Dr. Julia Morgan, the college's Tutor for Women

The ravishing thirty-three year old brunette has changed into a backless black cocktail dress for the occasion, legs bare and feet clad in quite stupendously high shiny black stilettoes that make her nearly as tall as you. Her make-up is immaculate, deep red lips matching neatly manicured nails that wouldn't look out of place on a vamp from the nineteen twenties. She allows Jie to take her satin stole and patent leather handbag, but keeps hold of the short cane that marks her out as still needing discipline despite being over thirty.

You greet your guest warmly and exchange a pair of kisses on the cheek, then she slips an arm through yours and tells you she's looking forward to seeing around your home. There's not much to see on the ground floor; apart from the hall and cloakroom, the only two indoor spaces are your drawing room and the kitchen diner. However, it's still early, so you also take a stroll through the garden. You've not really spent much time there since finding the Rulebook and although you always kept it in fairly good order, your grad students now maintain it to a much higher standard, with not a single weed visible in either the lawn or riotous borders. You live a little way out of town, but even so, a garden is a relative luxury.

Julia knows even less than you about horticulture, but you find things to talk about, the old tree overhanging your rear fence, the church steeple just visible between neighbouring houses, the hardy perennials adding a shot of colour to the late summer evening. It only takes a few moments to walk all the way along the path and back to the French doors, where you're left with the choice of where to take the tour next. It is, perhaps, a little presumptuous to invite your colleague upstairs so early in proceedings (although you hope that is where the night will end up), but dinner probably won't be ready yet. Fortunately, Julia makes the decision for you. She turns an takes both your hands in hers.

"Well, Jack, don't keep me in suspense any longer. I've heard so many stories about the punishment room in your cellar from the girls I mentor and if I know you at all, you've been dying to show it to me almost as much as I've been longing to see it for myself."

Actually, it hadn't occurred to you that she might want to see your cellar, but you can understand why she might be interested, so you permit yourself a sly smile as though you'd been teasing her all along and lead the way. There's now a second door at the bottom of the steep, narrow stairs (which the college Tutor for Women navigates in her heels without apparent difficulty), leading to a whitewashed room dominated by the whipping post in the centre of the floor and illuminated by harsh electric lights. Julia gasps and steps forward, into the room, running one hand along the heavy, unyielding wood. She bends towards the crossbar and takes a deep breath.

"Mmm," she says, turning to face you, "I can smell the terror." She shudders, but the expression on her face is one of excitement, rather than horror. "I'm glad none of the tutors at my alma mater had use for a room like this when I was a student, although I'm sure it would have benefitted us girls if they had. I can see why the undergrads dread being summoned to see you so much. I wish I had access to such a space."

While she was talking, you couldn't help imagining the luscious young woman before you stripped and bound to your whipping post, quivering under the lash or strap. However, the idea of sharing the merciless punishment of a helpless fresher between the two of you appeals almost equally as much.