I would be shy and quiet, not at all in the mood for being playfully naughty. I would knock quietly at the door and enter when I heard the deep summons from within.

He would be sitting at his desk. I would creep in and stand just inside the door and wait. I would look a little around me. This is not a room I am allowed in very often. A uniquely male space, it makes me feel overwhelmed and I long for his hand or his smile to make it more comforting.

He would make me wait. I would stand quietly, trying to be invisible, seeing if I could absent myself with my silence. My hands would be in front of me, and I would hold them there and try to keep them from my mouth in a gesture of self comfort that would lead to stern words and a determined glare.

After he had made me wait for a while he would put his pen down and look at me. I think the clock would stop.

His voice would never be unkind, even when he makes the most terrifying demands. And every instruction in that room makes me shake.

He would summon me closer to stand in front of the desk. I would do so with tiny steps. He would speak to me in low, disapproving tones about my misdemeanours and I would reply when required to, in a voice that is smaller than my normal voice.

When the time came he would tell me to bend over, forward over the desk, or sometimes over his lap. Both have their terrors. Over the lap makes me feel more childish and more intruded upon. Sometimes when I am there and he has spanked me he does more things, things to make me blush and make me sorry.

But other times he would make me bend over the desk. Placing my feet slightly apart he would make me bend at the waist as neat and as measured as his line of books on the shelves. He would fold up my nightie and lower my knickers to my thighs. He would do this in such a calm, unhurried manner that it would seem for all the world that he was just straightening his desk for work, if only one could ignore the poor, trembling girl at the centre of the piece.

Once I was settled in exactly the right position he would begin.

A series of brisk, solid slaps at first, which would make a shocking noise in the quiet room. I would bite my lip a little to keep quiet, my breath pushed out with little hard noises as the force of his strong hand travelled through me.

It would warm my whole bottom and then make it sting and then it would burn and soon I would start to wriggle a little as it built into a pain that was inescapable and thorough.

A pause then, and I would be rearranged. My body would stay as it was but my original position would be returned to me as he pushed my back straight again and with gentle calming hands ensure my body was all as he willed it to be.

I would hear him stand to the side and I would shut my eyes to wish what was coming to me far away. I would feel one hand on my back, a final stilling gesture as though I were a skittish foal, and when its warm presence left me I would wait for the sound.

The swish would come and would strike all along my bum, already red the pain would become white and my cry out would be involuntary. From the first strike I would already have given in; before I reached the study I would already have been sorry. All of this is additional. It is what he decides makes it all better.

The sound and the strikes would continue. Line would build upon line, never crossing but building up to a measured searing punishment that would make every muscle and fibre in my body tense up and plead with him to stop. That is until I gave in. I would give in. I would accept it then, and I would be still. I would love him for every strike.

He would send me to bed then.I would wait for him lying on my tummy.