‘Why you are on your feet then? Get back down or I give you extra.’
It hurts so much that I don’t even realise how tightly clenched all my muscles are until he taps my thigh with the cane and orders me to relax.
‘It’s horrible,’ I whinge, though I guess he’s gathered as much. ‘I hate it.’
‘Uh-huh. And it’s what you deserve, yes?’
His implacability in the face of my pathetic whimperings impresses me, reminds me of the heat between my legs, which rages just as intensely as the hardening welts on my bum. A presentiment of how extraordinary the sex is going to be after this steels me and I await the fourth stroke with meek acceptance.
It wrings a sob from me, and I fall forwards onto my knees and lay my head on my forearms, lamenting my fate so hard that surely his heart will soften. ‘Ow, ow, ow, ow, it’s horrible, I hate it, ohhhhh.’
But still no plea to stop.
‘So much drama! I thought it is me who is the actor. But you will get up, please, or there is more strokes for you.’
I can’t disobey him. Even though I know what’s coming next, and every pore of my skin – especially those on my rear – dreads it, I haul myself to my feet again, keeping my hands over my face.
‘You take down your panties now.’
I give myself a moment to build up to it.
‘You take them down now or I do it. If I do it, there is more punishment.’
‘You’re so fierce,’ I moan. ‘You’re harsh.’
I lower the knickers gingerly. Part of them sticks to the sore patches and I have to suck in a breath while I peel the cotton off. They float down my legs to join the bunched jeans around my feet. Now I have nothing at all between my poor painful bottom and his evil cane.
‘Oh, this is a good job.’ He sounds absolutely delighted with himself. His fingers alight on the fizzing welts, drifting along them admiringly. ‘Good spaces, you know. Very straight. Very clear. This must hurt a lot.’
‘Didn’t you realise?’
‘You are giving me backchat? Do you really want to do that?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Back down.’ He holds the hand against my bottom, keeping me steady. ‘And this is the last two, right? But you tell me you are sorry after each one. And you say my name. You say, “Sorry, Dimitri.” You can do this?’
‘I think so.’
For the flicker of a moment I wonder why he doesn’t want ‘Sorry, sir,’ or the more classic ‘Thank you, sir.’ And then I realise why – it’s because this isn’t really a BDSM ‘scene’. This is something more personal, something more inti
mate. It’s a bonding experience, the establishment of a new order in our relationship. My heart swells with emotion.
And then my bum swells with awful, gigantic, white-hot hideous pain.
I almost think I’m going to throw up, but the worst of it passes, leaving the fierce after-effects to do their stuff. I can’t take this, I can’t take this, I can’t take this.
But I will take this.
I will take it for him.
My head clears and I remember to think again.
‘Sorry, Dimitri.’ My tongue slurs it and it comes out very, very quietly.
‘I don’t hear you.’
‘Sorry,’ I say with more of an effort. ‘Dimitri.’