Kinky(43)

‘What do you think, Rosie?’ he asks, twisting his neck to look over at me. ‘What do you deserve?’

‘Isn’t that your decision?’

‘Not today.’

What do I deserve? And what does he mean by this question? Is it just a BDSM-flavoured way of asking me what I want? Or does he actually want me to quantify the seriousness of my transgression? How bad is it – is it cane-bad or just flogger-bad? I know the answer before I finish the question.

‘The cane,’ I murmur. Today I want to feel it. I want the pain. I want the afterburn. I want to feel completely punished and completely owned and completely loved. I can’t say why, but I know that only the cane will do this for me today.

‘The cane? You are sure?’

He selects one from the cabinet – a long slender stick of rattan, curving at the end. He straightens up and whips it through the air. The sound makes me shiver and swoon together.

‘Don’t be scared,’ he says. ‘Well, yes, be scared if you want, but don’t be scared because I have no experience. I practise with this. I use a cushion. I am quite an expert now.’

He moves towards me like a musketeer with a duelling sword, pointing the cane at me until the tip of it reaches underneath my chin. He taps it gently, forcing my neck to tilt back and my eyes to reach up to his.

When I see how solemn, how serious he looks, I try to swallow. It takes a while.

‘Don’t never do this to me again, Rosie,’ he says in a low, soft voice. ‘You think you have a problem with me, you tell me. Always. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ He moves the cane, outlining my jaw with it, passing its cold smooth wood over my cheeks, down to my neck, around my shoulder, then he taps it firmly against a hip. ‘OK. You want for me to punish you. I am ready. Turn around and bend over.’

‘But I’m still wearing –’

‘I don’t want no argument. Do it.’

I spin around and consider how best to arrange myself. It’s hard to maintain this posture with nothing to hold on to and he has offered no chair, no spanking bench, none of the usual accoutrements. If I grab my ankles, will that support me? I try it. It feels sustainable. I am aware of how tightly the denim is stretched across my bum now. Suddenly it doesn’t feel as thick or protective any more.

‘My God, your ass looks nice this way,’ says Dimitri.

I flinch and almost fall forwards when he puts a hand on one cheek, running it over the taut material, squeezing and patting. The seam that runs between my thighs presses tight into my knickers, lodging itself between my pussy lips. They feel hot and itchy. I want to rub.

‘I give you two strokes on your jeans,’ decrees Dimitri. ‘Just so you get a feel.’

He removes his hand and steps back and to the side a little. He taps the cane against my bottom in a steady, almost soothing rhythm, then there is a swoosh as he draws it back.

I need to savour my last milliseconds as an uncaned person. I need to hold this non-pain in my heart and memory, because it will be over so soon, so soon …

With a swish and a snap, my uncaned life is over. The moment of impact makes me cry out, more from shock than pain, though pain is certainly involved. It’s a sweet, sharp pain that seeps right through the fabric and draws a line beneath it, setting my skin alight.

‘How is that?’

‘It hurts.’

‘Too much?’

I consider this while my hair swings in my face and my toes curl. ‘No.’

‘Right.’ And there’s the second, straight away, a little lower than the first, throbbing against the denim so I imagine it as a stripe of flashing neon. ‘You are thinking about how sorry you are?’

‘I’m thinking about how much it hurts!’

‘Of course. But also?’

‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. It really hurts! Over jeans. God knows what it’s like –’

‘Take them down.’

I exhale shudderingly, then release my ankles and stand straight. My arse still feels like it’s on fire, and the act of lowering the rough denim over the two burning lines only exacerbates the effect. I sneak a sideways peek at Dimitri. He looks grim. I bite my lip and let the jeans crumple down below my knees.

The cane prods at my cotton knickers.

‘Back down now. Two more.’

I dare to look at him again, hoping to convey sincere regret and have my sentence commuted. But if it was, would I be happy with that? I don’t think I would. There’s perversity in perversion.

Anyway, there’s nothing in his face to suggest he’s about to drop the cane and review the tariff. My hands and ankles meet again, my bum thrust out, infinitely more vulnerable without its tough casing. The knickers are of serviceable cotton, rather washed out and thinner than they should be. They won’t protect much.