‘So then?’ he said, once the doors were concertinaed open and we gazed at the dark and menacing shapes within. ‘Iron Maiden? St Andrew’s Cross?’
‘I’m kind of intrigued by that,’ I said, pointing at something that looked like a higher, padded version of a step stool. ‘What’s it for?’
‘Ah, now, if I’m not mistaken, that’s a spanking stool,’ said Tom. ‘And a pretty good choice, as it goes.’ He dragged it forward and brought it into the centre of the studio, where he folded it out.
‘Come on then,’ he said, patting the upper step with his riding crop. ‘You wanted to know.’
‘I did,’ I said doubtfully, wanting him to give the command so I didn’t have to look as if I bent over of my own volition.
‘You do,’ he corrected. He seemed to read the reason for my hesitation, because his next words were ‘And you will. Stop dragging your feet and get up here.’
Ah, how much easier to obey than to acquiesce.
I bent my knees to the lower step and laid my stomach across the upper cushion. The high hem of my little white dress was now indecently raised and I knew Tom was looking at it because I could see him in the mirror. The back legs of the stool sheared diagonally down from the top, making it easy for me to lay my arms along their length and curl my fists around them. I had the feeling I was going to need to hang on to something, especially when Tom began tapping the flat end of his crop against my thighs and the exposed part of my bottom.
‘If you could see what I can see,’ said Tom greedily.
‘I kind of can,’ I said, twisting to look at the relevant portion of mirror.
‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘So, are you ready for your punishment?’
‘What am I being punished for?’
‘Reckless behaviour,’ he said, tapping the crop a little harder, though not hard enough to hurt – just enough to spread a little warmth. ‘Putting yourself at risk. Getting into bad company.’ He gave me a little swat on the lower bum on the word ‘company’, and I knew he was thinking of Keane.
Who had been the last man to spank me.
That state of affairs had to end now.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I said.
‘How many?’ asked Tom.
‘What?’
‘How many do you deserve? Strokes, I mean.’
‘Oh, God, you’re asking me?’
‘Yes, I am. I want you to tell me how many strokes I should give you. But I warn you, I won’t necessarily give you that amount. If it’s not enough, I’ll give you more. If it’s too many, I’ll give you less.’
‘Fewer.’
He hit my bottom so hard I yelled.
‘You’re a submissive tonight, not a sub-editor,’ he said severely. ‘All corrections will come from me. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I half-giggled, half-whimpered. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Good. So – name your number.’
‘Uh – twenty,’ I hazarded, on the basis that twenty more strokes like that would just about take me to my threshold.
‘Ah, well called,’ he said. ‘Twenty it is.’
My faint hope that he might have laughed and said that was a ridiculous overestimate died. I had let myself in for it. But I’d have been lying if I’d said I wasn’t excited. The knots and tangles of my encounter with Keane were about to unravel, putting his memory behind me for good.
The first stroke loosened something somewhere. It was hard and it hurt, but it was good too, and strangely cleansing. In my mind, I visualised Tom’s riding crop beating the remnants of Keane out of me. In the mirror, I saw it happen.