She lowers the strap and brushes it across my face. ‘Kiss it,’ she says.
I do. Its smell makes my clit bloom. I want to breathe it in forever. But she withdraws it and removes herself from my line of vision.
‘Did we say twenty?’ she asks from my rear.
Lloyd laughs. ‘Twelve, I believe.’
‘Worth a try, wasn’t it?’
Lloyd drops to his haunches in front of me until our faces are level, then puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I want you to watch me,’ he says. ‘All the way through. I want to see your face.’
I’m not sure I can do this. I try to shake my head, but he shakes his back, chewing on his inside lip. He smiles, a kind of scared rabbit-in-headlights twitch of the mouth.
‘Please,’ he whispers. His fingers press into my flesh.
The tawse whooshes through the air and cracks down hard. Raw, hot pain flares from my bottom and radiates outwards. I cry out, scrunch shut my eyes.
‘Look at me,’ insists Lloyd.
I look at him. He is making this happen to me. This is all his fault.
I can’t be angry with him for it. But I can be angry with him for this – for trying to turn a good strapping into some kind of fucking love-in. Why does he want me to look at him?
I ask the question. ‘Why?’
The space I leave for his answer is usurped by the tawse, falling for a second agonising time on the same spot she marked before.
‘Oh God!’ I pant, wanting to break free of the cuffs and defend my bottom. Ten more of these? Impossible.
‘You need to think about why this is happening,’ he says, while I wriggle in my tethers. ‘You need to remember why you’re here. I want to give you a constant reminder.’
‘I’m here because you’re a bastard,’ I hiss, tensing up for the next lash.
‘No, you’re here because you can’t make a decision. You’re here because you’re scared.’
‘Shut up.’
‘You really want me to punish you, don’t you?’
‘Shut up! Owwwwww!’
The third stroke is lower down, lighting up my lower bum. I imagine it vivid scarlet, glowing into the crowd so that they can warm their hands around it.
‘What do you want me to do to you?’ he asks, his face even closer, his lips almost brushing mine. ‘After this?’
‘I don’t know.’ I really don’t. I can’t think now, all other considerations pushed out by the drea
d knowledge that another stroke is on its way.
‘I’ll do anything you want.’
I take the next stroke with a belligerent cry. I’m getting close to swearing. I have to be careful.
Lloyd takes one hand off my shoulder and strokes my hair instead. ‘You know that, don’t you, Soph? Anything you want.’
‘This isn’t … I can’t talk … don’t make me talk.’
He cocks his head and smiles this insanely soppy smile. His eyes are misty-blue inside the mask, as if he might cry. He has that look I’ve seen in paintings and films, the look denoting Mad Love. Is it real? It’s certainly unnerving.