The sudden revelation of his tight backside causes me to cover my mouth with a hand. ‘Oh,’ I say, when I’ve caught my breath. ‘Right. So, what shall I use first?’
‘Your hand, maybe.’
I approach him with tentative steps and bend a little, inspecting that gorgeous arse at closer quarters.
‘Yes? You can start.’
My first smack is hardly worthy of the name, pathetic really, more like a tap.
He exhales impatiently. ‘What was that?’
I land a harder one. My palm tingles but his butt doesn’t change colour at all.
‘Did you start yet?’
Cheeky bugger. I pull back my arm and whack.
‘Ah. I felt that one. Harder now.’
I look at my palm, which is an angry shade of pink just from that one stroke.
‘It hurts my hand,’ I object.
He sighs. ‘Try the leather one.’
I pick up a short, thick strap and flap it half-heartedly.
‘Do it hard!’ he shouts, making me jump.
‘Sorry,’ I snipe, then I snap it down. I’m rewarded with my first flinch of the day.
‘OK,’ he says, putting a hand on the faint red stripe I’ve made. ‘That is a sting. Try the wood.’
I notice that he braces himself with one hand on the teacher’s desk for this one. He is expecting it to hurt. I wish I could see if it was having an arousing effect on him, but I’m at an angle to his rear that makes peeking impossible. Damn it.
I take the wooden rectangle and slap it smartly down. He hisses, but asks for a harder blow all the same.
This one makes a fierce red mark across the central part of his arse and he shakes his head vigorously while the force of the blow sinks in.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That is harder. Deeper pain. Now, OK, I think the cane.’
I pick up the length of rattan but I’m a little concerned. I don’t know what to do with the bloody thing. What if I seriously injure him? I lay it softly across his bottom. He reaches around and pushes the tip away from his hip, further towards his arse crack.
‘Don’t you see how he did it that night? Was like this.’
I’m glad somebody was taking notes. I was too busy trying to stop myself masturbating in the street.
‘A good stroke, Rosie. I want it to hurt.’
I’m scared, I can’t deny it. I tap the rod, the way I think I must have seen someone do in a film or something, and draw back my forearm, then I hear the whoosh of air as the cane rushes forwards and, just as I see Dimitri’s shoulders tense, my arm freezes and I can’t do it.
‘Sorry, sorry, I just can’t. I just can’t hurt you.’
He looks over his shoulder, pensive, disappointed. ‘I guess you are not a sadist,’ he says. ‘Not a, what was it, switch. But please, Rosie. I need to feel it. Don’t think about my pain. Tell yourself this is what he wants. He wants to learn. OK? Please?’
I take a moment to recover. I see his knuckles, white from gripping the edge of the desk. He wants me to do this.
I pull back my arm again, shut my eyes for a moment and try to disconnect the act from its consequences. He is a cushion, a mannequin, something that doesn’t feel pain.