It hasn’t been an easy week. He is recovering from the closing of an enormously stressful chapter in his life; I have been struggling with overwhelming insecurities. Fears about our future, envy of the time he spends with other partners, terror that one day I will show him so many of these nighttime corners that he will eventually back away with a fixed grin, never to return. My brain is a snakepit sometimes, often, and sometimes even the most gifted of snakecharmers needs to put down his flute and take a break from it all.
So it broke a little bit. I think we can mend it. I think we can put it back together and paint the glued joins gold. It’s easier to believe that when we’re naked- when I’m kneeling in front of him with my arms fastened with a scarf, knees spread wide, naked except for stockings and suspenders, as he hits my tits with a beater from a broken loom we found discarded in the street and fucks my laughing mouth.
It’s easier to believe when he’s inside me, me lying on my side with my legs twisted, and he’s telling me repeatedly to look at him, spitting in my face to urge my gaze back in his direction when the twist in my neck gets too much. What bit of ‘look at me’ don’t you understand, he asks. He spits again, and I whimper. He comes, and smears his spit over my mouth and cheeks with the palm of his hand as I push my hips back and forth against him, still whining quietly, rubbing my clit until I cry out: a sharp, bird- like shout.
In the morning I bring up breakfast: fish, bread and coffee for him, muesli, almond milk and banana for me. The cereal bowl is too deep for me to eat from without a spoon, and my dogbowl is lying dusty underneath the bed.
I keep trying to remember to wash it but I forget, I say, sitting on the bed spooning cereal into my mouth.
Maybe a caning will help you not to forget, he says. He sips his coffee. How many strokes do you think you need?
I think. I don’t know what the right answer is.
I was thinking forty, he says, in a matter of fact fashion.
I swallow. Yes, Sir; If you say so.
I finish my breakfast and get up to fetch the cane. He sits on the bed with his back against the headboard and has me resting on forearms and knees perpendicular to him. I fasten my gag behind my hair and slip the steel ring behind my teeth, enjoying the quiet sound of metal against enamel. He taps my arse fast with the cane until it is sweetly warm and then strikes me several times, harder but not horribly so. I squeak, and widen the spread of my legs.
He straightens his leg, pushes his foot towards my mouth and I slip his big toe through the ring of my gag, lick and suck it as I might a comforter as he hits up and down my buttocks, leaving lines of bright thin hilarious pain and cruel heat. Three hits at the most sensitive part, the crease where buttock meets thigh, and I cry out, scramble out of position prone on the bed, rolling onto my side and lifting my hand for a pause.
Knowing that if I am going to take a break it is best to make it as pleasurable for him as I can, I bend toward him and take as much of his cock in my mouth as I can, wiggling and snuffling round the metal ring. A minute or so of sucking and a few licks to his balls and arsehole and I am ready to move back into position. I have not been counting the strokes and neither has he. Some have been hardly hits at all, more taps. Some have made me scissor my legs open and shut, and for a while all I could do was breathe hard into the cotton of the bedsheets and whine, but I could take more if we had time.
Still, I am sodden wet, and I will remember to wash my dogbowl in future, just like when he hit me with his belt to stop me wearing my boots on the bed, which I have never done again. He gives me six more hard hits, and then rolls me onto my front and tells me to spread my cheeks.
Thank you for my caning, I say through the gag, wet- mouthed and grinning. He asks me to repeat myself and I do. Good girl, he says, and folds my arms onto my head so my hands rest above the nape of my neck. He fucks me until sweat is dripping from his brow onto my face. He shudders and comes inside me, and we lie together, damp and breathing heavily, exchanging lazy, dozy kisses.
Are you happy? He asks. I nod. He smiles, and kisses me. Remember how this feels, for when you’re in the Trough of Despair; remember what happy feels like. I nod, hoping that one day that this will be how things will work in the Trough of Despair. I’m doubtful, but hopeful. The song on the radio features a man singing about how everything could end anytime, so tell her right now that you love her, that you need her. He rests his chin on my shoulder, his mouth next to my ear, and does both; I breathe it into my lungs and guts, into my sore arse and smiling heart, and kiss him.