The day was not as hot as the day before, although out here that meant very little. Somewhere a fly buzzed and the only thing moving on the one road in to Warwick Station was the heat haze that shimmered like water just out of reach.

Manda looked up the road wistfully and wished for once that she could follow it to where ever it led.

“You coming?” Jock called over from the shed.

A big man, he filled the shed doorway like John Wayne; even the hat was the same, although Wayne was never that tanned. But his easy smile set on an impossible square jaw was at odds with the sharpness of his clear blue eyes. Manda sucked in a breath and let it go as a sigh.

“Alright Mr Murdoch, keep your hair on, I’m coming,” she shot back.

Jock stifled a chuckled that reached his shoulders and he shook his head in appreciation. At least the girl had spirit, he thought.

Manda McKenzie was a rare breed on a sheep station; well she was a Sheila for one thing and for another she was at least as good as the men on the strength. She was a looker too, with white even teeth and ash blonde hair that didn’t quit, nor did her legs that rose to meet it around her comely filled cut-off shorts.

From the languid way Manda crossed the yard to the shed Jock could tell she knew the score and he wondered which way she would jump. He continued to watch her until she reached him and stopped. Her head barely reached his chest and she had to look up to squint against the sun.

“We going in or what?” she challenged him.

Jock shrugged and stepped back with faux gallantry to usher her inside.

“What happened to you yesterday anyway?” he asked as he followed her into the slightly less oppressive heat of the shed. The interior was heavy with the scent of creosote and dried wood. And sheep, of course, there was always the sheep.

Manda shrugged.

“Alright, your bloody business, but ditching work and skiving off is my concern,” Jock sighed.

She shrugged again and screwed up her nose.

“We doing this or what?” she said defiantly and folded her arms. She was hanging at one hip in a slouch with her hair streaming to one side like a blonde waterfall where it caught the light from the small window. Her whole posture screamed attitude.

“You sure? I mean I could just dock your pay,” Jock said easily. But as he spoke he crossed the room to the work bench and the heavy leather strap hanging just above it.

“It’s no biggie,” she shook her head, “How do you want me?”

Jock chuckled and reached for the strap.

“Not done this before?” he drawled as he needlessly tested the strap by stretching on it.

“Sure,” she shrugged yet again and screwed up her nose. “Old Man Casper… you know… pants and trousers down at my ankles and bent over the kitchen table while his wife made coffee.”

Jock snorted humourlessly and mopped his brow.

“Sounds like old Casper,” he laughed. “Well it’s pretty much the same here.”

Manda made a sour face as if she had expected something different and her hands went to her hips. She eyed the work bench and he nodded.

As she stooped to a bend her underpants came down with her shorts, slowly drawn taught over her ample tight curved bottom on their way to her knees. Once she let go they fell to a puddle at her ankles and she came erect. At least she had the good grace to blush.

“Enjoying the view,” she snapped at him.

“Oh yeah,” he grinned and made a show of folding his arms and leaning back in open appreciation.

“Figures,” she muttered, but her gaze couldn’t meet his and her blush deepened.

“I can still dock your pay,” he said.

“No way,” she said indignantly and shuffled forward hobbled as she was until she reached the bench. Then she folded herself in half like a pro as if daring him to do his worse with her bare bottom thrust at him.

Her hair wrapped around her face and she had to pick some strands from her mouth as she blew them away with a raspberry.

“Your funeral,” he replied dismissively and doubled the heavy leather strap.

“It’s my arse anyway, it won’t kill me,” she threw back at him as she braced herself.

He watched as she rocked her bottom and arched her back to present the target. Then he brought the leather down with a power stroke.

“Yah,” Manda hissed, and made a lemon face. “I take that back, that’s killing.”

Jock waited until a firm red patch had developed in a swathe across her pale flesh and then he struck again.

“Bugger,” she cursed and dipped at the knees.

“Feel that?” he said.

“Too right,” she exclaimed as she pumped her legs to shake out the sting.

The third swat left the red on red effect and welts began to rise where the path of the leather had crossed.

“Jesus fuck a dag hole,” she gasped and her eyes almost met in the middle as she stamped her feet.

Jock didn’t approve of Shelia’s swearing and shared his disapproval through the medium of leather; three or four times in succession.

“Alright, alright, Jeez,” she hissed, but tears pooled at her eyes and her bum was as raw as redhead with three days sun stain.

He gave her a dozen more, all spaced at intervals so that it took two minutes to sear her backside. By then of course her bravado was a puddle on the bench along with her tears and she shook with gentle sobs.

“Sorry, must be going soft,” she managed in a strained voice, “How many more?”

“You’re about done I reckon,” he said casually.

“Thank Christ,” she sniffed and painfully got to her feet. “You want me arse in the corner like old Man Man Casper?”

“I reckon not,” Jock shrugged as he rehung the strap.

“Good enough,” Manda said and pulled her shorts gingerly over her bottom. “I reckon I won’t sit ‘til payday though.” She was grinning through tears now and even those she wiped away. “Won’t skive off neither I reckon.”

“I reckon you won’t,” Jock laughed and accepted her hand for a business-like shake.

“See you later,” she said as she carefully walked out.