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We’re at a table in one of our favourite cafes, Alison has made a pain in the retail trade’s arse of herself by trying on tons of things we might come back later to buy, but probably won’t and we need coffee. Also, there’s something I want to talk to her about while I have her full attention. “You’re a bit quiet this morning Kate, what’s happened?” she asks, noticing it.

“You know I’m writing now?” “Yeah, how’s that going?” she asks with a little smile because she knows my chosen theme is our favourite subject, kinky sex. I tell her to be able to write you first need something to write about. “Of course.” she agrees. I carry on with how I thought I’d try a little experiment with a bit of role play and tell her about the game with Ben, my boyfriend, who she knows well. She nods her approval at how sensible that is while ripping a sachet of sugar open and pouring it in her coffee. “Well I lost.” I say. At that she looks up at me, interested.

As my tale continues she’s impressed with Ben’s devious sense of fun and thinks making me apply for a job I didn’t want is very funny, especially as it’s in a school sports department. “You!” she exclaims, laughing at the idea.

It becomes apparent while I tell her about waiting outside the head master’s office that she’s beginning to understand I actually did apply for the job. Did she think I was kidding? She stops laughing and seems to be overcome by a sort of fascination when I describe how seriously I was dressed up.

By the time I get to making an exhibition of myself in Gittins’ office she’s stunned speechless. She’s staring at me all huge eyes and wide open mouth, covering it with her left hand, touching her teeth and breathing through her fingers, frozen in shock.

During my recollection of being made to clean the sports hall floor on my hands and knees I see her move just enough to silently mouth the word fuck. “Oh Kate!” she whispers, amazed.

After the story I want to tell her how I’d tried to assume the role she usually plays in our fantasies and how, by concentrating on the thrill of fear, I was OK at first, but it all became too real and I lost my sense of humour. I want to talk to her, writer to writer, about how she copes, in order to be able to write her experience with credibility because I’m serious about understanding and want this to be an artistic exchange, about art. Halfway through it she recovers her senses and interrupts me with “He wedgied you?” Slightly disappointed I look at her thinking yes Ali, he did. “That’s fantastic!” she cries.

“No it isn’t!” I snap at her but she’s beaming. “It’s about time you got your comeuppance.” she grins in spite of appreciating the danger of my peril. “Did you tell Ben?” she asks as if the shame of my ordeal might have stopped me. I was getting to that.

“I don’t believe it!” she mumbles, shaking her head as I continue. Not in disagreement with me but because I’ve never before risked an adventure so far out of my depth, out of hers yes, but not mine. We didn’t know I tell her, meaning neither Ben or myself. “It’s St Nick’s!” she points out. “What did you think would happen?” A job interview?

Ben accepted that we’d been irresponsible and apologised for challenging me but found my report of the ordeal profoundly erotic. Alison obviously does too, I can see it in the wicked smirk on her face, but here’s the real dread, “He won’t let me off!” I complain.

“Off what?” she asks, because I’ve done it haven’t I? “The governor?” she adds, remembering I need two signatures to pay my debt to our game. “Yeah, the bastard governor!” I curse. I watch the awful prospect of having to go back to St Nick’s soak into Alison’s little freckled brain and see she understands the horror of it. “What are you going to do?” she says, eventually. “I thought I’d offer them you.” I tell her.

For the second time since we sat down Alison is fixed rigid in a sort of bewildered trance, unable to comprehend the gravity of the information she’s been asked to assimilate. I pick my coffee up and drink at least half of it before she says “What?” her face developing a sort of blank incredulity.

“Well we’re going to do this Dark Adventure thing aren’t we?” I tell her, not needing an answer because we are, we’ve talked about it. The point of it is pushing our experiences as far as we can by role playing then writing the fantasies from there with the terror still fresh in our hearts. “This’ll be a good place to start.” I suggest.

I realise she’ll need time to think, she’s not the sharpest tool in the box, bless her and while she’s doing that I pull my phone out of my bag to show her some of the messages I’ve swapped with LairdTarn, the governor himself. “Look, this is what he wants.” I say and put the phone down in front of her so she can scroll up the message stream. “You talk to him?” she asks quietly.

My email address had to go on the application form and although Gittins’ threw that away, the school emailed the first interview date, so they know me. “He really wants me to go in,” I admit and add “or someone!”

“No way!” she says, she’s only read one message and that without her glasses on. I know I’m intriguing her when she reaches down to pick up her bag and out come the aforesaid glasses. She hangs them on the end of her nose so she can look at me over the top. Brushing the screen of my phone with her right middle finger she keeps reading.

A few head shakes later, punctuated with the occasional glance over her glasses and the odd lip bite, she smiles and says “He fancies you.” “He fancies the idea of me, we’ve never met.” I insist. “Yeah but you’ve got a fat arse and chunky thighs, you’re perfect, you have to go!” she tells me and then offers to give me some stockings and lacy knickers. Give that is, not lend, she doesn’t want them back, as if hers would fit me! “Panties.” I say, correcting her. You have to call them that, it’s important for some reason. She observes how particular he seems to be.

