The Honourable William Massingham was a leading light in the New Government movement. His huge personal wealth, originally inherited but now supplemented by his interests in prostitution and illegal gambling, had helped fund the New Government in its formative years. As a result he was an untouchable member of the elite, and as such he was free to pursue his own personal little foibles. Massingham's foibles were somewhat unusual even by the standards of the British upper classes. Despite his avuncular appearance he was an unapologetic sociopath, an arrogant sadistic bully who took great pleasure from his perverse lifestyle. His public image was one of benign imperturbability. He dressed well and his manners, of course, were impeccable. He was tall, passably handsome, and still in good physical condition despite his sixty years.

 

"Set a course for the Re-education Centre please, McLeod."

 

"At once, Mr Massingham."

 

Massingham glanced casually at his driver, Heather McLeod, she was fairly new. He sat in the back of the Daimler on the opposite side to her.

 

"I had an email yesterday from young Jonny Weston, McLeod. Can you imagine to what it referred?"

He was rewarded by seeing her pretty face blush. It provided a pleasant contrast to the brilliant white of her crisp shirt collar.

 

"Yes sir...it was probably a reminder sir, that I'm due a beating back at the office sir."

 

"That's correct young lady; remind me again why you're going to be beaten?"

 

She gave a little sob. Massingham wasn't moved of course, in fact her evident misery only added to his enjoyment. He was like a cat with a terrified little mouse.

 

"It's because... it's because I'm a thief sir."

 

"Yes indeed McLeod, it's because you are a miserable, untrustworthy little thief."

 

In reality the former high-flyer in one of his recently acquired enterprises had accidentally claimed for more expenses than she was actually due. Nobody had even noticed until a random audit revealed it. To a man like Massingham that was all that was required. A swift interview, condemnation and then an arbitrary sentence followed. In her case she was seconded into his tender care as his personal chauffer. Her more obvious punishment was a public beating every Thursday in front of her former office colleagues until he decided she had paid her dues.

 

He had decked her out in full chauffer's uniform; he did so like a girl in uniform. In Heather McLeod's case she had been required to abandon her stylish suits for black heels, black stockings, a mid-thigh length black skirt, a white shirt, a black jacket, a sky blue tie, all crowned with a black chauffer's cap. She looked as pretty as a picture in William Massingham's opinion. He liked to think that being required to wear a work related uniform only served to emphasise a woman's true place in his organisations. Having her thrashed in front of her colleagues had proved to be a work of genius. He remembered how she had been asked to place a desk in the centre of the office. He'd called her to the desk whereupon she'd removed her cap and jacket and obediently bent over it. Then, in front of all the assembled staff, he'd given her six strokes over her skin tight skirt, and then given the cane to her former subordinate John Weston. Weston hadn't taken much persuasion to give her a further six strokes. Massingham noted that the young man had made each stroke count, ignoring the frantic kicking and squealing emanating from his humbled former boss. He made a mental note to think about promoting young Weston, the Party could always use his sort. Massingham glanced across at his driver and was gratified to see tears glistening on her cheeks.

 

"There's no point in feeling sorry for yourself McLeod, you've brought this situation on yourself."

 

"Y...yes sir." She made herself reply. Really he was a monstrous man, cruel and vindictive.

 

"I see we're due at your office tomorrow morning, McLeod."

 

"Yes sir."

 

"I'm considering your punishment young lady. I'm not entirely sure you've learnt your lesson yet. I have to speak with Mr Weston and gauge his opinion. What did you receive last time?"

 

"S...six each from you and Mr...W...Weston sir."

 

"Hmmm, I'm mindful to give you a dozen each, perhaps that will teach you to keep your mind on your job rather than fiddling your expenses hey?"

 

"Yes...s...sir." she managed to sob; he was such a hateful beast!

 

"I'll dwell on the matter tonight. Pick me up tomorrow at the usual time, and keep your eyes on the road, girl!"

