“Brutal”. That’s the word that keeps coming to mind, as I try to marshal my thoughts about yesterday evening. Murmured by Emma Jane, as she curled up with me after we’d beaten her. The only word she said for several minutes.

That comes to mind. And “trust”. And “love”.

You’ll know, if you read the blogs that Emma Jane, HH and I write, that real-life discipline is very much part of her and his dynamic – and not really a feature in her’s and mine. And yet it felt so right that both of us beat her last night. Hard. Very hard. As hard as could be.

The lines she’d written for him some time before had read: “I must learn to communicate in a more appropriate manner.” Her lesson hadn’t been learnt.

HH had her remove her knickers and lift her dress high. We placed her over pillows on the bed. We took the most severe of my tawses; HH administered six of the most searing strokes imaginable as I held her hands, tight.

Tears. Hugs. Words – firm and kind.

Six from me. Full strength.

And then the prison strap – wide, thick, heavy. Six more from each of us, without mercy, our girl crying, struggling, taking them so bravely.

HH returned to the tawse: six more. I took a cane, paying particular attention to her thighs, each stroke intended to hurt as much as possible.

And then, perhaps the cruellest moment: we lifted her higher, on more pillows, and HH asked me to continue with another six strokes – as he wanted to finish the session with the slipper. I know about the slipper: I know how much E J dreads it; know how much it forms part of their deepest disciplinary and punishment scenes. Taking my antique XH Lochgelly, I knew our girl’s mind would be skipping ahead to what was to come next; I determined to make sure she focused back on her strapping. It’s an incredibly thick, dense implement that I scarcely ever use to its full potential; I lifted it shoulder high each time. And then HH and I changed places, and I held her hands as she sobbed through those final savage strokes with his slipper.

We held her close afterwards, our beaten girl. Caring; comforting. Proud of her. In awe of the whipping she’d just taken: 48 strokes in total, with much the harshest implements in my collection, as hard as they could be used.

Brutal. Trust. Love.