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‘Yes, dearest.’
He waits for me. I know what I have to do. I remove the corset and take my place at the foot of the bed, gripping the carved wooden footboard for grim life. I hear the little clink of metal as 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.’
‘And you like to know what’s going on, do you, Sarah?’
‘Generally speaking.’
‘You don’t like stories?’
‘I don’t … follow.’
He patted the chair beside him and for some reason I didn’t think twice about going over there and sitting down.
‘Do you or don’t you? Like stories?’
‘Well, yes, I do.’
‘Do you always know what’s going on in a story?’
‘Sometimes. If it’s blatantly signposted, I suppose. More often not.’
‘It’s dull, isn’t it, when you know the ending.’
‘Not always.’ I had an idea what he might be driving at. ‘I can watch film versions of classic novels over and over, even though I know the ending.’
‘That’s a different kind of pleasure,’ he said.
‘Maybe.’
‘The thing is, Sarah, if you know the ending, you can’t explore any other possibilities. If you know what’s going on, you can’t be surprised. You can’t have your breath taken away. You miss all the best bits. Do you see?’
I swallowed. He was very close to me and I was intensely conscious of it. So intensely conscious that I was having some difficulty processing thought.
‘You’re very …’
He leaned closer.
‘Very what?’
‘Very … I don’t know.’
‘Don’t go, Sarah. If you don’t go, I’ll make you bacon and eggs.’
Breakfast. Probably a good idea.
‘That would be … acceptable,’ I said.
‘And I know you’re an accepting person,’ he said, rising and moving towards the cooker top. ‘An open-minded soul.’ He opened up a pack of bacon. ‘Incidentally, do you have my razor strop?’
Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.
He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.
‘Sarah?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘You’re scarlet.’
‘Am I?’
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.
‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.
‘Well?’
‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?
‘Bring it down,’ he said.
‘Now?’
He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.
My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.
When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.
I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants, burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.
Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.
‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’
He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.
I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.
He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.
‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.
It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.
He frowned.
‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’
He bent closer and then drew in a breath, raising his eyes to mine. I held myself perfectly still for a horrible second, then he smiled the most radiant smile I had ever seen.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said.
I had nothing to say. I stood there, panting a little, wondering why my legs wouldn’t let me run away.
He wrapped it around his hand, slowly, making sure I paid attention.
‘What shall we do about this?’ he wondered aloud.
‘I can get it cleaned,’ I repeated.
‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of that. That wasn’t what I meant.’
With a tremor of shock, it occurred to me that I had been meaning to leave, so all of this was technically avoidable. The thought crashed into my head but I didn’t want to let it in. I didn’t want to leave now. I wanted to know what was going to happen. I wanted to read the next page of the story.
‘What did you mean then?’ I whispered.
‘What am I going to do with you?’
The pan hissed and spat behind him. He sighed and turned his attention to it, putting down the strop and picking up the spatula.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘No, before you do that, take your bloody bags back upstairs.’
I wanted to ask him what he was going to do with me, since the words hung so agonisingly and tantalisingly between us, but I did as I was told instead, running up the stairs two at a time and flinging the bags on the bed.
Anything could happen, I told myself, racing back down. Anything could happen and I want it to!
The plates were on the table and he was already digging into his food.
‘You look like you could do with a square meal,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in the cupboards. What have you been living on?’
‘Soup, mainly,’ I said, sliding into the chair opposite him.
‘Not that foul packet stuff I saw on the shelf?’
‘Yeah.’ I felt guilty for my consumption of powdered soup. Obviously it was the Wrong Thing to do.
‘That won’t do. You’re going to need your strength, my girl.’
Jesus, what was happening to me? Lightning bolts, electricity up and down my spine and all over my skin. As for my crotch, I could barely sit still, it felt so full of sparks.
