“Good...” As I said it, I took stock of my body, confirmed my answer as my cunt contracted greedily against thin air.
“I know.” His hand finally stilled, just warming the spot while I regained my breath. “I told you it was a good thing. And good things deserve to be rewarded. And now you’re even wetter. How perfect you are, little Iris.”
A heartbeat later, he was slapping my other cheek: three, four, five times, I don’t know. This time, my eyes were watering by the time he stopped and I was further soaking my panties when he rubbed the sore spot. And yet, it was the strangest feeling—I couldn’t get enough. I was crying, sobbing sometimes, but everything felt glorious, stark and perfect and I was floating in a world of heat and sting and safety, in a world in which pain was not scary but invited, in which it didn’t come with resentment or shock but with tender feeling. It was a world upside down where it seemed perfectly normal that I spluttered begging for more pain when he asked if I could take another round.
VIII
Even Paul’s bathroom smelled of wood polish. There were a few tiles around a bathtub, complete with a simple shower curtain, but all other surfaces were treated wood, shiny and glossy to stop it from absorbing too much water. It was a small and simple place—a sink with a single toothbrush in a glass and a bar of unscented soap. Above it hung a mirrored cabinet. A washing machine further narrowed the already cramped space and—unsurprisingly—was covered in an array of newspapers and books, some of them crisp and new, others showing clear signs of water damage.
I looked around curiously, blinking to make the image less blurry as he ushered me inside, a hand on the small of my back. Still light-headed, puffy and aching, each careful step made me more aware of my body, of the bones and joints, the stiff muscles and flaming skin. It was my ass of course that radiated most of the pain and heat. Each step pushed my thighs against its bottom, stirring the red skin and flesh underneath. I imagined black and blue at this point, but on our way to the bathroom, Paul had led me along the hallway mirror, had turned me around and showed me the almost clean and symmetrical red ovals that covered the cheeks of my ass as though in intense embarrassment. They, too, radiated heat, but no blush had ever stung this hard; no blush had ever made me quite so wet.
“You look beautiful,” Paul said, so quietly that it didn’t echo in the small room and he turned me around towards the mirror over the sink. At first, I blanched. I looked disheveled and puffy. My eyes were red-rimmed and streaked with black mascara. I don’t use much make-up, but all of it was smeared over my cheeks and my lips looked like I’d bitten them for hours. I thought I even recognized a hint of carpet burn on my chin. My displeasure had to have to shown on my face because Paul clicked his tongue and, standing behind me, placed his hands along my jaw, making me look. It took a while for me to see what he saw, but I wasn’t ashamed.
He picked up a towel and wet it with warm water, then brushed it over the bar of soap and started to wash my face. The towel’s structure was jarring and harsh on my skin, raw from tears and blushing but at the same time, the water provided a sense of relief. I found myself exhaling the tension from my body, leaning back against his chest watching him in the mirror. It occurred to me too late that I was supposed to worry he might get soap in my eyes, but I didn’t—I simply closed my eyes when it was necessary and within all too short a time, none of the used-up and dirty quality remained. Now, I just looked exhausted, open and red. Red all over.
He picked up a hairbrush next, still without saying a word. He stepped back a pace and pulled my head into the back of my neck before he ran it through my hair. It didn’t take long; the morning’s conditioner was still doing its job. With every second, I became more presentable and by the same token, I looked less and less devoured, as though the brick stones of my defenses were gently put back in place.
“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, rasping against my ear when the last few strokes of the brush were accompanied with a soft electric crackle.
“Mmmmm,” I exhaled, wondering at my languorous wordlessness. I smiled back at him in the mirror. What else was there to say? I felt light, as though he had pumped me full of helium and I was all but floating next to him, with just the most tentative grasp on the ground.
“Good, how is your ass?” The word sounded oddly crude, as though I had forgotten he was American, or that he had used similar and worse words when I’d been bent over his lap. I could feel my cheeks redden without reason but when I checked in the mirror I didn’t see a change at all—they were still bright red from crying anyway.