Master of the House

‘It depends on how it’s used,’ he said. ‘It can stroke you like a lover or it can sting. A bit of both is usually best, I find.’

‘When did you get into all this? You weren’t when …’

‘Oh, I was. But I wouldn’t have touched you, Lulu. You were far too sweet and innocent.’

‘Is that what you thought? Is that why you ended it? Is it?’

‘Perhaps it had a little to do with it.’

‘You twat. You had no idea who or what I was. I was just some kind of archetype to you – the naïve little village girl who would adore and worship you.’

He stared at me.

‘You’re still very angry about all that, aren’t you?’

‘Damn right I am.’ I took a breath. I was trembling. ‘You had no idea,’ I repeated, working hard to get myself back under control. ‘No fucking idea at all.’

‘I know. It’s OK. I know that.’

‘Because I would have … for you. For me, too. I would have done all of this, and more. You say you couldn’t have touched me – what you did to me was far worse. Infinitely more painful.’

He put the flogger into my hand and curled my fingers around the handle.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘Take it out on me.’

Suddenly I really wanted to kiss him. I wanted to offer to forget everything that had gone before and just push him down on the carpet and get him inside me. He reached a part of me nobody else ever had and I knew I would never be free of him. Why not just acknowledge it and throw my pride and all my fears to the wind?

Just as my grip loosened on the whip handle, preparatory to putting my fingertips to his cheek, he broke our eye contact and replaced it with a nervous chuckle.

‘So, how do you want me?’

‘I don’t follow. I don’t know the form – you do. You’re going to have to help me out here.’

‘The point is, Lulu, you tell me what to do.’

‘Yes, but I don’t know how to do it.’

He sighed.

‘Think of me, think of what I was like when I was nine. Be like that.’

I really wasn’t sure I could do it, then all my memories of that time came rushing in at once and I knew I could. I owed it to that shivering, scared seven-year-old girl to make her bully understand the effect he’d had on her.

‘Get on your knees,’ I said, and he dropped at my feet before I’d even finished speaking. I looked down at the crown of his head, at his luxuriant dark hair. He wouldn’t be thinning any time soon. ‘I’m going to hurt you.’

He said nothing, but bowed his head a little in acquiescence.

‘I’m going to do it,’ I continued, letting the strands drape over his shoulder before dragging them up his cheek, ‘but first I want to hear you beg me for mercy. Really beg me, even though it won’t have the slightest effect on what I do to you. I just want to hear it. No, don’t look at me,’ I said hurriedly, for he had raised his eyes to mine. ‘I can’t do this if you look at me. Keep your eyes on the floor.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, then he cleared his throat. ‘Erm. Please spare me, ma’am,’ he said. But he wasn’t taking it seriously enough, his manner overly theatrical.

‘That won’t do,’ I told him. ‘Plead.’

‘OK.’ He seemed to steady himself, furrowing his brow in thought. ‘What about … I beg you not to hurt me. I promise I’ll be good now. I’ll behave myself. I’ll do anything you want, anything you say.’

‘You’re not feeling it yet,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten, I suppose, how I used to cry and beg you to let me go. Have you?’

‘No. Of course I haven’t.’

His voice was whisper-quiet.

‘So?’

‘So perhaps that place is too dark for me to go back to,’ he said.

I gasped.

‘Too … are you serious? Too dark for you to go back to? Did you actually say that? Too dark for you?’

‘OK,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m sorry. This wasn’t a good idea. There’s too much –’

‘Shut up,’ I said, lashing out to grab him by the wrist. ‘Shut up and bend over the bed. Now.’

He thought he could get away with this, but he was dead wrong. I was going to calm my troubled spirit by thrashing his gorgeous arse until he begged me properly. I deserved this. I owed it to myself – and to him.

He obeyed straightaway, kneeling at the foot of the bed with his upper torso pressed against the mattress. The cream linen trousers strained a little over a backside slightly more generous than I remembered, but still splendidly peachy and firm.

‘I want those trousers down,’ I said.

He said nothing but his breathing was hectic as he fumbled with the fastening then lowered the trousers over his bottom.

‘Boxers too.’

‘Lulu,’ he said, and I could tell by the quiver in his voice that he hadn’t realised until now what he had let himself in for.

‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ I shouted. I brought the flogger down with a swish on his perfect buttocks and he sucked in a breath. ‘Don’t you ever!’ I lashed again. ‘Call me.’ Again. ‘By that name.’ Again. ‘Again.’ And again.

A pink glow was spreading across his skin. Men’s bottoms were too hairy for this, I thought, trying to picture mine in the same condition. It gave me a weak, dizzy feeling to imagine our roles reversed; Joss with the whip, me bent over for chastisement.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said, sounding so subdued that my whip hand wavered.

‘You don’t flinch,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you flinch?’

‘It doesn’t really hurt,’ he said. ‘Not as much as you might think.’

This was at once both disappointing and satisfying.

‘What would I have to do to really hurt you? Use a cane or something?’