‘Tights,’ I gasp with a giggle.
‘Too tights,’ he quips, and before my brain catches up with his fingers I am feeling cool air on bare flesh.
The boy shorts are cut high and a good portion of my bottom swells out from beneath their edges – more, really, than they cover. I kick out in panic, but it’s hard to kick when your knees are hobbled by tights and Dimitri places a cautionary hand on the scoops of flesh he has just exposed. My rebellious nerves are quelled at once by the caress of his warm palm, moulding itself to my natural curves. It feels ridiculously good.
‘OK, Rosie?’ he whispers, leaning down so that only I can hear him for a moment.
‘I didn’t know you were going to do that.’
‘No, me either. It seems right.’
‘Don’t take my knickers down or I’ll kill you.’
‘OK. Not tonight.’
He unwinds his spine and I feel him tensing, preparing. I picture him putting his shoulders back, flexing his muscular forearms. Speaking of muscular forearms, how hard is this going to be? How much is it going to hurt?
A flash of fear plunges to my stomach as I hear him – courtesy of his multitude of bangly things – raise his hand.
‘You have anything to say to me before I start?’
His voice has changed. It’s gruff and menacing. My insides coil, my clit fattens.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. What the hell I’m sorry for, I don’t know. I’ve been transported to another headspace.
‘Who you are apologise to? To me?’
‘Uh, yeah.’ I catch my breath, realising what he means. ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’
‘You must learn,’ he says. ‘This is not respectful. I teach you respectful.’
I teach you English grammar. What would happen if I said it? I daren’t imagine.
The speculation flies from my mind at the first sharp contact of his hand with my arse. It’s loud and shocking and I actually laugh, as if I can’t distinguish slap from tickle.
‘What?’ He pantomimes horror. ‘You are laughing at me? I don’t stand it. She is nervous.’ This last presumably addressed to our audience, who chuckle understandingly. ‘I get serious.’
His hand falls again, hard enough to sting, not so hard as to really hurt. I get the sense that he is holding a lot back, but what he gives is plenty. The surreality of the situation masks some of the pain – a big part of my head is engaged in establishing the fact that this is happening at all, and then trying to work out whether it’s good or bad. I’m slightly detached from it, trying to capture each sensation individually rather than letting the experience take me over.
The sound of it is so satisfying, and the pain is little more than discomfort. I focus on the humiliation of my position. That’s the element I want to sink into, to inhabit and explore from every angle. That’s what’s going to get me off tonight, after all this is done and I’m back in my bed. Think of where I am, think of what’s happening
to me. It’s happening to me! It can’t be real. Yes, it’s real, I thought we’d established that.
These thoughts in a loop prevent me from getting into the mindset I thought I’d be in if and when I ever got spanked by an attractive man. I need to switch off and, as if he knows this, Dimitri suddenly ups the ante, smacking harder, lower, on the vulnerable area around the tops of my thighs, and all my thoughts are instantly diverted to the corridor marked ‘Ouch’.
No room for over thinking now. Perhaps this is the antidote I have always needed. I begin to squirm and jolt. I reach back and claw at his leg, my tiny fake squeals graduating into proper yelps.
‘You know I am serious,’ he growls, lighting up the crease underneath the curve of my arse. ‘I will make you to obey me.’
‘I will, sir,’ I moan, kicking pathetically. How long is this going to go on for? I curl my fingers up in the rough denim of his jeans and cling.
He speeds up and my yelps turn into a continuous keen, the peppery sting becomes a burn, searing itself tissue deep. I can’t take much more – except I probably could, if I knew how many more, how much longer. It’s the uncertainty, the unpredictability that is distressing me.
‘Please, sir,’ I cry, and he holds fire.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you nearly finished?’