“Stand up.”
My legs trembled but somehow I made it to my feet again. Then “Sit down, Stand up,” endlessly.
I began to think I could guess what he was going to say next and I moved to sit down before he spoke, my thighs burning to rest.
“Who in the fuck told you to move?”
I locked my knees, trying to stay upright on aching legs. Again and again he had me stand and sit for his pleasure, for my punishment; until I swayed with exhaustion, my legs trembling and muscles screaming.
“Come here,” he ordered. “Don’t look at me.”
I stumbled wearily over to him and, as soon as I reached him, he slapped me across the face. I shrank back but didn’t dare displease him again and hurried to lift my face up for more. He was done with that for the moment and snapped “Bend over my desk, you slut; you fucking piece of worthless meat.”
His words sliced deep, cutting through me with laser-like precision. He knew just what to say; exactly what would hurt me the most.
I bent over the desk and he lifted my dress, revealing my bare bottom. My face pressed against the smooth wood of the desk, the coolness soothing my burning cheek.
Behind me I heard the sound that I dreaded more than anything. My spine arched and I went cold in terror at the sound of his cane whipping through the air.
Without warning, without any warm up, the first hard stroke landed, then another and another. No pause, no break in between each stroke for me to recover. I sobbed, I writhed and I began to scream as the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth strokes bit into my soft flesh.
He left the room without a word, leaving her prone over the desk, sobbing; more from the guilt and shame she felt than the caning she’d had to endure from his expert hands.
Minutes later he returned and she heard the words, “Look at me,” spoken softly.
She knew she had to obey him but she hesitated. Slowly she hoisted herself up and began to turn to him but her eyes were lowered.
“Look at me,” he repeated with no change in tone or volume.
She eventually caught his gaze and immediately her eyes filled with tears as she tried to form the words, ‘I’m sorry.’ The look in his eyes was not one of anger but of disappointment. She could bear his anger but he knew his disappointment made her feel unendurable pain. She started to look down.
“Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me. I don’t care how much you are hurting, you must look at me.”
She brought her eyes back to his with a huge effort. He could see how much it cost her but he needed to make sure she understood.
He spoke with a stark calm in his voice, an absence of emotion which made her body cold. Where there had been fury, there was now nothing.
“You know why I have to punish you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master.”
“You have done something that I will find very difficult to understand and forgive. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me. I know you would never do that. But my trust in you has to be complete. It is a binary state; either I trust you or I don’t. There are no margins of trust. And you have lost mine. I do not trust you. All that has gone. Are you quite clear about that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So what can I do now? Punish you more? Yes, I shall certainly do that. But first I am going to untie you, and you must stay completely still as I do it.”
His fingers undid the ropes that bound her, and when he returned to her field of vision he had his back to her.
“I am going out. I shall leave you to clean up this mess. You will also clean the entire apartment from top to bottom. If I find a speck of dust or one chore undone when I return, then your punishment will be much, much worse. And believe me you don’t want that to happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He moved toward the door, feeling in his pocket for his keys.
“Sir...?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask how long you’ll be? Please, Sir. Tell me please, Sir”
“Don’t wait up. Go to bed when you’re done.”
“Master... please tell me how long you’ll be.”
Her voice was trembling, fearful, nearly gone.
With complete neutrality of tone, his voice charged with no emotion, he said the words that shook her to the core...
“I don’t know.”
He was amazed at the depth of his reaction. Instinct told him that, as a sadist, the cruellest thing to do would be to leave her alone. But he was going for another reason.
When he had asked her about the journal he had found himself saying that if she didn’t tell him the truth then they would be over. He had not let her see it, of course, but as soon as he asked that question, a shiver went through his body. What if, then, she had continued to deny it? Would that mean they were over? Of course it would - he had said so. But he shocked himself with his own feelings. Could things really be over with this beautiful, loyal, attentive and sweet woman? He not only loved her, he admired her; her kindness to strangers, her random acts of kindness, her concern when bad things happened on the news, her complete and utter trust in him.
He found himself driving around for hours. He wanted to go back home, give her a big hug and tell her that everything would be fine. He wanted to but he knew he couldn’t. She had to have time to think, too. He began to imagine that she wouldn’t be there when he returned. He started to ponder a life without her and he didn’t relish the prospect for a single second. He kept telling himself, as if he needed any reminder, that he loved her so much.
He chose to spend the night with a friend, another Master, and seek comfort with him. They would talk about old times together and, most of all, he would understand.
