I clear my throat. It seems blindingly obvious that he is going to cane me. If I say anything less, he will do so anyway. If I can try to limit the number of strokes somehow…but how? Last time he said he would go for more if he had to do it again. How many more? Clearly ten will be too few. I suppose I will bargain with a dozen. Oh jeez. Even the thought of it…I must be as pale as milk. Before I can speak, he interrupts me.
“I do not wish to hear this expressed as a suggestion. I want you to ask for your punishment, Beth. Ask me for what you think is appropriate.”
My voice is a wee ickle trickle as I say, “Please, sir, may I have twelve strokes of the cane?”
I can see him fighting off a smile, the bastard. Yeah, yeah, you win.
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “The cane? Interesting choice.” Don’t say you weren’t angling for it! “Well, I accept your proposition, Beth. Twelve strokes of the cane it shall be.”
My shoulders slump.
“But not now. Saturday morning, before you catch your train, I think.”
I open my mouth. He means to make me wait. Not so surprising; it’s a well-known Sinclair tactic. All the same, I am surprised that he does not want to lay into me here and now. The mystery is soon solved.
“And now we have this evening’s business to attend to. Fetch me a riding crop, Beth, then stand in the centre of the room with your hands on your head. We agreed eighteen strokes in the event of my serious displeasure, did we not?”
Oh, of course. I head towards the bucket to retrieve my old friend, the crop, with its tight, twisty braids of leather. We’ve been seeing so much of each other lately it’s a wonder Sinclair isn’t jealous of our close relationship. I hand it shyly to him, then go to stand as directed, waiting for him to prowl up behind me and strike.
From behind my shoulder he informs me that any movement will result in extra strokes, then eighteen scorchers are laid systematically across my bottom and thighs while I whimper and arch my back and grit my teeth against the overwhelming temptation to jump away. Somehow I call up reserves of WonderWoman-like strength and maintain my position to the last whoosh-crack.
“Well done, Beth,” says Sinclair, running a finger along the raised ridges he has scored into me. “You are getting much better at taking the crop.”
Could be familiarity breeding contempt there, Professor.
“Now go and wait for me on the bed. On all fours, please, legs spread wide, head on the mattress. I want to be able to look at these while I’m fucking you.”
I comply. See how obedient I am?
Chapter Ten
It’s Friday. Our last day together before I head home for Easter. He is going to some conference in Rome, the jammy dodger, then on to spend a week with friends in France. I wish I could go with him; I fantasise over breakfast that we are looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, hand in hand. I’m not sure how I’ll cope without him for two weeks; I’ve forgotten how to make my own decisions.
“What would you like to do today?” he asks me, knocking the top cleanly off his boiled egg.
My immediate impulse is to say ‘sex’ but we’ve done that twice already; once in the bed and once in the shower, so perhaps some other pastime might be in order.
“I might have misheard here, but it sounded absurdly as if you were asking my opinion on something,” I say.
“Beth, you can choose something you’d like to do today, or I’ll choose for you. And my choice will involve pain.” He flashes his eyes at me, dipping toast into his yolk.
“OK, point taken. Can we go to the zoo?”
“The zoo?”
“Please! I haven’t been since I was six. I want to see the tigers again. And the penguins.”
“Not the reptile house?”
“Oh yes, I’m very fond of snakes.”
“I know.”
We smirk through the steam of our coffee mugs for a few seconds.
“So you want to spend the morning looking at caged animals. Do you identify with them?” Trust Sinclair to find the s&m angle in this.
“Should I?”