 

Heather hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. Thirty minutes later the car drew up outside Southfields RC and she scurried around the car to open the rear door for him. He exited the car without a word and made his way towards the concrete steps that led up to that forbidding institution.

 

***

 

The following morning, Heather dressed herself very carefully. She knew that William Massingham was a stickler for his staff wearing their uniforms correctly. Her black heels had been polished to within an inch of their lives. Her stockings were immaculate, her skirt was the correct length, her white shirt was pristine and her blue tie was perfectly knotted. She put the hated cap, the symbol of her servitude, squarely on her head and with a grimace in the mirror headed out to meet her fate.

The fate of Miss Heather McLeod was also uppermost in the mind of John Weston as well. The rise of the New Government had been perfect for him. In a few short months he'd been able to manoeuvre a situation where his useless former boss had lost both her job and her dignity. The fact that he'd also been able to bring what was in reality a misunderstanding to the attention of the owner of the company himself, had been an enormous bonus. It helped of course that he had attended the same school as Mr Massingham's son. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth John had pushed the situation for all it was worth. His reward was his new role as departmental manager. Sure he wasn't as qualified as Heather McLeod, or as experienced. But on the other hand, he did have William Massingham's ear, which in the current political climate counted for so much more. The multi-millionaire businessman had actually called him that morning to discuss how his former boss should be punished. Fortunately he'd thought of little else so when asked he had an idea of what form her humiliation should take. Judging from Massingham's reaction he had chosen wisely and it only remained for him to make the most of the situation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending today's unfortunate affair. Happily, both Mr Weston and I are satisfied that Miss McLeod has expressed sufficient remorse to allow her to return to work. Assuming she is amenable that will be tomorrow." Here he looked at Heather who was happy to nod her assent. "Good, all that remains is for Miss McLeod to be disciplined and then we can all move on."

 

Heather wasn't too happy at this outcome but she was determined to take her final punishment with fortitude. Massingham beckoned her over and she nervously obeyed.

 

"Cap and jacket off please, Miss McLeod."

 

With a heavy heart Heather did as she was instructed. As she did so she couldn't help but notice two wooden paddles placed prominently on the desk.

 

"Mrs Chibuzo, Miss Saeed, could you join us at the front please." A plump African woman and a tall thin, Asian girl quietly shuffled forward.

 

"These are our two cleaning ladies, Miss McLeod. I'm sure you have never met them, but they are an essential part of the team. Due to the current expansion we were considering taking on extra staff. However it occurred to us that making you an assistant to the ladies here would be killing two birds with one stone. In the first instance it's a good place for you to begin your rehabilitation back into the Company, and second we don't have to pay for extra staff. What do you think, Miss McLeod?"

Heather McLeod was clearly dumbfounded, what on earth was she supposed to say to that? She'd worked all the hours for the sake of the Company and its development and here she was being demoted to the cleaning staff! She opened her mouth to give her indignant reply when suddenly she caught Massingham's eye and suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea.

 

"If it's for the benefit of the Company sir, then I'm all for it."

 

She could hear half suppressed giggling from the staff assembled behind her. She was never a particular favourite of theirs. Some of them had very much enjoyed her spectacular fall from grace.

 

"Excellent, Miss McLeod. Now it only remains for you to take your final beating. Mr Massingham and I think it would be a salutary lesson for you to receive it from your new superiors, Mrs Chibuzo and Miss Saeed."

 

"Please...no, this isn't right...I..."

 

"Please don't make a fuss young lady. You've brought this situation upon yourself. The Company has to send the message that thieves and cheats will not be tolerated here. I don't know how things were done under your old management regime, and I don't really care. But under my leadership there will be zero tolerance regarding corruption and greed. Only my goodwill has spared you from a probable jail sentence. At the very least you would have been consigned to a Re-education Centre. "

 

William Massingham looked around at the assembled collection of miserable low-life plebeians gathered in front of him. He did hope they were taking his message on board. He'd chosen Heather McLeod to be his victim almost immediately; after all she did tick many of his boxes. She was female, attractive, ambitious, and moderately successful, a part of the management team, and unapologetically Scottish. He was a misogynist, enjoyed humiliating attractive, successful women and wanted to make the point that nobody, even management, was immune from his wrath. The Scottish thing was just another of his petty foibles, he didn't like Scots, or Irish, or Welsh people for that matter. Such people, he believed, should know their place.

