The worst! (Riya's POV)

Mr. Patterson studies me with his caring eyes, although now they have a hardness to them that makes it hard to think. When he speaks again, I see him pick his words carefully.

“I'm not sure what would be appropriate.” He had stopped eating and watched me carefully as he spoke. “What kind of punishment would this Avni have received if she had ruined dinner for your family? And attempted to cover her mistake with a lie?”

I can’t think. “I don't know for sure, Mr. Patterson.” I’m no longer hungry. In fact, I feel sick with fear.”

“You're not lying again, are you?”

“No, Mr. Patterson!” I spoke the truth. And try to explain., “I don't know because my father always punished the servants in the privacy of his office. In India it is the head of the household who disciplines the staff.”

“Alright then, Riya. What do you think happened in your father's office?”

“Avni was caned, Sir. When she came out of my father's office there were tears on her cheeks, and she couldn't sit down.” It brings back dark memories for me, but I continue to be as honest as I can. “I never saw this, Sir, but I once heard my mum arguing with my father because she didn't like how he made the maidservants strip naked for their punishment.” Oh no, I shouldn't have said that.

Mr. P raises his eyebrows and drops his fork into the meal box. “What about you?” I ask softly, “Did your father punish you like that too?”

“Gosh. No!” I’m shocked by Mr. P’s suggestion. “It didn't happen often, but when I was punished, it was always my mother who did it.”

“Your mother caned you… naked?” I feel deeply uncomfortable. My cheeks burn and I can’t meet Mr. P’s stare.

“She would make me drop my bottoms and she'd use her slipper on my backside.”

“What had you done wrong?” How had we gotten to this topic? There was no way out, I made a sacred promise to tell the truth ... the words come out in a soft whisper.

“I lied about a grade.”

“You do have a problem with the truth, don’t you?” I knew he was going to say that. He was just like Baba.

I shake my head and clasp my hands together in a pleading fashion. “I promise, I don’t ... I just don’t like letting people down. I’m not used to it because I’m a high achiever. I rarely fail but struggle when I do ,..”

“Wow. Getting a smacked bottom due to lying about your grades. Indian parenting is very different.”

“It can be very humiliating.”

“In the US,” Mr. P explains, “it is traditional to use a belt, but I bet I could come up with something like a cane in my workshop ... or should I get a slipper?”

“What?” I can feel the dread spread from the pit of my stomach. If it was normal times I would just up and leave. But I have nowhere to go.

“You lied to me, Miss Kapadia. After all I did for you, I get burnt chicken and lies.”

“The belt then ... I guess. Because we're in America.” I don't even notice at first that he is removing his belt, but when I do, I get an even worse shock.

“Off with your clothes then. Just like you would for your mother.”

This was quickly becoming a nightmare. But after the rollercoaster of a week, it’s just my latest fall from grace. As I stand from my chair his usual kind face is fixed with a cold stare. It’s the weakness of my position that gives Mr. P power. But also, his boldness. It might sound strange for those from the West but in India we are raised to respect the man of the house. And what he says goes. No matter what it is. And I had been caught lying to gain favour. A big no-no in Indian culture.

I feel deeply ashamed about my lies. Less than two hours ago I swore before the gods that I would be the best servant ever, and that I'd never lie to Mr. Patterson. I brought this on myself ... it's only right that I now feel utterly distraught, but to strip for a stranger?

No man has ever seen me naked. Not completely. My swimming coaches have seen me in my swimwear, my college friends have seen me in a bikini. But no one had seen my vagina nor my erect nipples. Even my one lover who is the only one to have groped me intimately, has never seen me fully unclothed. Not like this, which feels like an inspection.

I don’t know where to begin. And stand there with my hands behind my back. Mr P. just waits and says nothing. After a moment I kneel down and untie my tennis shoes. I take them off and place them neatly under my chair. My white ankle socks follow and I’m soon standing with my naked feet on the cold floor tiles.

“You need to hurry up.” He taps the belt against his palm as am unstated reminder. I shake with fear as I pull my white T-shirt over my head and stand there in my simple black bra.

“Don't be ashamed, Riya,” Mr. P's eyes scan me impassively. “You have a lovely, toned body. Your stomach is perfectly flat, and I can see the definition.”

“Thank you.” My voice is little more than a whisper. I feel uncomfortable with a man commenting on my physique. Boys at school often complimented me but it was usually just, you’re so pretty, you’re so beautiful, I want to marry you. But Mr. P was analysing me like a farmer inspecting a heifer.

“You must be a bit of an athlete. Do you swim?”

“Yes,”

He laughed. “I knew it.”

“Before I came to the US, I used to swim most days. I also scuba and deep-sea dive.”

“Impressive. But lose the trousers.”

I pull my jeggings down my legs, the elastic denim peels off my clammy skin. Balancing on one leg, I free the other, which almost causes me to fall.

Now standing in nothing but my black underwear I feel more than ****. I feel scared. My ears roar with pressure and my heart is racing as it does after a competitive swim.

“You do have a wonderful figure. Sleek, supple and youthful. A fine specimen of a young woman. But I did ask for you to be naked...”

Mr. P was unrelenting. I’m proud of my figure. But I’m conscious of my breasts. They're smaller than I would like, but It’s the fact I get tiny black pubic hair growing around my areola, which I know is rather common among women, but I do find it embarrassing and shave it off if I know I'm on a promise. But he’s caught me by surprise so I fear he might say something.

My other vulnerability is the stretch marks on the lower curve of my bottom, close to my inner thigh, I have faint tiger stripes which I’ve thought of having laser surgery to remove. But my mummy called me vain and told me to love myself.

“I’m still waiting.”

I reach around and unclasp my bra. I then let it fall down my arms.

“Panties too. Come on. Chop-chop.”

I hook my fingers around the waistband, and push my knickers down my legs, and shimmy out. The whole process feels ridiculous. Hideous. And revolting. It is only when I'm in the process of pulling down the skimpy garment that I remember my clean-shaven mons. He's going to think I'm a slut ...

“A freshly shaven cunt. Wonderful.” I cup my breasts and feel myself burn.

“Lower your hands. Love those little chicken breasts of yours. No need to hide them.” I do as I'm told. Mercifully he doesn’t say anything bad about me, but the comment about my breasts hurt.

“Are you ready, Miss Kapadia?”

I silently nod of her head and bend over the kitchen counter… presenting my ass.

“Love the tiger stripes, Riya. Sexy.” I close my eyes as I feel Mr. P’s hand trace the lower curve of my bottom. His touch sends an electric shock coursing through my veins. I let out an involuntary whimper. He then gives my left rump a playful slap. “Let’s get started.”