This story is about punishment: female on male. There's no sex. If that's your thing, welcome to my small and exclusive club, and please read on. If it's not your thing, you're probably going to be disappointed.
If you enjoy my writing, or even find it arousing, please leave me a comment or message me: it's always nice to know.
I'd like to acknowledge the unsuspecting contribution of Sarah, who gave me the inspiration for the story.
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It had been a strange assignation from the start. Looking back on it, Charles realised that he should have smelled a rat from the outset. Wasn't that what reporters were supposed to do? With their finely-tune antennae? He grimaced. Apparently, today had been a learning experience in more ways than one. Clicking his key fob, Charles lowered himself very, very gingerly into the driver's seat of his small car.
Ouch.
He paused for a moment, before turning the key: whatever he did, he definitely wanted to avoid speed bumps and potholes on the way home today.
*
Charles had already been working from home for an hour when the early morning message arrived from his editor, Heather. He hadn't been working for her for long: he'd only recently moved up from freelance copywriting towards the sought-after certainty of the income that a regional newspaper offered him for three days a week. It wasn't - yet - the world of louche undercover exposes that every reporter hopes for, but it was certainly a regular stream of work that could significantly support, if not entirely fund, the financial needs of his first city property. Sure, there was a fair share of dull stuff to cover - local protest groups with an obscure axe to grind, animal-based novelties, and human interest stories, frequently drawn from humans with very limited real interest beyond their own hyperactive imaginations. But there was also the occasional glimpse of genuine investigative journalism. In his first three months, Charles had uncovered a papertrail of financial impropriety within a town council, dug up some nasty skeletons in the closet of a right-wing party's local branch office, and been directly responsible for exposing the poor conditions at a local puppy farm. In short, he was something of a rising star. And Heather's latest message to him was certainly an intriguing one.
"Are you aware of the porn company on Northfield industrial estate? I want someone to go see them."
Charles was indeed aware. The site wasn't too far from his own flat, and had caused a wave of scandal and protest when its location was first mooted. There had been a few scattered days of protest from - largely - local religious groups, before the realisation dawned that performers could actually come and go without having roadside sex, or making impromptu visits to local schools on careers day. In short, by now, the premises had become a non story, and six months or so down the line, nothing much further had been heard of it.
"Yes." responded Charles. "I'm aware of it. Something specific you want me to take a look at?"
The dots blinked on his screen as Heather typed her response.
"An interview with the boss, Lauren Davies. She's keen to show herself as a success story, contributing to the local economy now. Happy for us to oblige. Areas of interest: something a bit salacious about their operations (always good copy!); risk of future expansion plans/ relocation; portrait of a strong female CEO. Take your pick. I'm thinking weekend supplement, half page: will get the photographer down there tomorrow afternoon once I've sen your copy. Contact details and link to company page/ bio to follow. Lauren's expecting you this afternoon. Need anything else for now?"
"All good thanks boss." Charles smiled at his own faux-deferential tone. "I'm right on it!"
As the further information came through, Charles opened his browser window - private mode - and began to take a look at some of the company's productions. Fairly racy stuff, to his mind at least. It seemed Miss Davies' business focused on a fairly specific niche in the market. Bondage, as he would have called it. Not too much sex, but lots of titles that involved people being whipped, caned, spanked - basically, knocked around with implements of various kinds. Intriguing. It would certainly be good if he could get a few words from one or two of the performers. What on earth would bring people to do something like this, he mused to himself?
For sure, the great thing about a career in journalism was the insight into new worlds. And this promised to be one which would make a good story not just on the front page, but also in the pub - and maybe even the bedroom.
*
At around ten to four that afternoon, Charles pulled into the car park of the nondescript industrial unit which housed Lessons Learned Productions Ltd. Switching off the engine, he took a good look. The premises was quite sizeable - about the size of a municipal swimming pool - but discreet, with no obvious clue as to the nature of its operations. It was surrounded by light manufacturing units, with a trade catering outlet directly adjacent. Frankly, you wouldn't have given it a second look. Checking his watch, he decided that he'd head in a few minutes early. There was always a chance of decent gossip from a willing receptionist or secretary, before the interview proper began. Especially if he could charm them a little.
He rang the intercom, and out of habit, positioned himself just off camera. It buzzed. "Can I help you?"
"Hi," he responded confidently. "Charles Carter here to speak with Lauren. I've an appointment at four."
Another buzz, and the door clicked. Charles pushed, and entered. Almost immediately, he spotted a young man coming towards him.
"Hello Charles, I'm James, Ms Davies' personal assistant. Please, come through to the office."
