Equipment Failure

I've been meaning to follow up this post in which my stepsister Wanda was going on about the disciplinary training at her office - and now I have! :)

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Kevin Peters could scarcely remember spending a more uncomfortable morning at OSIRIS. Wanda, his overbearing and frankly sadistic line manager, had insisted he facilitate that day's course - Disciplinary Techniques - for the new female intake. Given just a day's notice Kevin had booked the training room, printed and bound manuals, sourced equipment, attached diagrams to whiteboards, and sent out invitations. With an empathetic shudder he had secured two well-used caning dummies - stitched and stuffed, he knew, by inmates of the local men's prison - to heavy tables.

Finally satisfied, if more than a little apprehensive, he had waited at the door to distribute the course books and the long, whippy OSIRIS-issue canes to the arriving trainees. Here they came, giggling in anticipation, one or two of them taking the opportunity to upbraid him for no good reason - trying out their newly-appointed roles as managers of men.

The air of expectation only increased with the entrance of Dana 'The Caner Trainer' Balewa. The statuesque and beautiful Nigerian, five-inch heels clacking on the linoleum, swept through the doorway and homed in on Kevin without breaking stride. Leaning so close that the heady mix of her perfume and her warm breath made his head swim, she reached around the bundle of canes in his arms to straighten the knot of his tie.

'You're one of Wanda's, aren't you?' she mused as if to herself. 'Yes,' said the young man; and a moment later added a hurried 'ma'am', in response to an almost imperceptible raising of her eyebrow.

Sliding one of the wicked implements from his grip, the tall woman flexed it appraisingly until it formed an almost circular frame for her steely gaze. 'I just met her in the canteen. She said she'd be along shortly to see how well you've done. Or... not.' She approached one of the dummies and, frowning, traced a long fingernail over the threadbare fabric stretched across its rump. 'This naughty boy's seen some action, hasn't he? I'd say he's just about to go pop!' She leaned over to examine the other dummy. 'And if anything, this one's even worse. You do have replacements lined up, I take it?'

Kevin felt his face flush crimson and his jaw slacken. There was no chatter in the room now, and one or two of the delegates were openly smirking at the exchange. His mouth was still working ineffectually several seconds later when Wanda appeared at his shoulder. 'All set?'

'I... think so,' faltered Kevin. 'Shall I just leave these things here? I do have that report to be getting on with.'

Wanda wagged a finger in mock rebuke. 'Before we've even started? Which part of 'facilitate' don't you understand, Mr Peters? No, you can stay put for the duration. You have the whole evening to make sure that document's on my desk first thing tomorrow.'

And so Kevin did stay put, as Ms Balewa laid stroke after laser-guided stroke across the first dummy's bulging behind while her awestruck students watched and learned and eagerly awaited their turns.

When the time came, some of those young women were suspiciously adept. Others were hopelessly off-target. All were wildly enthusiastic, and every one of them terrified Kevin Peters. Gradually the damage to the dummy's rear became untenable. Kevin watched, dismayed, as a tiny opening appeared in the tortured material and a single white feather worked its way through it and floated ominously to the floor. It only took another two strokes for the fabric to split completely, disgorging its downy contents into the air and prompting a triumphant cheer from the assembled women.

And Dana Balewa had been right about the other dummy - it didn't even survive her second demonstration, bursting at an overstressed seam as the cane thudded home. This time the applause was short-lived, the trainees sensing an early end to their entertainment; and as it died away Kevin became aware that Wanda was speaking into his ear in the sing-song stage whisper she reserved for such occasions. 'Oh dear, Kevin. A little lacking in preparation, wouldn't you say? We have the whole afternoon reserved for practice, and nothing to practise on. Do you have any suggestions?' She leaned a little closer, and used the palm of her hand to deliver two sharp swats to the seat of his trousers.

'Any ideas, Kevin?' she said. 'Any ideas at all?'