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the rug. She could
feel his eyes wandering over her body but resisted the desire to cover herself
with her hands. She kept them pressed by her side.
    He told her to go to the study and fetch the stool. She gave no
response but turned and walked erect, as he liked her to, determined not to let
him see the slight tremble that had taken hold of her hands. The heels clicked
as she walked naked through the house to the study, collected the stool and
carried it back to the summer room. 
    She placed the stool in the middle of the rug. She knew the routine
from here. She crossed silently to a cupboard and took out a cane. Then she
stopped at the bureau and from a small draw at the front she collected a small
velvet pouch. Nicole carried the items over to Mr Jordan and handed him the
cane. Then she stood before the stool, opened the velvet pouch and tipped its
contents into her hand.  Mr Jordan positioned himself closer to the stool
so that he had a clearer view.
    “You may roll it now.” He said. In Nicole’s palm was a dice. But it was
no ordinary dice. Rather than the usual 1 to 6 it was numbered in increments of
five up to thirty. Nervously she rolled the dice around in her sweating palms,
her bottom lip clenched between her teeth, her mind willing as any gamblers
might do for a sympathetic number to be revealed as she threw. Please ,
she thought please be low .
    Noticing Mr Jordan’s impatience growing, she finally let the dice fall
onto the top of the stool. It spun on its edge for a few moments, tantalising,
until finally settling.
    15. Nicole groaned. Fifteen! Neither good nor
bad. Mr Jordan tapped her on the bottom with the tip of the cane. “If you are ready.” He said. Nicole buried her face in her
hands for a moment, before shaking her mind free of her nerves and with gritted
teeth bent forward and placed her palms on the stool. The cane tapped at the
inside of her calves, Mr Jordan reminding her that her legs needed to be spread
wide apart. This made it harder. She had to manoeuvre her feet carefully so
that she didn’t turn an ankle in the high heels and equally, being that much
taller in them she had to bend down further until her upper body was pressed
down on top of her hands on the stool. Her knees began to shake almost
immediately.
    “Fifteen then.” Mr Jordon announced , she could hear the change of tone in his voice to one of
barely suppressed glee. “Fifteen! I’m sure you’ll
enjoy it Nicole”.
    She could feel how exposed she was, imagining the view that Mr Jordan
must have from behind her. Indeed, he seemed to delay some time before she
heard the swish of a practice stroke. He adjusted his wheelchair, another swish
as he swung another practice stroke – even so she flinched involuntarily. Then
she heard him suck in his breath and she knew that the next one was for real.
She too sucked in her breath and waited for what seemed an age before she heard
the descent of the cane cutting through the air and almost before it had
registered in her brain the first stinging strike as it whipped across her
buttocks.  By the eighth stroke Nicole could feel the tears running down
her face. Mr Jordan was being particularly brutal this time. Her fingers clawed
at the wooden stool and her knees began to sag, but that only served to make
her stance more uncomfortable and spread her buttocks more, making each strike
more painful. With renewed determination she tried to brace herself and her
straighten her legs.  Mr Jordan seemed to ease up on the next five
strokes, perhaps flagging a little himself. By now though, Nicole was trembling
from head to toe. Her backside felt as if it was on fire and she was openly
sobbing. Still though, she stood her ground, driven now by a new resilience,
determined to see this through and losing herself in thought in the brief moments
somewhere between the strokes. Mr Jordan seemed to pause for a few moments
before administering the final two strokes. But when he delivered them,