‘Perhaps I should wear something else, then, sir.’
‘No. It’s too late for that.’ He sighed, then tweaked my nipples between cruel fingertips. ‘Go and bend over that dressing-table chair.’
‘Sir?’ I held my breath. Why the hell would he want me to bend over, unless …?
‘No questions. Do it.’
I did it. I was still wearing ditsy-patterned cotton briefs, but not for long, because they were soon pulled down and left to fall to my ankles, leaving my bottom bare.
I could see him in the dressing-table mirror, rummaging in his holdall. He scrabbled about until he pulled out his square-backed wooden hairbrush. Oh God, I hated that thing, and I had the most nauseating feeling that he wasn’t about to use it for the purpose for which it was intended.
I wanted to protest, but there was no point unless I invoked the safeword, and I wasn’t at that stage. Not yet.
‘Now, listen to me, Sarah,’ he said, coming up behind me and laying the cold, smooth back of the brush against my upthrust bum. ‘Even if you weren’t being a little bit pettish and a little bit skittish, I would still want to use this on you now. Do you know why?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Because it’ll make me feel better. It’ll make me feel better because what I really want is to take you to that party with your thighs dripping wet and your pussy so raw you have to swagger up the red carpet like John Wayne after a hard week in the saddle. But I can’t do that.
It wouldn’t be fair to you. Though perhaps next time … Anyway. I can’t do that, but I still need to know, every time I see all the other men looking at you in that tiny, sexy dress, that my mark is on you. That you belong to me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Heads are going to turn when you walk into the room, Sarah. Eyes are going to be upon you – hot, lecherous, lustful eyes.’ His face in the mirror was intense, his gaze boring into my reflected face. ‘What those eyes won’t see – but what you and I will know – is that underneath that saucy little dress, your arse is bright red and sore, because of what I did to it. Because you are mine. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’
‘Whatever you say, sir,’ I said faintly, meaning it. He could do anything to me, when he spoke into my ear in that rich, sinful voice.
‘That’s good, love. You see how the prospect of a spanking settles you down? It’s so good for you. I should call your GP, tell her to put it in your medical notes, hmm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When in doubt, prescribe a sound spanking.’ He smiled, tapping the brush against my proffered cheeks.
‘You should have done that in Open Heart Surgery. Best episode ever.’
‘Oh, dear, the smart mouth is still there,’ he said, tutting. ‘I think I’d better add a few strokes to the number I had in mind.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s nerves,’ I gabbled.
‘I hope that mascara you’re wearing’s waterproof,’ he said, his grin ghoulish now.
I could barely breathe. I dreaded the first stroke, dreaded all the strokes, and I knew he wouldn’t hold back just because of some showbiz party.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, so tense, so clenched,’ he said, rubbing my spine and digging his fingers into my shoulder blades. ‘Better relax, love. That’s it.’
He waited until I had forced myself into optimum looseness, then he brought the brush down with an almighty smacking sound on my defenceless right cheek.
Jesus, God, I hated that thing. Hated it more than a thousand leather straps and riding crops all bunched together. No matter how many times he made me take it, the first stroke was always a shock to the system. I didn’t think I would ever get used to it – only the cane could fill me full of dread at a quicker rate.
I yowled then whimpered the required words.
‘Thank you, sir.’
My left cheek got the next. He alternated between the two, at a magisterial pace but putting considerable strength into each stroke, until, by the tenth, I was burning all over. Much as I detested a paddling, I had to admit that I was enjoying watching him in the mirror, almost enough to make it worthwhile. He looked so focused, so intent on his work. After each stroke, he leant forwards to assess the extent of the damage, examining it with all the gravity of a scientist looking through a microscope.
All the same, I wasn’t sure my bottom could take many more of these hard, deep-impacting smacks and I wondered how quickly I would become numb.
Jasper seemed to have had the same thought, for he changed his technique abruptly, peppering both cheeks with smart, fast strokes. This, I knew, would become unbearable very quickly unless he made them a little lighter, and I was squirming and yelping in seconds.