Haron took a pretty hard thrashing from a friend recently.
Actually, strike that. Haron took quite the hardest caning I’ve ever seen her get. Stripped, tied in position, an improbable number of strokes laid on in rapid succession at full strength from a hard, experienced, unforgiving player
Whilst I stood silently to the side, and watched.
Interest experience, that, observing one’s beloved taking such a severe, relentless whacking. The flogging had been long-anticipated: her sentence pronounced by email, the date fixed, the event anticipated with dread curiosity.
My natural instincts, of course, were to rush to protect my girl – especially once she started to struggle. To really struggle.
Yet I didn’t. I just watched. Saw her writhe, heard her cry out. Observed as he took her into a deep, dark, beaten place.
And then – soon, yet an eternity after starting – he finished: the binds came off, and I could comfort her. Tell her how beautiful she’d looked, how brave she’d been. Held her especially tight. Re-assured; soothed; admired her stripes. And before very long she was bouncing around as usual, a quite spectacular set of marks and a wincing reluctance to sit down the only visible evidence of her recent ordeal.