Why are we here? Well, bishop John wants to be spanked by me, but not just anywhere β he wants to live out his fantasy of being thrashed in one of the most iconic and holy buildings in London. Instead there are computers on large desks and clerical robes hanging on the back of the door which sway as John clicks it shut.
He wastes no time heading over to the run-of-the-mill window that looks out onto the street and tourists below, pressing his face against the glass as he lowers his trousers to reveal his pale quivering buttocks.
I slap his bottom with my bare hand, feeling the sting of the impact on my palm. This is just a warm up though, and after a few spanks, I whip out my wooden paddle hairbrush from my bag. John stuffs his hand in his mouth to stifle his squeals as I bring the brush down on his already rosy cheeks β alternating each time and savouring each thwack. The church obviously has no idea about his extra curriculars.
I imagine he enjoys the incongruity of his parallel lives, with framed pictures in his home of him shaking hands with George Carey overlooking debauchery. John is taking a massive risk. And in porn I feel people are always looking at the women anyway. I first met the bishop about ten years ago, when his beautiful detached three storey home in south London was used to produce a custom spanking film. We had a makeshift script and a standard plot: an aggrieved teacher, played by me, was forced to discipline two schoolgirls.
The school girls were, of course, actually in their thirties. One had an enormous fiery tattoo covering most of her bottom, I recall, which rather broke the fictional dream. We shot five scenes anyway, and cast and crew all gladly accepted an offer of celebratory wrap party wine from bishop John. As I drank more wine talk turned to kink β and Christianity. Either way, he hired me to spank him regularly after that night, about every month or so.