Hmmm. Charming information out of the assistant was likely to be a non-starter, then, thought Charles. Glancing briefly around, he could see that the unit was laid out into a number of sets. There was an area that appeared to be a school office of some kind, all traditional oak panelling and a large desk. Next to it, a far more domestic setting, with a separate living room and bedroom area. And lastly, something far more like the dungeon that he'd been expecting, with a large wooden cross, candles, and a black leather kind of vibe. He smiled to himself. Odd, what some people got off to.
Following James though to a small anteroom, Charles nodded his polite assent to the offer of coffee - black, no sugar, thanks - and set to combing the walls and notice boards for anything of interest. Certainly, there was plenty of good stuff to be found if your proclivities were... of a certain type. The walls were fairly covered in small framed prints - action stills, "artist" portraits, and an occasional award certificate. The content focused exclusively on punishment of one kind or another - there were some pretty salty shots of welted bottoms, striped backs and even (he looked closer) bruised nipples. It seemed this wasn't a company to do things by halves.
James returned shortly to find him, mid-perusal. "Beautiful, aren't they?"
Charles started. "It wasn't the word I'd have used. Is this kind of thing popular, James?"
James smiled. "In what sense?"
"Commercially."
"Well, I assume you did your research at Companies' House. Gross profit was up by 90% last year, even with the usual accountancy magic which creates various losses for us to offset against tax. All," James added, conscious of his audience, "entirely above board and in line with normal practice, of course."
At this moment, the door at the far end of the office opened. From her LinkedIn profile, Charles immediately recognised Lauren Davies. She was shorter than he'd anticipated, at about 5'3", although her presence somehow seemed larger. She was slim, early thirties, with lustrous fair hair worn loose down to her shoulders. Jeans which, although not exactly tight, were cut skilfully enough to hint at an athletic figure underneath, highly-polished loafers, and a crisp white blouse which had more than a hint of 'designer' about it. She was immaculately made up: not overly so, but with burgundy tinted lips and a slash of dark eyeliner that accentuated her pale blue eyes. She had the kind of flawless complexion born either of extreme genetic luck, or a costly commitment to creams and spa days. Ignoring Charles altogether, she addressed her assistant.
"James. I need that quote for props, and we're still urgent for a standby performer tomorrow. Where are you with that? I don't really have time to be chasing these things."
"Sorry, Ms Davies," responded James, flushing slightly. "They say the quote should be here by five. And I'm waiting on a callback from Jen to see if she could be free. You know, the girl we used in last month's kidnap feature? I didn't want to bother you until I had something more substantive to tell you."
Her face softened a little. "Good. Reassuring to know. But chase them both at half past. I don't want anyone closing up at five and leaving us in the lurch. And..." she paused "...I assume this must be my four o'clock?"
Charles prickled a little, but remained silent. "Yes," responded James. "Charles Carter, from the Echo."
Lauren turned her head towards him, and briefly turned on a disarming smile. The room temperature seemed to rise by a degree or two, and the lights brightened. Charismatic, for sure. Nonetheless, Charles could see her appraising him: his faded chinos, his crumpled shirt, his slightly too-worn trainers. Damn. He didn't like to come off second-best - things worked better if your interviewee saw you as an equal - but he'd perhaps underestimated his opponent. Industrial estates could be misleading, like that.
"I'm very glad you could come, Charles. It'll be good to give you a direct insight into our work. And Heather, your boss, was very keen for this piece to go ahead. She thinks highly of you, you know."
Charles, slightly taken aback, attempted to regain the initiative. "Yes, she said you were asking for us to help you out with some positive coverage. I'd be delighted to find out more. James was just confirming how well things have been going commercially... You... you spoke with Heather, then?"
Lauren tilted her head to one side. "We're... connections. Business networking. It always pays to know the right people, and there are some good networks for female leaders in the area. Advice, defusing, and the occasional quid pro quo. You know the kind of thing."
"Well," said Charles, "this will of course be a piece of independent journalism. But I'm keen to find out about your success, both personally and as a business."
Lauren looked at him, a smile playing around her lips. "Of course you are. Well, you'd better come in. I see you already have coffee. James - no calls, please." She held the door, stepped back slightly, and gestured Charles into her office. He entered, through a miasma of exclusive perfume as he passed.
The office was more what he'd expected of an industrial unit. Thin grey panels made up the walling, the carpet was inexpensive, and a number of box files fought for space on a light oak bookshelf. The visitor's seat was a cheap swivel affair, with blue fabric, but it stood in contrast to the plush leather-backed affair from which Lauren directed operations. Her desk was similarly incongruous: dark wood, with green leather inlay, in an antique style that suggested craftsmanship and pound notes. It rather looked as though the business spent its money on the boss, but saved it on everything else.
Charles sat, and his ageing chair tilted slightly underneath him. Awkwardly regaining his balance, he pulled out a laptop, opened it, and perched it on his knee.
