The confessions are usually pretty lame: Wearing make-up or feeling funny while watching Justin Bieber but occasionally you get a juicy one and that's a good guide to who might succumb to my charms. I see Peter, tall, thin, serious, awkwardly raising his hand and I feel a bit sick: it's unusual for one of the boys to confess anything. Surely he's not going to own up to that blowjob I gave him behind the church hall, is he?
"Yes Peter?" Grayling beams a patronising smile as though she's talking to a particularly stupid child.
"I have a confession to make," Peter blurts out, "I," he shoots a glance my way, "I masturbated yesterday." There's a shocked intake of breath from some of the Ringers. Grayling's line: Masturbation is a sin, same as sex. Fiona's making a theatrical show of fanning herself with her hands, pulling shocked expressions at anyone who'll look her way. I want to slap her right across her stupid little doll face. Poor Peter knows what's coming and so do the rest of us.
"You know what you have to do then, Peter," Grayling hisses from her pinched little mouth.
"Yes, Miss Grayling," Peter nods. He gets up and slowly walks across the room to face the portrait of Jesus. "Dear Lord and Father, I confess, I am sorry that I have defiled the body you gave me with this sinful act of wickedness. I will atone for my sin and I beg that you forgive me."
"Six," hisses Grayling as Peter opens the cupboard under the portrait of Jesus. He gets out a short length of cane, about a metre, with a leather handle wrapped around one end. "Turn to face us," says Grayling and Peter turns around to face the group, the cane held in one hand. "When you are ready, Peter," says Grayling in an eerily flat tone.
"I atone for my sins and I beg forgiveness," says Peter, swinging his arm around his back. He shoots me a glance and then winces as the cane lands hard on his bottom. Most of the boys know how to fake a good thrashing without hurting themselves too much but it looks like Peter's really going to go for it.
"Again," snaps Grayling.
"I atone for my sins," says Peter and brings the cane down upon himself. Again he looks my way: I can't bear to watch this, Peter's eyes are deep and sorrowful like Christ on the cross. Again and again Grayling makes him thrash himself.
Fucking hell, Peter: just for one blowjob? You're not going to survive this world with that sort of guilt-complex. I'd like to run up, snatch the cane from him, bring it down across Grayling's face or her plump little arse but it wouldn't save Peter, he's on his own up there. I look away. Was this really my fault? Poor boy just wasn't ready. I'd find him and apologize afterwards but I'm sure he won't come near me now. A shame, I had big plans for him.
Camilla gives my hand a little squeeze. She might be pretty icy, Camilla, but she's not made of stone and she knows I'm feeling bad about Peter.
I'm snapped out of my thoughts by Fiona squawking, "Miss Grayling! Maxille and Camilla..." she checks herself, "Maxille grabbed hold of Camilla's hand!" She knows better than to implicate Camilla: you don't fuck with blue blood.