 

"Over the desk pleas Miss McLeod, I'm sure you know the drill by now." John Weston noted appreciatively that her plump bottom was perfectly outlined by her tight skirt when she bent over. Absentmindedly he leaned forward and brushed a non-existent piece of lint from the dark skirt.

What followed was enormously exciting for him. The two cleaners picked up the large paddles from the desk and proceeded to thrash the inviting target presented to them. They soon fell into the rhythm of giving their erstwhile manager alternate strokes. Each loud crack was rewarded with an equally loud shriek as the hard wooden surface of the paddles bit into her chubby behind. William Massingham wandered around and sat himself comfortably in front of the woman's eye line. He did so enjoy watching the faces of his victims, and so far Heather McLeod was certainly not letting him down. She howled and writhed and begged. She promised to be good, to do better, not to steal ever, ever again. Finally he indicated that the punishment should cease. He reached forward and lifted her head to look at him. Her tears and ruined make-up were so...gratifying.

 

"You've learned your lesson I assume, Miss McLeod?"

 

The woman mumbled something unintelligible between her sobbing fits.

 

"I'll take that as a yes, young lady. Now it only remains for you to apologise to me, to Mr Weston, and indeed to all the staff for your behaviour."

 

Tearful, crying and dishevelled the attractive young woman was made to stand to attention at the front of the room and apologise for her 'wrongdoings' to the assembled staff many of whom , noted Massingham, didn't seem particularly sympathetic. Then she had to apologise personally to John Weston. Finally she was required to strip to her bra and pants. Even her shoes were taken from her. Then she was led away by her new colleagues in order to be kitted out for her new role in the company.

 

***

 

William Massingham drove himself home that afternoon. After asking young Weston to keep him informed of the progress of his new protégé he returned to his own palatial home. As he mounted the steps to the imposing door it was opened by a uniformed maid who curtsied prettily. Without a word he handed her his overcoat. He found his wife in their huge drawing-room.

 

"Hello darling, how was your day? You look quite fatigued."

 

Massingham sat down heavily in his favourite armchair. "Fairly good, my sweet. I've been reasonably busy I have to say. The business doesn't run itself you know."

 

"Quite darling, quite. I'll call Lyndhurst; she's quite marvellous in these sort of situations."

 

"Darling, you're always so kind."

 

In a nearby room a buzzer sounded. Abigail Lyndhurst immediately got to her feet and checked her appearance in the mirror. Once she was happy she turned and teetered out of the room on her high heels. As she walked down the long corridor towards the stair she passed one of the footmen who stared at her with an amused expression before giving her a low wolf-whistle. She blushed furiously at the unwanted compliment. My God, had it come to this? One tiny error on her part had consigned her to the dreadful house. Her old life and friends and accomplishments were now history. Rather than the respected Dr Lyndhurst she was now merely 'Lyndhurst. Rather than a GP she was now a nurse. She was now the official nurse to the dreadful Massingham family. Her duties involved everything that could conceivably be described as 'medical'.

 

The deferential knock at the drawing room door signalled the arrival of the woman. Massingham barely glanced at her as she entered, although in any other context she would have drawn many a look. She was wearing four inch, gleaming white stilettos, white stockings and a tiny mid-thigh pleated white skirt. As she curtsied her large, creamy white breasts encased in a half-cup white wonder bra were very prominent. The fact that her short-sleeved white blouse had the top three buttons undone helped of course. Her bleached peroxide hair was topped by a tiny, demeaning cap. And attached to her blouse was a badge that proclaimed her identity to everyone, Nurse Lyndhurst.

