She shivered.
He pulled it away and let it whoosh back down, a perfect line, bearable at first then flowering into intense, white heat that made her hiss and catch her breath.
‘What do you think, thirty nine?’ asked Allyson from the back of the room. ‘Will ten be enough?’
‘Please, ma’am,’ she gasped. ‘Please don’t!’
‘Regrets, she’s got a few,’ said her unsympathetic lover.
The men laughed.
‘You deserve it, thirty nine,’ continued Allyson. ‘Every stroke and more. And you needn’t think you won’t be getting caned again this weekend. You’re going to learn some respect. I’m going to personally make sure of it.’
Richard was one of Emma’s favourite caners and he didn’t let her down, scoring a work of welted art across her poor buttocks. But prisoner thirty nine was not so appreciative of his skills, yelling until she was hoarse, putting her hands over her bottom so that Blake had to come and hold on to them, writhing like fury in her bonds.
Emma swam and floated in the sharp, sizzling sting while thirty nine begged for mercy and choked on her tears. Had she split into two? It was almost as if she had. The cane had sliced her apart, giving half of her to pleasure and the other to pain.
Dimly, somewhere around the eighth stroke, her thirty nine self realised that the ordeal was almost over and clung to that knowledge like a life raft.
But the Governor had said there would be more to come.
Fresh tears joined those already blurring her eyes. She was so rarely able to cry during scenes that this seemed like a victory. Yes, role-play was the way to do it. It allowed her to release her emotions in a way that cool, controlled Emma somehow couldn’t. This had been a brilliant idea. She had known it would work and she was right.
The last two strokes were like marks of honour, the crowning achievement of an endurance test. Emma gave herself up to her sobs, amazed by them, wanting to see where they might lead her.
‘That’s good, thirty nine, that’s very good,’ said Richard, softly, crouching in front of her, cane still in hand. ‘You’re feeling sorry, I can see. You’re ready to change. Aren’t you?’
She nodded, and let out some more strange noises.
‘Help her up,’ said Allyson.
Come over to me. Come to me. Take me in your arms and tell me everything’s all right and I’m forgiven.
But Allyson stayed where she was.
It was Richard and Blake who unbuckled the straps, then took one each of her upper arms and lifted her gently to her feet.
‘Put her in the corner,’ said Allyson. ‘I’m going to sort out some food.’
She disappeared into the kitchen without even catching Emma’s eye.
Emma’s legs trembled so much that she could hardly stand in place. She leant her forehead against the wall and let it support her. Richard placed her arms behind her back, folded above her bottom, which was to remain on view.
It was probably against regulations but he didn’t seem able to resist brushing his fingertips over the ridges he had placed on her skin. His voice was low, and a little thick, when he said, ‘Stay there until you’re ordered otherwise.’
She stood still, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen. Blake went in to help and the buzz of their conversation was, tantalisingly, too quiet to decipher.
Richard sat quietly, his presence only occasionally given away by little jingles from his iPad every now and again. She knew he was looking at her striped bottom. She wished she could see it herself.
She had stopped sobbing now, but couldn’t seem to help sniffing rather a lot. Surely he could offer her a tissue? A runny nose seemed a humiliation too far, after everything else.
Sometime after she had gone to the corner – it could have been ten minutes or half an hour – she heard the sound of a car engine outside.
The armchair creaked. Richard must have stood up.
‘Al, they’re here,’ he called, then a burst of colder air came in, soothing Emma’s bottom just a little.
She heard other voices, greetings, kisses.