Honour Well Chastised

The floor was filthy, finely dusted with months of neglect and heartily crusted with the mud from scuffling detectives' shoes. It wasn't something you would have noticed until you were kissing it like he was now with his pockmarked cheeks pressed firmly into the cold concrete. His back arched upwards toward the only dim light in the room, a small lamp on his desk that displayed the bruises and blood as proudly as the trophies on his shelves.

Phyllis thought he looked at home here, bound and bleeding in his own office.

"Why are you here, Gene?" The crack of her crop added to the sharpness in her voice.

The infamous DCI Gene Hunt was at WPC Phyllis Dobb's feet and when she hit him he winced but didn't cry out. Phyllis remembers with remorse that he's never cried out.

"Been bad," is all he manages between gritted teeth.

"Again, sir?" She smirked, mocking. "Haven't learned much have ya?"

Phyllis doesn't dress up in leather for this because it's not about showing off or feeling sexy. She never liked those 10p porn mags showcasing gorgeous girls with their fat lips and blow up tits in skimpy leather limply holding some feather tickler. That leather-fetish bollocks with useless pretty bints was marketed to those who were stupid enough to think real submission was cute and harmless.

Phyllis Dobbs, however, was not harmless so she wore the uniform she wore everyday because there was already a certain authority behind it. She was the desk sergeant and station wardress, the head of sign-ins and slip-ups. In charge of the cells, the police dispatcher and weapons she kept logs of everything like some ancient gatekeeper (because people giggled when you said logkeeper). Phyllis even had a log of the lost and found which was incidentally inthe lost and found so she had started a new log and said the previous one was filed under "lost". She made A division run, and sure it didn't sparkle like it was brand new but maid wasn't in her job description and neither was cheery, happy or gay. The floor ran like a rusty watch under Phyllis's hawk-like gaze but it ran nonetheless.

This was the authority she held when she whipped DCI Hunt.

"You're having fun aren't you Barberella?" Gene snorted, flexing his hands against the metal cuffs until they bit back. It hurt, she knew it did.

"You know what talking back gets you." Phyllis lashed at him until his pale English skin was stained red, teasing his bruises until they opened up and bled again before making her mark on virgin territory. She logged the bruises and cuts that she could see and guessed which ones wouldn't show till morning.

Gene bore the pain like a martyr, taking every sharp sting and cruel stroke somewhere deep into him where he thought he needed it.

Phyllis mused at how many criminals this man had given the same treatment; trussing the bad men of Manchester up like animals for slaughter and beating them into submission. Now the roles were reversed and her duty was to castigate their sheriff without the luxury of a flashy badge or a book of morals, just a pair of handcuffs and the crop in her hands.

"Tell me what you've done this time. Then you'll get your punishment."

Phyllis was always surprised at how temperamental these men parading around as heroes were. One bad night with a girl and they entire station had to listen to "I sicked up on her oh whoa is me" on repeat like a top 40 radio hit. There was never any of that talk from her WPCs, she simply didn't allow it. Phyllis very clearly explained if some bloke broke their heart they could scrub the loo with their tears because at least then they could still be useful. Gene Hunt hadn't struck her as one of these kinds of men; in a way she was right.

The first time Gene came to her was over a particularly difficult case. There was a string of murders with several connections between them so Hunt had banged up a local nuisance for the offense: case closed. But not two weeks later another girl showed up dead with the same m.o. Gene ruled it a copycat but the very clear possibility of getting it wrong ate away at him. Denial was his first method of escape, then whiskey, then her.

Phyllis started off as gently as she could manage, more out of respect for him than fear of hurting him –bare chest, bound limbs and a good whipping. She wasn't nice about the whipping though, because when they come to the Desk Sergeant they don't come for a nice whipping. He never resisted her strength or her brief stints of cruelty, would always take it when she drove her heels into his wounds, pulled his legs out from under him or stood upon his back. Phyllis respected him more the deeper he would surrender.

Three days later Gene Hunt caught the "copycat" and the innocent man was cleared of charges (although he wasa local nuisance and got banged up a week later for burglary). So whatever burden the sheriff carried with him had slipped away with the pain.

The second time he came to her was when the missus and him really started to have it out. Gene's temper was quicker to light than matchwood then and he spent several nights crashing on the settee in his office. Their sessions were long and she could visibly see the effects for days but once the divorce was settled he eased into an old routine and didn't need her as much.

But tonight he did because Gene Hunt was on his knees suffering every lash Phyllis felt fit to give.

He muttered something to her last question which was a resistance she didn't tolerate. From his discarded camel-coat mantle she found a flask of single malt whiskey which she poured over his bare shoulders and down his back.

"I'll not ask again."

Gene hissed and flexed as the alcohol stung him but looked relieved the pain would make him speak. "My DI."

"Good."

"I want to just - because he - but I can't - "

Phyllis knows this isn't sexual; it's not about pleasure in that kind of sense. It's a duty to help morale and one she doesn't mind but there's a thin line between professional and personal. She's too old to carry any more secrets than what pertains to her so she stops him short so they can carry on. "Do you want to be punished for it?"

"…yes." He relaxes suddenly, the tension falling out of his shoulders as whatever haunted him was temporarily released.

"30 more lashes then youcan scrub this floor."

Phyllis Dobbs didn't have a BA in psychiatry, she wasn't here to analyze why Gene wanted this or even why she enjoyed doing it. Gene Hunt enjoyed being hit and she didn't mind hitting him.

It was as simple as that.