 

"Aah, Lyndhurst there you are, my husband needs his usual foot massage."

 

Immediately Abigail knelt at Massingham's feet and proceeded to unlace his shiny, black brogues. It certainly didn't pay to delay when given any order in this house, as she knew to her cost. Carefully she worked them off his feet, and then slowly removed his right sock. Taking his foot in both hands she raised it to her mouth and placed her lips on it. She then proceeded to kiss his foot from the top of his toe to his heel. The smell was quite horrible. He'd clearly been wearing his shoes and socks all day. Of course she ignored that fact. Once she'd kissed them she began to slowly lick them, with long slow movements of her tongue. The taste was quite dreadful; his elderly wrinkled feet were quite horrible. Clearly however she couldn't suggest that. Her bottom twitched involuntarily as she recalled the canings she had received for having the temerity to gag when she was being taught. Above her she could hear the two of them carrying out a banal conversation as if this was the most common thing in the world. Even as she thought that, she realised bitterly that it was a commonplace as far as her master and mistress were concerned. Far from being a respected professional woman, she was now merely an ornament. She carefully worked her thumbs into his ancient flesh, kneading out any knots she found.

 

"That's enough, girl. Suck them."

 

Abigail was shaken out of her reverie by her master's grunt. Hurriedly she moved her head and put his little toe into her mouth. She rotated her tongue around the digit, desperately trying to ignore the texture and the disgusting bits of grime and flaky skin that she encountered. She repeated this process. Four more times. When she got to his revolting big toe he took his foot off her lap and placed it flat on the floor. In order to suck it Abigail had to shuffle her knees and put her head on its side and her cheek against the rug. This had the unfortunate effect of thrusting her backside high into the air. At first she was dreadfully embarrassed at this revealing posture, but now she just accepted it. She knew very well that her mistress enjoyed watching her plump backside as it wriggled away in her skin-tight, silky, white knickers.

 

Celia Massingham enjoyed her position in life. She and William had been together for many years now. Their mutual attraction to sex and power had brought them together in the first place. Celia believed strongly in lineage and the natural order of things. Quite clearly in any society there should be leaders and followers, winners and losers. Her ancient family had always been winners; she herself had always been brought up to remember that her family and its members were special. With the right conditions they could achieve anything. The rise of the New Government had been that catalyst. Her family had always been wealthy. Once that wealth had been connected to William Massingham's millions all they required was a bit of good fortune to achieve real power. That was when the connections that old money brought were really useful. His relationship to the New Government and her family connections to the upper echelons of the army and the Establishment had ensured their success. Now they were untouchable and could indulge their mutual interests.

Take the slut waggling her bottom on at her just a couple of feet away for example. That used to be Doctor Abigail Lyndhurst, her own GP. Now that ludicrously dressed woman was her family's personal nurse and her own sexual plaything of course. Doctor Lyndhurst had expressed displeasure at the New Government's slow but sure destruction of the National Health Service. That had come to Celia's attention of course and such disloyalty could hardly go unpunished could it? As a result of William's associates, she now found herself in possession of what was virtually a sex toy. Being a gentleman of course, her husband had never even mentioned the situation. Clearly he was perfectly entitled to engineer similar situations for his own pleasure and she was quite sure he did. She smiled to herself, that mutual understanding was why they had been friends, lovers and man and wife for so many years.

 

The fact that the bitch's tongue was used regularly to lick his darling wife's arse was not a turn-off to Massingham, quite the opposite in fact. He revelled in the degradation and debauchery that only true power could bring. Once Dr Lyndhurst had finished grovelling at his sweaty feet he was sure he could find another use for her cute little rosebud mouth. In fact just thinking of the former doctor on her stocking clad knees looking up at him with her baby blue eyes was enough to make him hard. Reaching down he calmly gripped her by an ear and guided her pretty head towards his lap.

"So, my love how was your day?" He asked, ignoring his nurse as she reached reluctantly for his zip.