A cute young thing, clad only in a pair of silken pyjama shorts, bounced happily into my dreams the other night: a student at the local art institute, it transpired, as more details coloured themselves in.
Cut to a scene at dinner: her, me and a gentleman friend. The meal ended, I retired to the bedroom, leaving her behind with the comment that, “She’s yours to do with as you please.” Some time later, she crawled in next to me in bed, crying, bearing the marks of a whipping; he’d used her in other ways, too. We cuddled, and feel asleep in each other’s arms.
Cut to another dinner, with the same friend. She made a comment out of turn: I told her to go upstairs. (The ritual, it seems, was well-practised: she would fetch the cane from my study, then stand facing the wall outside the punishment room until I arrived). Her protests met with a hard slap across the face, and her dismissal from the room.
I followed her some time later, having left her for some time so she could reflect on what had happened and contemplate what was to come. “Since when has it been up to you to decide whether or not you deserve punishment?” I asked. Tears followed as she apologised for her insolence and presumption, and I doubled the number of strokes that she was due.
Face slapping isn’t usually high on my list, but well… yumm. Thanks for sharing