The house was one of those Georgian four-storey affairs. It wasn’t quite a mansion, but it stood in its own grounds 30 or 40 meters from the B road at the end of a short gravel drive. Tamed ivy decorated one corner; a network of dark green leaves ascending to the roof, a rustic detail that softened the over-all look.

I had come to interview Thomas Barrett, an influential city trader who had done very nicely out of the global recession and was well-placed to do even better. But something about the man made me nervous. Not that we had ever met, but in his picture he looked hard and serious; the type of man who wore his suits sharp and left his personal grooming rugged. I also knew he was 48 and tall with trademark eyebrows that gave him an eagle-like look. Intriguingly, the cuttings said little about his personal life.

The front door was black with a brass lion that looked like it would bite my hand off if I knocked. I paused. It was my imagination of course but the metallic face had a hint of a smug smile that seemed to say ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I grabbed the ring that the lion held in his teeth and rapped the heavy door thrice. I thought of Miss Parmenter and a toll of doom; much the same thing in my experience.

After the longest bird-serenaded wait in history the door opened all at once and suddenly. I found myself looking into Thomas Barret’s chest as he towered over me. Well I assumed it was Barrett, because for some reason I declined to raise my head to meet his eyes for several beats.

“Rachel Roux?” he growled.

I paused as if expecting him to scold me and then realised he was seeking confirmation. Get your act together girl, I chided myself, and straightened up.

“Eh… yes Rachel Roux, that’s right,” I gushed, “I am here to…”

“I know why you are here, come this way.” His dark baritone carried authority and I followed him obediently and at a tottering pace as he strode away.

“You are the one who has been pestering my PA,” he accused as he marched down a narrow picture-lined passage towards the rear of the house with this humble reporter scrabbling after him.

I didn’t know how to answer that so I didn’t. Instead I said, “Lovely house you have here.”

He stopped and regarded me like an imbecile. His heavy eyebrow-shrouded gaze scanned me top to bottom and then he grunted and turned to walk on.

“Thank you,” he said as an afterthought. It sounded like the opening rumble of a volcano, I thought.

*

The interview was conducted in the library at the rear of the house. The large south-facing windows gave the room a delightful aspect and I was better able to read the man who controlled countless billions in global investment.

As ever I plied him with routine questions of the sort that any reference could give answers to and lured him into thinking I was workaday. Of course little-by-little I teased something quote-worthy from him while I angled the interview towards the two or three things I really wanted to know.

At one point he smiled and I assumed his guard was down.

“But what my editor really wants to know is the man behind the legend,” I said artfully. “For instance why have you never married? Is it true you have a penchant for Hollywood screen idols…?”

“What’s my favourite colour?” he cut in with a dry voice.

“No I mean…” Shit, it had all been going so well.

“Miss Roux, it is right and proper, however irritating, that you should show an interest in my investment work, but my private life is my own,” he said crisply.

“Let’s talk about your investments then,” I put in quickly trying to regain the initiative. “Is it true that you have put up £50 million towards Loren Caldor’s latest movie? Rumours are…”

“Miss Roux,” Barrett growled, “My dealings with Ms Caldor are of no concern to you and as for rumours, I never comment on them.”

“No of course but…” I spluttered. “B-but you must admit that there are stories about your rather paternal relationship with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars. I mean she is only 24 and you’re… I mean when asked about you she said ‘Daddy spank.’ Was that a joke? I mean to say… Loren Caldor is well-known for dabbling in BDSM and I mean…” I was losing it and blurting everything I could think of I had read to shake something loose.

“Miss Roux, this interview is at an end.” Barrett stood up and indicated the door.

“But Mr Barrett please, we haven’t…” I sounded whiney and could have kicked myself.

“Miss Roux, since you seem so prurient in your interests, has anyone ever bared your bottom and put you across their knee for a good sound spanking?” As he spoke he crossed his arms and glared at me.

