edge. ‘Yes I can, my dear. Because, well, I don’t want it to sound like blackmail but I do have your statement. About taking that article and I could still act on it. But of course, I don’t want to do that: what I want is… well, what I’ve just told you. Don’t worry, I can be quite generous with a young lady I find attractive, and I find you very attractive — all of you, not just that delightful backside.’

There was just nothing she could say. She became acutely conscious again of what she had on: her outfit for being caned. ‘All right?’ he asked. She didn’t reply. He repeated the query and this time, biting her lip, she said, ‘It’s like you said, isn’t it? I don’t have any choice.’

‘That’s right, my dear, and a very sensible attitude. Now stand up and let’s have a look at you. I wouldn’t like to think that that lovely backside was harmed in any way on this very first occasion. Come on, stand up please!’

She got to her feet, then he made her stand just in front of him facing away. ‘Now reach behind and pull the gown apart.’ There was a long moment’s hesitation… and then two hands came reluctantly round and took hold of the two sides of the gown. It was edged apart… revealing stocking tops, backs of thighs, and not much more than the dividing crevice of her behind. ‘Open it properly, Miss Thomas!’ His voice once again with that hard edge… and she complied. Her bottom was exposed, the hot red ridge-marks of the cane still plainly visible…

Philip Greene got up, trouser-front once more tautly distended, and moved close behind her. She gasped as two hands took hold of the still smarting rear, a bare cheek in each hand, testing, clenching, caressing. His voice soft in her ear: ‘Yes, my dear, I’m quite sure it’s going to be a most rewarding association.’

----//----

An hour later Alison was being put in a taxi by Mr Roberts. He paid the driver, said, ‘Goodbye Miss: it’s been very nice meeting you and I hope we meet again soon.’ She sat there, watching the buildings, the wet streets, flicker by — though by now it had stopped raining. It was like having been in a dream, and not a nice dream, and she still felt a giddy sense of unreality. She remembered, though, to tell the driver she wanted to go to Victoria Coach Station and not Paddington.

The sense of disbelief persisted on the coach back to Bristol. It was all just so overwhelming… but when she opened her handbag there it was: that cheque for £100 made out to Miss Alison Thomas with the name, PRM Greene Esq, at the bottom right hand corner, over a meticulous signature. There was also of course her still sore bottom — though it was nothing like it had been earlier. Perhaps it would have been feeling worse except… she grimaced at the memory… Mr Greene, after he’d given her that cheque and told her she was going to have to come to him again, taking her over his lap and rubbing that cream on to her bottom. Soothing cool cream with his hand gently kneading, massaging, caressing… It had felt good, there was no doubt about that… and if it had gone on much longer she might have got… rather excited.

But it hadn’t. He had stopped and that was all, nothing else. Because there had been that lurking fear more or less throughout her visit that before she left he was going to want… well, intercourse. But nothing like that had developed. And then she had been back in Mr Roberts’ room and having to put her clothes on in front of him again. And then Mr Roberts had taken her photograph: ‘Mr Greene would like to have it.’ Well, she couldn’t really object to that, it was just a picture of her fully dressed. Oh, except… she glanced surreptitiously at the other people in the coach as if they could in some way see… That in addition to having the nylons and suspender belt on… she had now no knickers.

Because when she came to dress, her knickers had no longer been in that neat little pile of her clothes on the chair. She had looked bewildered and Mr Roberts had smiled. ‘I think Mr Greene would like to keep them… as a souvenir.’

It wasn’t that Philip Greene was a knicker-fetishist — although the brief nylon pants, now at his side on his writing desk with their unobtrusive but quite distinct girl-fragrance, did have a definite appeal. But sending her away without her knickers was a way of emphasising, of extending, his hold over her. As a nicely brought-up young lady — in spite of that rather unfortunate shoplifting lapse — she was going to be constantly aware on her journey home that she had no knickers on. And every time she remembered this she would inevitably be conscious of the fact that she had none on because he, Philip Greene, had them. Had confiscated them after caning her, the effects of which she could still feel.

