As the crowds recede to join the vast queue at the till, our editor raises a glass of champagne. “To populist sadomasochism,” he says.
“I think it’s time we left,” responds Sinclair. “Good afternoon.”
*
We are in the hotel room. The honeymoon suite indeed. I am kneeling at the foot of the bed with my hands cuffed behind my back and my collar leashed to the bedframe by a length of silver chain. I am nude except for a pair of stockings, a suspender belt and a blindfold. Cool air drifts across my skin, stiffening my nipples and prompting a ripple of gooseflesh up and down my arms. I can hear Sinclair pacing up and down behind me, sometimes to my left, sometimes to my right, and I know that he is carrying a riding crop. He told me so.
There is an anticipatory silence so drawn out and loaded that when he speaks, the distinctive baritone unleashes a tremor from my lips to my toes and I release a tiny sigh of longing.
“You were right about one thing, Beth,” he says, his voice somewhere beyond my left shoulder. “I don’t need any help with my imagination. None at all. But you might need some help in learning what I consider to be conduct befitting my wife.”
“Have I displeased you, Sir?” I ask faintly. I know what this is about. I set it up myself. Waited until I knew Sinclair was watching at the signing, then started flirting a little with the boy I was talking to, leaning forward, winking, offering to recommend additional reading material. Sinclair’s hand descended upon my thigh and I squeaked, “Thanks – next please!” and shivered a little as his fingers pinched into my flesh. One of those warning pinches. I always know where they are heading. And on this occasion I am absolutely right.
“I wonder if you can work it out for yourself, Beth,” he says and I flinch at the feel of the crop’s tip at the nape of my neck. “A little test of memory for you.” He runs the crop down my spine, exquisitely slowly, making me itch and cringe at the same time.
“I’m….not sure, Sir,” I whisper. The crop moves down into the crease of my buttocks, then a succession of the lightest of taps alight on my cheeks.
“Need a reminder?” he breathes, guiding the flexible leather underneath the curve of my bottom, along the top of each thigh.
“Uh…” The words don’t make it through my lips before two sudden stunning stings crack down on each thigh. “Owwww!” I complain.
“Has that helped at all?” he asks urbanely. “Or perhaps….” He begins to swat at my inner thighs, forcing my legs further apart until my position is quite uncomfortable. He flicks the crop swiftly from one side to the other, the flesh there so delicate that it burns horribly almost at once and I yell for mercy.
“Please, Sir, no, I know I shouldn’t have winked at that boy!”
“Ah, good. Always effective as an aide-memoire, I find.” He retracts his weapon and I am permitted to wriggle my knees back to a more even keel. “So then, Beth, if you knew you shouldn’t have done it….why did you do it?”
The crop is back, snaking sneakily across my bottom, like a cobra preparing to strike.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I forgot myself. I need correction.”
“Yes, you do. Ask me for it then.”
I swallow. This is always the most difficult part, more difficult than thanking him at the end, more difficult than breathing through the hardest stroke.
“Please, Sir, will you punish me as I deserve?”
“Most certainly,” he murmurs, his lips next to my ear for a second before he steps back and I know he is making those split-second calculations, the best position, the best angle, the best distance and then I hear the whooshing descent and then there is a full-force detonation of pain on my bum and it has begun again.
All of the familiar thoughts and sensations dance through me…I wanted this but now I don’t, or do I, and surely this is more painful than the last time, and oh God, I want him to stop, but I’ll be disappointed if he does and all the while bright red starbursts of heat and stinginess explode on my arse.
Ten strokes in he pauses and removes the blindfold. The unique selling point of this particular honeymoon suite is its mirrored ceiling; wonderfully tacky and perfect for Sinclair’s purposes.
“I want you to watch this,” he says. “Watch yourself.”
I lift my head as far as I can, feeling the leather of the collar tighten around my neck, and watch Sinclair step back again, waving the crop around in slightly ninja-ish fashion, then lining it up with my already reddened and welted bum and drawing it back…how many more? I wonder.
Ten more times I watch the slow rise and speedy fall, ten times I admire Sinclair’s precise flick of the wrist, ten times I lurch forward and howl at the searing jolt of connection. He is so good at this; I wonder where one learns these kind of skills?
He lays the twentieth hard stroke, then replaces the crop on a table and walks around to the front of me. “What do you say, Beth?”
“Thank you, Sir,” I shiver, the flames on my backside licking up and down and across my body.
“Look at me when you address me,” he says, forcing my face upwards by the chin. “Tell me again.”
“Thank you for disciplining me, Sir,” I elucidate, my eyes blurring him a little so the cruel set of his mouth is in soft focus. His lips twitch.
“Better,” he concedes. He unclips my collar and lifts me to my feet, turning me around to inspect the state of my behind. He bends me over his forearm, using his free hand to pinch and squeeze my burning flesh, then his hand moves between my legs and he makes the usual inarticulate sound at the slick coating he finds there. He runs his fingers, almost lazily, around and inside my most intimate places, tutting at me when I attempt to grind against him, removing his hand and spanking my sore bottom a couple of times before returning to his teasing. “Not yet,” he cautions.