They had of course, but he didn’t know that. Or did he? I thought again of Miss Parmenter’s words and blushed to my ears.

“Now I have to ask you to leave,” he said sharply.

*

“Charlie is going to kill me,” I wailed once I found myself standing alone on the doorstep.

I played back what I had on the Dictaphone and sighed. It was alright, but it was boring. Barrett hadn’t even given a hint about Caldor, unless you counted the spanking threat. I had to do something drastic.

When I was in the library I had noticed the French windows weren’t locked. If I could only find a tangible link, I thought. If I could confirm the rumour about the £50 million that would be a scoop and any insight into a personal relationship could be used to approach Loren Caldor herself.

By the time my mind had weighed this up I was already on the back lawn staring through the windows. With no sign of Barrett I tried the full-length glass doors. Bingo.

It was almost too easy. The desk draw in the library was unlocked and I quickly found a photo album. There was nothing too incriminating, mostly family shots and several posed with celebrities. The ones featuring Loren Caldor were generic and spoke of nothing intimate and I cursed. I had seen as much in the newspapers.

Then I noticed the lap-top on the desk. It was half open and switched on. It was too much to expect that it wouldn’t be password protected but maybe it hadn’t… I winced as tentatively I eased it fully upright. There was glorious background image dotted with icons and Barrett’s world open to me.

*

The recent images were labelled in a folder marked Loren and I couldn’t resist. One click and screen of images came to life.

“Oh my God,” I gasped.

My head was spinning and lightheaded. The intimate shots were tame enough, although a few had Loren Caldor in a bikini, some quite revealing. Holiday shots perhaps, but that wasn’t what leapt out at me.

In one shot Loren was standing with her jeans at her ankles facing the corner. Her knickers too were below her knees and it was obvious she had been soundly spanked. I looked up. No doubt about it, the corner she was standing in was the one I was looking at here in the library. This was dynamite.

It was one of those moral dilemmas in life. If I downloaded the pictures or better yet emailed them to myself using Barrett’s own account I could make Charlie a very happy man. But as thrilling as the idea of a Hollywood idol getting spanked and sent to the corner was, it was none of my business. I mused, maybe if I just sent some copies to my mail and didn’t tell Charlie? Surely Barrett would open up enough in return for my continued discretion?

“Loren is learning how to behave,” said a voice that sent my nerves jangling. I must have leapt 10 feet in the air.

My face boiled and I stared at Barrett in the doorway with horror.

“I was just…” I began.

Barrett stood appraising me as if he might a steak and I quailed. I shot a glance at the open French windows and made a dash.

Barrett caught me easily and hauled me back towards the desk and his chair.

“You want to know more about Loren and I?” he asked sharply.

I nodded dumbly and went even redder than before.

“So you have a choice,” Barrett said darkly, “I can call the police and your editor… or you can have a private lesson and if you are a good girl… perhaps another interview.”

“What do you mean?” I gulped.

“Oh I think you know,” he growled.

I swallowed and thought of Charlie. If I failed or Barrett phoned him, my tail was a write-off and that was a cert. As for the police… he was bluffing, but could I risk it?

“Yes,” I said. There was no dignity in my blushing.

Barrett tumbled me across his lap and patted my bottom.

“You’ve done this before,” Barrett chuckled.

I nodded.

My business trousers slid down easily and with them my delicates until both garments were hugging my knees. My bare bottom was heroically posed and pointing up at him and I could have died.

Barrett took something from a draw and then patted my naked behind with it. Some sort of brush and I gulped.

“My hand for a while and then this,” he said.

I nodded again. What else could I say?

The spanking began slowly. His hand was crisp and stingy and the burn built up slowly until I was struggling to breathe evenly and began to squirm. He was obviously an expert and without rushing he spanked me hard for about 15 minutes.

By then I had a very hot bottom, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, but as I found out later, it sure was red.

“I am going to put you in the corner for about an hour,” he said, “I want you to learn some manners. Then I am going to spank you again properly.”