The last cane stroke landed and I heard him walk out of the room, leaving me where he left me; laid out across his desk, not daring to move. I rested my head against the wood, crying my heart out for what I had done; for how much I had let him down. The cheeks of my bottom stung and burned from the caning, serving as an ever present reminder of my guilt.
I heard his footsteps returning behind me but he didn’t touch me or comfort me in any way. Not like he would have done any time before this, before how incredibly stupid I had been. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. I did. But if only I’d managed to tell him, maybe he would have understood. I’d made it so much worse.
A pause and then “Look at me,” he said, quietly.
I would have rather walked over hot coals than seen the displeasure I knew would be in his eyes, but I had to do as he said.
I slowly pushed myself up from the desk, wincing at the pain as I moved. I turned to face him, never something until this point that I hadn’t wanted to do. Usually it was so hard not to look at him when he ordered me to lower my gaze; so hard not to look up at him and smile at how happy he made me.
I tried but I still couldn’t do it. I managed to look up as far as his chin and then my nerve failed me and I lowered my eyes again.
“Look at me,” he said again, still in that calm, quiet tone.
I fought my way up to look at him and, when I did my heart broke at the look of disappointment in his eyes. Whatever I’d imagined it would look like, this was so much worse.
My throat tightened again, already raw with crying, and I tried desperately to apologise but the words wouldn’t come. I couldn’t bear it. I had to look away.
“Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me. I don’t care how much you are hurting, you must look at me,” he said, sternly.
I dragged my eyes back to his, almost grateful for the tears that fell and half blinded me. His words hurt, dug deep inside me, but the expression in his eyes hurt more. “Disappointed, disobeyed, dishonoured” echoed again around my head.
It wasn’t just that I had looked in the journal; there were no secrets there. I had let him down. I had done something in a moment of eager carelessness, with the best of intentions, I tried to keep telling myself, and I had to face the consequences. They wer
e for him, and him alone to decide. I had never felt so hopelessly at his mercy.
I’d wanted so much to please him. I had wanted everything to be perfect and this is what I had done instead. I could hardly bear to look at him and yet, he commanded it and naturally I obeyed.
Again he spoke in that calm, detached voice. I would have preferred his anger, anything to show what he was feeling, that he still cared.
“You know why I have to punish you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Master.” My voice shook.
“You have done something that I will find very difficult to understand. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me. I know you would never do that. But my trust in you has to be complete. It is a binary state; either I trust you or I don’t. There are no margins of trust. And you have lost mine. I do not trust you. All that has gone. Do you understand that?”
I managed not to look away but it cost me everything I had left. I trembled with the tension of holding myself still enough to keep looking into his eyes, when all I wanted to do was fling myself at his feet and beg his forgiveness.
“Yes, Sir.”
“So what can I do now? Punish you more? Yes, I shall certainly do that. But first I am going to untie you. Stay completely still as I do it.”
He untied the ropes from around my wrists and then stepped in front of me, his back to me, as if the very sight of me disgusted him. And still without looking at me, he spoke again.
“I am going out. I shall leave you to clean up this mess. You will also clean the entire apartment from top to bottom. If I find a speck of dust or one chore undone when I return, then your punishment will be much, much worse. And believe me, you don’t want that to happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He found his keys and walked to the study door.
“Sir...?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask how long you’ll be? Please, Sir. Tell me please, Sir.” I had to clamp my lips shut to stop myself from begging.
“Don’t wait up. Go to bed when you’re done.”
I couldn’t help myself. I was frantic with dread. What if I had to wait for hours for him to come back, before we could perhaps try to talk and rebuild what we had. I tried once more, my voice barely a thread.
“Master... please tell me how long you’ll be.”
Would he make me wait for longer than a few hours? I imagined that he might make me wait a whole day. Yes, that was it. He would utter the word ‘tomorrow’ and that would be awful. But what he actually said was so much worse.
“I don’t know.”
I watched him go, wanting to call him back, to beg him not to leave me. The front door closed quietly behind him, and I sank to my knees and sobbed; my heart breaking once more into countless pieces. I loved him so much, and I’d hurt him. It was all my fault.
The noise of the car starting moved me to my feet and I raced to the window to watch him leave, hoping that he would look back at me just once. He swung the car out onto the main road without a backward glance and I dropped into the chair in front of the window, my head in my hands.
I curled up in the chair after he had gone, thinking over the whole terrible evening. If only I could go back and change what I had done. I hoped desperately that we could fix this.