As Alison’s coach rolled along the M4 towards Bristol, Mr Greene was writing in his Case Book. Further notes — the afternoon’s encounter, his impressions, thoughts — on Case No. 25: the delightful Miss Alison Thomas. He was totally absorbed in his task, choosing his words with care, so that he got it all exactly right, because he had the feeling that this time he had really come up with a winner — perhaps even more so than, for instance, No.12, Sandra Simmonds, who had been visiting him regularly now for almost two years to have her bottom caned.

Such indeed was his single-minded concentration on No. 25 that the letter from his agent, lying on his desk next to Miss Thomas’ knickers remained now quite ignored. This morning when it arrived he had read it with his usual excitement: another girl, she would be No.26, one of the men on his payroll had picked her up in Chelmsford — the usual shoplifting — and had spoken highly of her. She was being sent to the solicitors, Strikers… but now all that earlier excitement had simply disappeared.

He would naturally see her if she agreed to what Striker would propose. He would see her and of course he would cane her — undoubtedly with enjoyment. But all he could think of at present was No.25, Miss Thomas. And her next visit.

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Friday, six days later in Bristol, about 11pm. Alison and Ian after a visit to the cinema, then a drink, are now alone in Alison’s lounge, her parents and younger sister having all just gone co-operatively up to bed. Ian, as he would do when such an opportunity presented itself, was making the usual impassioned request. Alison did occasionally agree to what he wanted but was not really keen on it before marriage. She liked it all right but just didn’t think it was a good idea to let him have it regularly now because then he might just decide that the wedding date could be delayed… and delayed. She said No — and backed up her refusal with a reminder of that recent Saturday afternoon. ‘Just remember you stood me up to go to that football match.’

Well, it might seem a little thing but in this case it had been a little thing from which quite momentous developments had come — and it looked as if, for good or bad, they were going to continue. She shivered. Ian said, ‘I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. There’s no home game for one thing.’

‘Thanks a lot!’ Tomorrow she was in fact going to be on the coach to London again. Wearing those nylons and the suspender belt. The taxi to Riverside Court — or this time she could just possibly try the Underground. And then… undressing in front of that Mr Roberts again, and having to put on Mr Greene’s special dressing gown. And then… and then… well, at least there just might be another cheque at the end of it. He had said he was ‘quite generous’. She felt a tingle of excitement There was fear, dread — that cane had been just murder — but undoubted excitement as well. She said to Ian, ‘Anyway I can’t go shopping tomorrow. I said I’d go and see Janice’s aunty again.’

Janice and her aunty had been invented for the first visit to Mr Greene. Janice was someone she worked with and Janice’s aunty lived in London and was bedridden and didn’t get many visitors and Janice who normally went to see her regularly couldn’t because she had sprained her ankle. She had offered to pay Alison’s fare if she could go. It was all a bit unlikely but it was what she had thought of on the spur of the moment and hopefully it would do for this time as well. But if it was going to continue she would have to think of something else.

‘Why d’you need to go again?’ asked Ian. Alison was not prepared to go into that and anyway there was an obvious means of diverting his attention. A means that, thinking about tomorrow, she was suddenly not averse to. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘do you want to do it or not?’ He looked at her in surprise, desire immediately back in his eyes.

She got up, decorously removed her knickers, then lay down on the sofa. ‘I thought you were so desperate,’ she laughed.

A few minutes later she said, breathlessly, ‘Don’t be too quick.’ It was not what she usually said, quite the reverse. But although she knew she shouldn’t, she was thinking not of Ian but of Mr Greene. Telling her to bend over that white leather stool. She was wearing just nylons and a suspender belt and heels and a dressing gown which opened at the back. She was bending over the stool… It was very frightening, it was going to hurt dreadfully…

Unusually for her she had a full, very satisfying orgasm. She felt rather guilty about it, though.