I wriggled and kicked my legs.

“Come on Mr Barrett, I’m sorry, I know I should have…” I wailed. Standing in the corner was just too embarrassing.

“Then you can go to the corner for another hour or two while you think about what you did,” the man told me in a voice fierce with justice.

“Can’t we just get it over with?” I squeaked.

“No,” he barked.

*

Cornertime is a bitch, especially when you know you have another spanking coming. But at least I was in good company. The Loren Caldor had stood in the very same spot. How often, I wondered, and how long? I wondered to about how many others.

“You are not the first reporter to stand in my corner,” Barrett chuckled as if reading my thoughts, “I even once had a 40-something lady national newspaper editor standing where you are.”

My face was hot, a stark contrast to the chill on my recently spanked bottom as I stood meekly in the corner. Barrett was sitting at the desk behind me, no doubt watching. There hadn’t been that many women editors in Britain and two or three names popped into my head. I couldn’t even think of any others and managed a smile. No way, I almost giggled.

“It’s true,” Barrett said. His voice was lighter now and almost friendly. “On two occasions I have had a women MP or two stood there, one of them a minister.”

“And actresses?” I blurted, my voice muffled by the wall, “Apart from Loren I mean.”

“Oh…” he laughed, “Countless. Some big names too, you would be surprised.”

“And they all submitted quietly,” I tried for some scorn I didn’t really feel.

“Not all, not quietly, but none were coerced. Many didn’t even need the level of persuasion applied to you.” He coughed and I could feel his powerful presence behind me.

I blushed again as I thought about him watching my bum.

“So you are saying…” I supplied the name of a prominent editor, a reasonable guess on my part, and added, “…and ministers of the state let you spank them and make them stand in this corner?”

He didn’t contradict my choice of editor and only laughed. “You are,” he chuckled.

I blushed again and blurted, “But I am only…”

“You’re not only anything,” he cut me off. “You are no different to them, not when it comes down to it. Girls like you and all the others have certain needs. It suits them to think they have no choice.”

“What choice did you give me?” I shifted my weight and made to scratch my bottom.

“Stop fidgeting,” he barked. “You had a choice. You are not stupid. Even if I had called the police you would only have been escorted from the house. As for your editor… what would have been the big deal?”

I didn’t tell him that Charlie would have spanked me too, but he was right. Why did I always end up in these scrapes?

“I think it is time for your proper spanking,” he said, “Come here.”

When I turned he was holding a large dark wood brush. It was smaller than a bath brush, but it certainly wasn’t for his hair. Or mine.

“Please I…” my voice was thick and I felt some tears pricking at my eyes.

Mercifully he didn’t let me dwell on my fate and in a moment I was back across his knee with my bare bottom jutting upwards.

“You nasty little sneak,” he growled, “You self-serving brat…” he spanked me suddenly and robbed me of breath.

“Sorry,” I gasped.

“I’ll teach you what it means to cross me,” he snarled, spanking me three or four times.

I hissed and groaned. Actually within a minute I had no idea what I did. My world was bottom, pain and his firm steady voice scolding me and soothing me by turns as he continued to spank.

A good spanking has a tangy effect. Tangy is what I call it. A sort burn and sting together. Overtime it grows and builds until I can’t cope and under this it begins to ache. Muscles ache and the skin covering them burns and stings, it’s an effective combination.

Somewhere about halfway through I began to yell and then cry. It didn’t deter him. Barrett spanked me for ever and without a pause.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good,” I sobbed.

“No you won’t,” Barrett chuckled, “But I am going to make you wish you knew how to be.”

I have to give it to the man. This spanking was among my top 10 worse spankings of all time. I don’t think I have ever been so thoroughly surrendered. Cornertime afterwards was a celebration of sobbing and I felt cleansed. Not that I had slightest idea how long he had me standing there. Quite frankly after a spanking like that, it was none of my business.

At least I got my second interview.