6 of the Best Discipline at Work Stories (2 page)

"I - I'll take the cane, Sir. But - but you won't tell my parents, will you?"

"Well, here's the deal. I will cane you this evening, after dinner. And I will cane you hard. And you will take the punishment that I choose to give you, without objection. And neither of us will mention this, at any time, to anyone else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr.
Wilson
."

"Right.
Well, you have a day's work to do. I will see you in the restaurant after the last guests have left tonight - you should wait behind after the other
staff have
gone."

"Yes, Mr.
Wilson
."

"Well get to it, girl, don't hang around."

"Yes, Mr.
Wilson
."
Emma
got up and left the room, her hands shaking as she opened the door. She headed straight from the office to the ladies toilet, and put down the seat to sit and think. The cane! This was awful. And she hadn't been stealing. Would it hurt?
My god.

There was a rattling at the door - someone was trying to come in. She'd better go to work - she stood up, flushed the loo,
then
stepped out to try to do a day's waiting on tables...

11.00 .
The last diners were leaving. The Head Waiter waved to
Emma
: "you can go now, if you want!"

"Actually, I wanted to have a word with Mr.
Wilson
- I'll hold on."

"OK." Max, the Head Waiter pulled on his leather jacket, and made his way to the door. "Don't stay too late!" he called over his shoulder, and waved his goodbye.

Alone.
The lights dimmed in the restaurant. She had never felt so alone in her life. What if she ran - didn't come back? But no,
Wilson
would call the police.

She'd brought her jacket down - but
Wilson
was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, the door opened, and in he strode. "Good evening,
Emma
. No disasters today, I see."

"No Sir". She had never been so careful in her life as waiting during that afternoon and evening.

"Right - to business.
Let's not hang around. Would you like to tell me in your own words why we're here?"

She hesitated. "Well, Mr
Wilson
- I was late, then I had some accidents, then there was the confusion over the tip...."

"And so....?"

"And so you're going to punish me."

"And why is that?"

"Because... because I don't want you to go to the police."

"Right.
Now, let's be very clear about this. I am going to beat you, and I am going to beat you very hard. If you have any problem with that, say now, otherwise from here on in you do exactly what I say."

"No, Sir, I mean, that's fine. I'll take my punishment."

"Right, then."
Wilson
picked up a chair from one of the tables, and placed it in the middle of the floor. "I'd like you to take your clothes off, now, please."

"But..."

"No buts - you agreed to take the punishment. It's too late to argue. Now you undress, while I go and sort out something to beat you with."
Wilson
strode off, taking out the keys to the cleaning cupboard.

Trembling,
Emma
started to strip off. She pulled her dress over her
head,
leave only her stockings, bra and pants. As she looked up, she saw
Wilson
returning with a long stick in his hands. On closer inspection, it was a cane - just like they must have used at school.

"Well, girl, get on with it."

"Sir?"

"Get the rest of your clothes off. You have one minute, and woe betide you if you aren't naked by then."

She pulled off her stockings, then stood up and unclipped her bra. She could feel him watching her, lapping up her nakedness. And now she had no choice but to pull down her knickers, and take them off, adding them to the pile of clothes on the table. She tried to cover herself from his gaze as best she could, as he looked her naked body up and down.

"Hands by your side."

So she was exposed totally to him.

"Now then.
We need to decide what punishment to give you. I've been fortunate in being able to borrow this cane from a friend of mine who teaches locally, so all we need to do now is decide on the number of strokes. How many strokes do you think you deserve for being late yesterday?"

"I don't know, Mr
Wilson
- one?"

"Yes, that seems about right.
And for dropping the plates at lunch time?"

"Another one?"

"
Mmm
- OK, OK. Now, spilling the soup last night?"

Surely this was worse. "Two, Sir?"

"Well I'd thought three actually, so we'll make it three. And then you were late this morning - how many?"

"One again?"

"Well, you'd had a warning about punctuality, so I think we'll make it two for a second offence. And that just leaves the stealing."

She paused. "Three?"

"Well why don't we say five, and that will round it up to a nice dozen. Is that OK with you?"

A dozen!
"Yes, Sir."

"Right - well, we'd better get down to business, then." He barked out his order: "I want you to bend over the back of that chair, and hold on to the legs at the front."

She walked round the chair, and lent forwards over its high wooden back, reaching forward for the top of the front legs.

"That's not good enough. I want your legs apart - touching the inside of the back legs of the chair, and I want you to hold onto the very bottom of the front legs."

She adjusted her position, straining forwards to adopt the posture he had recommended. She felt totally exposed, this man standing behind her, looking at her as she offered her backside to him. She prayed that he could not see her private parts, and tried to keep the tops of her thighs as together as much as she could
..