That’s it, he’s particular. I’m certain I can’t play what he wants without wanting to tear his face off halfway through but Alison can, I’ve seen her do it. I’ve seen her beg for mercy knowing she stands no chance of getting it, that “Oh fuck, please no!” look on her face which means “Oh fuck, please yes.” really. She’s so sweet she could melt the heart of the most ruthless of oppressors. If anyone was born to be obedient it’s her. I get quite passionate as I try to bully her and can’t believe it when she she says “No!” absolutely. “It’s St fuckin’ Nick’s!” she cries, “Don’t you know?” I thought I did.

This time it’s her phone through which the explanation’s offered. I watch her snort short breaths in a display of “right then” attitude as her thumb dances on her screen. “Check that out.” she demands and slides her phone across the table.

Already playing is a video, not on Youtube but because she’s switched full screen I can’t tell what site it is, so I ask but she says “Go on, watch.” As I do she tells me she found it while she was researching a story she wanted to write. As you know she too writes, kinky sex, and this was about the secret rituals of the private school system, mirrors of those hidden by the people who actually do own the country. I’d recognise a bastard St Nick’s blazer anywhere!

A predictably buxom young woman is standing in front of a class of plainly older boys. Before the real action starts Alison volunteers “It’s on some private blogger’s website, some computer freak whizz kid with the knowhow and a look how much money my dad’s got syndrome made it.” Oh my god, it’s Justin Hamilton Horseface!!!!

Within seconds it’s clear that the class know far more than their teacher, if you can call her that, because it’s her who’s going to get taught an awful lesson. She turns her back on the class to write something on the blackboard and instantly the ringleaders are out of their seats, HH at the head of the charge. Whoever is holding the camera, phone or whatever it is goes too and points it at the two boys sent to head off any escape attempt through the classroom door.

She tries. She turns at the noise of scraping chairs and horrified by the pack bearing down on her bolts for the safety of the corridor outside but her route is blocked. I see the panic on her face as she stops dead, foiled with no hope of avoiding her fate. Hands haul her backwards just as I was hauled and her blouse is rent asunder just as my vest was. I know how she feels as her breasts burst straight into the mauling she must expect. Her bra is ripped off so fast I’m not sure I saw it go on Alison’s tiny screen.

At this point I look up and Alison pokes her finger at me. ”You had a lucky escape!” she says.

Soon all I can see of the teacher through the wall of surrounding blazers are one arm, held out tight by one boy and one leg off the ground as she falls. Her foot is already shoeless and her thigh exposed as hands heave up her skirt, her stocking tops clipless. HH is centre stage, I can’t see his hands but it doesn’t take much to know how much damage he’s inflicting.

“OK, get her on the desk.” someone calls at which the groping hands lift her forwards. With no footing to support her she’s dragged, breasts down over the edge. Just like Gittins, a cane appears from no where in HH’s hand and I see why he’s head bastard. The pack stand back to avoid his yet to be honed fencing talent as the first blow encourages their victim to get up on all fours, “crack” against her thigh.

They’ve stripped her of her blouse completely and her tits swing between her arms as she tried to pull herself up. The camera moves to display them and someone reaching for a nipple from the other side. Her long hair is no longer neat and tied but pulled into a wild tangle. I can still see her crying and her trashed makeup.

The camera misses two sweeps of the cane by lingering on the abuse her nipples take, heard but not seen as they sting her with a force which momentarily stops her from raising her arse as instructed. She flinches violently.

To get it out of the way her skirt is folded over her back by more hands eager to help and another pair pull her panties over her arse and thighs. They rest round her knees as HH lines up another strike. This time the camera is ready to film the wave the impact sends across her flesh as HH gives it everything he’s got, not much but it still makes me flinch too.

The ordeal lasts perhaps five minutes before the pack retire to let the camera pan round the results of their assault. We watch the welts on her arse and the inside of her thighs, held together by a futile attempt to somehow limit the force of the cane but opened now, the order to do so barked by the cameraman (boy). Someone pushes the middle of her back down, holding her head on the desk by her hair to allow the camera a close up of her wrecked stockings, her torn panties and finally her genitals. Unlike me she’s shaven and it’s obvious because of it she wasn’t spared the cane there either.

The camera carries on round her, grinning boys forming the backdrop to her agony until we reach her head. She’s forced to look up and it’s a shock to find out how pretty she is, even after this. I think “Why are you doing this?”

At the end the class file out laughing and chatting, leaving her on the desk sobbing her heart out. In the last shot, as the door closes on her, she tries to slide off the desk with as much dignity as possible, her legs bound at the knee by tangled underwear. She looks at the camera before it’s switched off in a look I’m sure means “Was that what you wanted?”

“She’s a whore, that’s your job.” Alison comments. I ask “So why don’t you want to do it then?” desperate for her to but she thinks I’m kidding. “I want you to.” she says, her eyes bright with a malice I’ve never seen before.