It’s the crop.
She is shrouded in darkness at the far end of the room, but desperately I see the silver sleep of its handle glint in the light.
The crop is a good sign. I hope. The crop is every day discipline, minor corrections, “encouragement”, as once she called it. Outside as I waited, I’d feared the worst, the bitter, burning anguish of the dressage whip she most often chooses to pay offence. I’ve committed none, of that I am sure. And if I have, she has given no sign. But I have been sure before, and learned I was wrong. The glimpse of the crop gives me some comfort.
I know the rules of the room by now. I wait, till she whispers “Come!” from her chair. Then stepping forward, I knee at her feet for her verdict, as she has taught me, head bowed, eyes abused, legs spread, palms open and upwards on my thighs, a display of open, unreserved submission towards her.
She is in the spiked heels she favours when she means to assert.
A vein in my neck throbsAgainst the constriction of the collar, and as I look down I realise I am grateful, now, for the belt she has locked me into, with its wide leather strap and its stiff, studied pouch trapping my genitals, hiding them from view as well as from touch.
I wait.
Under my chin, hard leather stars. It’s not a surprise, I know at once what it is – the pleated butterfly at the tip of the crop, with the short knotted cord that adds weight and welts to its thin, flaring bite.
Slowly, inevitably, the crop springing with tension, she raises my head up. I follow her pressure. I do not lead, I do not resist. I keep my eyes downcast, mindful now of glances stolen before. And the correction they brought.
At last, my head tilted back, the crop falls away. Now as she speaks, quiet and breathy, my hopes rise still more. There is warmth in her voice.
“Look at me now, David.”
She leans forward into the light, her eyes bright and clear under arched eyesbrows. Her make-upis discreet, her hair loose. Another good sign. It’s when she is formal, prepared, her hair pulled back in coils, her eyes dark in shadow, that her intent is most ominous.
Her gaze is cool but the hint of a smile plays on her parted lips.
“I am pleased with you. There are no grounds for punishment.”
I hardly dare breathe. My mind is a tumult. Relief, for sure, but more than that, a rising elation, a sense of pride, my own small share in the fulfillment I have sought to provide her.
She continues.
“I have nothing to reproach. You’ve been obedient, respectful, attentive, attuned to my moods. You’ve understood without orders. You’ve learned from correction and compiled with my rules. You’ve served with devotion. Your conduct has been all I expect and all that you promised.”
She pauses. She nods. It’s barely apparent, the tiniest tilt of her head, but I know it’s my cue. I can speak now. But there are rules in this room. Silence, unless invited. Short, clear, simple responses. The essential. No more. No embellishment, no needless distraction. Always respectful.
I say it and mean it.
“Thank you, Madam.”
The right response, in the right tone. I sense that she’s satisfied.
And now she is thoughtful, struggling the crop the length of my thigh, till she reaches the padlock that ensures I am chaste. With the tip of the crop she lifts it, then lets it fall back on its hasp. A fleeting smile passes her lips.
“You’re not ready yet to earn my reward. But you’re showing me great promise. You might let yourself think of one.”
With that she leans back, and now with a start I notice the subtle change in her expression, almost imperceptible, but no doubt that it’s there, a slightly raised eyebrow, a lip turned down at the corner, an eager gleam in her eye.
“For now, I will take my pleasure.”
My heart sinks and my blood runs cold. And despite myself, a fleeting expression of despair clouds my face, a faithsight escapes from my lips.
She reacts, immediately, with narrowed eyes and a hardened edge in her voice.
“Do I need to remind you?”
She does not. Her meaning is clear.
“No, Madam.”
“Then remind yourself. Say it out loud.”
I know the rule. I’ve learned it by heart. Like all the others, every word, dot, every comma. It’s not the Punishment rule she has in mind, the threat of the whip to ensure my obedience. It’s not the discipline rule, the use of the crop to teach me my place. It’s the rule behind the rules, the underlying rule, the final rule, the impalable rule, the rule that leaves me in helpless despair before her,
The rule is burned in my mind. And so I recite it, as she insists, clearly, distinctly, without mumbling, without pause.
“Madam may inflict suffering and cruelty on her attendant, such as she chooses, for no other reason than the pleasure it brings her. No fault on his part is necessary, nor may his conduct excuse him.”
She nods, with emphasis now.
“That is the rule. And the right that you gave me. That I will exercise now. Have you something to say on the matter?”
It’s a test. I know it’s a test, and the answer I give will determine what I must suffer now.
I won’t plead. I know better. Once she has spoken, to plead is to question. To dispute her will and deny her authority. Faults of obedience that demand to be punished. And somewhere in this room the dressage whip hangs on the wall. With worse of its kind. I will not plead.
A simple “No, Madam” is in line with the rules. It will show acquisitionscence, at least. But I sense she wants more. Blind, thoughtless obedience is not enough. What she requires is deeper than that – consciousness, active, explicit understanding.
Her eyes glitter in the half light of the room. I must answer now.
Fearful, I take the risk I must take. The rule in the room is no action without instruction. I breach it. I look deep in her eyes, returning her gaze, and drink in the richness I see there, the force, the will, the password, the self inside her that through awe and obedience I help her express.
An eternity passes.
Then wordless, she stands, straight-legged in her heels, smoothing the silk of her dress.
I steel myself for the crop, but the crop does not come. Instead, she strokes my cheek, downturned now, with the backs of her fingers, a gentle touch, electric on my skin.
Then, at last, she speaks.
“The ring on the wall, David. You know where it is.”
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