"Now, stay in that position. If you get up from it, the stroke won't count. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."
The moment of truth was arriving -
Wilson
was flexing the cane alarmingly in his hand.

"And I'd like you to count
the stokes
out as we go."

"Yes, Sir."

He turned and stepped back. He had positioned the chair just next to the entrance to the room, so had plenty of space to swing the dreaded rod. He placed it gently across the centre of her buttocks - lining it up on her - and tapped it gently. She could hardly bear this: she wanted to jump up and run away - but she knew that whatever he did, it couldn't be worse than the alternatives.

She shut her eyes. She felt a rush of air as
Wilson
whisked the cane down across her backside.

At first, she felt nothing - the blow numbed her.
But then - but then.
It felt as if someone was branding her - the pain scorched through her whole body like nothing she had ever felt before. She held onto the chair legs desperately.

Again, he brought the stick down.
Another blow - just above the first.
And again, a few seconds later, the agony, spreading across her backside and through her.

He paused. Stepped back, then delivered another cracking stroke, below the other two. She gasped with pain. This was unbearable.

"You aren't counting, girl."

"Sorry - sorry.
That's three."

"Yes.
One for being late yesterday, one for dropping the plates, and the first of the spilled soup."

Again he came forward. Thwack! Again, just below the previous stroke - she could hardly bear it.
"Four sir."

Thwack! The fifth blow was the hardest yet - across the top of her buttocks. She was now sobbing with pain - how could she keep going for another seven?

"Well?"

"Sorry, sir.
Five, sir."

"And that completes the strokes for the spilled soup.
Now onto those for being late this morning."

As the sixth stroke landed, she could stand no more. She jumped up, grasping her burning buttocks, feeling with horror the swollen wheals across them.

"Get back down, girl. And that one doesn't count."

Gingerly, she bent forward, and watched him walk back - he was going to take a run-up at her! She stared ahead, fixing her gaze on the wall, and determined to try to block out what this man was doing to her.

Thwack.

Silence.

"Well?"

"Sorry - seven, Sir."

"No, six - the one before that didn't count."

"No, sir, sorry, sir - six."

A pause.
Footsteps.
Thwack! She caught her breath, stopping herself from crying out.

"Seven."

"So that's for spilling the soup."

She could feel him behind her - she opened her eyes, and saw him lift the stick - no run-up this time.

Thwack.

"
Aaaargh
."
She couldn't control herself, as the tears streamed down her face. "Eight."

Thwack. "Nine." Thwack. "TEN," she cried out. He'd delivered the last three in quick succession, right on top of one another, across the bottom of her buttocks - right where it joined the top of her thighs.

He was walking away again - stick high in the air.
Running forwards.
THWACK!

"
Aaargh
."
Again she jumped up, clutching her behind.

"Look at me,
Emma
."

She turned to face her tormentor, hardly able to see him through the veil of tears. He placed the tip of the cane under her chin, and lifted it up.

"You are going to take these strokes properly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Well get over".

She shut her eyes. THWACK! Unbelievable pain - he'd angled the strokes across her buttocks, from bottom left to top right, re-igniting the pain of all the other lashes.

"Eleven."

And now - again.
Only one more - she must stay down.

THWACK.
"
Aaahhh
."
She bit her lip, holding onto the chair as tightly as she could.

"And..."

"Twelve, Sir," she sobbed.

"Good. Now stand up and get dressed. And don't play with your buttocks."

Trough a haze, she found her bra, and - fumbling - put it back on. Then the stockings, pulled up gingerly. It was agony just to bend forward to pull them up. Then... she stepped into her panties, and pulled them up her legs so slowly, feeling as they reached the top how swollen her buttocks were: they must have been swollen to twice their usual size!
And then the hated dress, over her head and shaking it down over her legs.
She wiped her face with her sleeve, trying to brush away the tears.

"Well, young lady, let that be a lesson to you. Polly's cannot stand for the sort of behaviour you have shown, and I hope you won't forget your lesson in a hurry."

"No, Sir." There was no chance of that.

"Well get your jacket on and go."

She walked across the room, and put on her black jacket. She turned back, and walked towards the door.
"Sorry, sir, for any trouble."

"Go home,
Emma
. And we won't hear any more about this."

"No, Sir."

And she turned and opened the door, and made her way out of the
cafe into the cold night air.

I read the fax again.

"From:
             
             
Isabel Jones,
Rosehill
Management Consulting.
To:
             
             
Robert Sherwood, Headmaster,
St
. John's School
Subject:
             
STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
Pages:
             
2 including this cover sheet

Message:

Dear Robert,

Here's the letter that I mentioned to you on the phone. PLEASE call me back once you've read it - I'm really worried.

Love

Isabel."

Isabel Jones. I'd forgotten that she'd kept her maiden name for work when she got married.