EXTRACT FOR
A Caning for the Coach
(Miranda Birch)

I looked around the room. There were no windows and no furniture. That goddamned prissy schoolmarm bitch had certainly got me where she wanted. What the hell did she have in mind from here on? It was a scary situation but not, I reckoned, as bad as being up in front of the beaks on a trumped-up rape charge. It seemed to me I had been properly framed on that one, but those bastards went on evidence. Which Angela Callaghan had so cleverly manufactured. That little Christina was a real slut,, yet now she was going to pretend I'd forced her into it. The absolute opposite was the case. She couldn't have got her knickers off quick enough. Crazy for it. And I'd given her all she wanted. Not for the first time. But now that didn't make any difference. She was going to tell a different story. I knew I was done for on what those two had cooked up. 



But what was going to happen now? 



There I was, naked, locked in this crazy bitch's basement, waiting for some kind of punishment she had in mind. 'Belt the shit out of you', she had said. Did she really mean it? Was she some kind of nut? It was frightening. But there wasn't much I could do about it. Perhaps, I thought, I could overpower her. Fuck her, even. Maybe that was actually what she wanted. Women were strange creatures. The young ones were no trouble. They just liked fucking. Especially when I was doing the fucking! And why the hell not? 



It was almost impossible to believe that I was going to lie on the floor with no covering. But there didn't seem to be any alternative. Then the light went out suddenly and I was in pitch darkness. I shivered. Then, cursing Miss Callaghan, I lay down on the floor and sought for sleep. 



It was a long, long time coming. 



Several times, when I was almost off, my mind wandered to tomorrow. 



What exactly did this woman intend to do to me? 



Morning came eventually. At least I supposed it was morning. All that happened was the light went on. I got up, feeling stiff and dirty. There was a bucket in the corner -- very primitive. Yet I was grateful for it. Time passed slowly. How long did she intend to keep me hanging about? It was all so ridiculous; so unreal. Yet, I couldn't help repeating to myself, it was better than being in the nick on a trumped-up rape charge. 



After what seemed hours, the door opened with surprising suddenness and in came Miss Callaghan. To say I was startled would have been a wild understatement. To begin with, she was half naked, wearing only black stockings held up by a fancy black suspender belt, something which was also black and, I believe, is called a cache-sex (it is the tiniest pair of panties possible). Round her neck were pearls, on her feet were high-heeled black shoes. She seemed quite unconcerned when I stared at her. She had a good body. But what really got to me was what she had in her hand. It was a meaty-looking brown leather belt. I knew she was going to use it on me and I didn't like the idea one little bit. She came towards me, looking pleased with herself.