he removes the strop from its hook.
‘Now, my love,’ he says, pacing behind me. ‘You know I never get angry with you and I am not angry now. I know, however, that you are angry with yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, dearest.’
I tilt my pelvis forward, bend a little at the knees.
‘And in order for you to forgive yourself, the matter must be dealt with so that you can feel refreshed and prepared for a new start. Is that not so?’
‘It is so, dearest. Oh, I am so sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I will admit to some disappointment, Sarah, and some sorrow that we find ourselves once again in this position. Let this punishment be swift and sharp and then all can be forgiven, if not forgotten.’
Not for a few days, at least. Every time I sit.
He steps forward and parts the cloth of my drawers, the split exposing my bottom. His hand is sure and firm. I hear the shush of the strop rubbing against his trousers, dangling from his other hand.
I should not admit to my faults while he is shaving. I must learn to pick a time when that strop is far out of his reach. Perhaps on the way to church on Sundays.
I will pay for my ill-timed confession now. I squeeze shut my eyes and lower my head, trying to relax my neck muscles.
Oh, the sound it makes, the mighty whoosh, the burning crack of impact. It is so heavy and yet so fiendishly flexible. It snaps across my poor posterior, over and again, marking me with shame, making my skin blush.
As my husband whips me, he lectures me on my shortcomings and how they must be overcome. He points out his position in society and at his place of employment and how I must be a credit to him and our home and family. He reminds me of my position, my vow of obedience, my promise of submission.
And the strop catches me in every painful place it can until I scorch beneath its scorpion tongue.
‘Enough,’ he says, his voice laden with exertion. ‘I trust that the lesson is well inculcated.’
‘Very well, Sir,’ I whisper.
‘Good. Then let us forgive.’
After the discussion, there is always forgiveness. He shows it by placing the strop beneath my breasts and holding it there while he lowers his trousers and underwear and places his manhood between my nether lips.
He bathes it in my dew, noting well how it flows, for he knows how these discussions excite me. He plunges hard into my tight heat, stretching my cunny wide, slapping his thighs up against my sore bottom. But this rough usage is no punishment, oh, no, it melts into the purest pleasure. He holds the strap against my breasts while he thrusts, its well-worn surface rubbing against those tender buds.
He takes me well and thoroughly, until I sob with a presentiment of the flood to follow, and then he puts the strap between my legs and presses it to my pearl and then, oh, yes, oh, my dearest love …
I opened my eyes and then sat up straight. Oh, what the bloody hell was I thinking? The real strop, the antique, possibly worth a shedload of money, was pressed to my clit, all shiny and slick with my juices.
I grabbed a tissue and rubbed it clean, but when I put it to my face and sniffed, my scent and the leather were all mixed in one incredibly sexual cocktail. What if I’d destroyed the delicate balance of the textile? Did I not know better than to masturbate with precious artefacts? History 101, surely. Though I didn’t remember seeing it in the textbook.
I put the strop aside and began packing. It seemed my only course.
* * *
‘What’s that?’
Jasper at the breakfast table in the cavernous kitchen, laconic, handsome, dangerous.
I put my bags down on the trestle.
‘I think I ought to go.’
‘Why?’ He bit into a triangle of toast.
‘Um, because I don’t really know what’s going on.’