A car turned into our driveway, and I jumped to my feet in horror, realising that I had not even started the chores he had given me. Luckily it was one of our neighbours. I shivered, not wanting even to imagine what would happen if I hadn’t completed everything by the time he returned.
I hurried to the kitchen to find the cleaning materials. I knew how he liked things done and I did my best to clean and tidy everything as carefully and dutifully as I always did; painstakingly scrubbing every last surface as if it were the last time I would ever do it.
My hands were shaking, and every so often I had to stop to try and calm down. It would be alright. It had to be. I didn’t dare allow myself to think about the possibility that it might not be. I knew I would never finish everything if I let myself wonder about that, even for a moment.
I lifted a cloth to clean the bathroom mirror and then stopped, gazing at the ruin of my face. Mascara ran down my cheeks and the rest of my make up was smeared beyond recognition. This was what he had done, what he wanted me to look like for my humiliation. I reached for a tissue to wipe it away but dropped my hand and left it as it was. I deserved that too.
Every few minutes I looked at the clock, wondering if he might be on his way home to me, hoping that he was. Every now and again, I stared out of the window, excited by the sound of every car engine, and then scared all over again that he would come back before I had the chance to finish cleaning.
I quickened my pace, trying not to rush, but now terrified of what he would do if everything wasn’t to his liking.
At last, I was done, and I leaned against the kitchen table trying to catch my breath and relax at least a little. I knew I should eat something but the very thought made me feel sick. I poured a cool glass of water, then sank into a chair and held the icy glass against my hot forehead.
I looked up at the clock again. It didn’t seem possible that only a couple of hours had passed. What now? What would he have me do now? I stood and walked around the apartment, checking every room again, listening all the while; hoping to hear his key in the front door.
Everything was fine. Well, everything wasn’t fine, but the whole apartment was clean. I had done all I could do. I returned to the lounge and sat on the sofa, staring into space. I picked up a magazine, I switched on the television and flicked aimlessly from channel to channel, but I was unable to settle on anything; unable to think about anything but his stinging words. ‘I do not trust you. That has all gone.’
A tear plopped onto the magazine on my lap, followed by another and another until the text blurred before my eyes. With nothing to do, there was too much time for every lacerating word to repeat over and over again in my mind. Too much time to think about what I had done, to think about the achingly awful look of displeasure in his eyes. How could I have done it?
My eyelids were starting to droop, even after everything that had happened, when I finally heard a car in the driveway. I leapt to my feet and hurried to the window but it was not him. My stomach sank with disappointment and the tears started all over again. What I would have given to see his face then, to have the chance to beg his forgiveness…
By midnight I slumped on the sofa and fell asleep with the television still playing away. More than once, I woke up with a start, convinced I had heard footsteps coming up the path, the sound of his keys in the door, but it was never him.
I turned the television off, the sound no comfort to me. Nothing could be. It was turning into a cold night. I pulled a throw over myself to keep warm, trying to stay awake in case he came back, but eventually I drifted off into a restless sleep.
As he came back he knew she would have felt abandoned. Painful though it was for him too, this had been his intention. He had needed to give her time to think about what she had done, to stew in her own guilt. There was nothing more he could have done last night. He knew that she would go through the self recriminations perfectly well on her own. By being there, he would have only reassured her and that was not what he wanted to do. To leave her alone, to be apart from her when she was at her most vulnerable would have been the cruellest cut of all.
He took his time turning the key in the lock as if further to test her patience.
He entered the study without a word. She was where he expected her to be, kneeling on the study floor. He stood silently, looking down at her, his hands behind him. He knew she would be longing to speak, to ask how his day had been, anything, but he also knew she would not dare. He took a deep breath in.
“Look at me.”
She did, without a moment’s hesitation.
“What would you do if you were me?”
She looked startled at the question and tried to answer him but simply stam
mered, obviously unable to think what to say. Quickly tiring of her efforts to speak, he jabbed back sharply at her...
“This would be a good time to use those things we call words we’ve often talked about. Speak, woman, speak. Make an utterance. What would you do if you were me?”
“Sir, I don’t know, I can’t... I can’t think in those terms, Sir, I don’t think I understand what you want me to say...”
Again, he cut her off.
“My, aren’t we wonderfully articulate today? Let me try a different tack; do you think I have punished you enough?”
Her answer was instant and instinctive.
“No, Sir, no. You haven’t punished me enough, Sir. What I did was so awful, Sir, I expect...”
This time a sublimely placed cough was enough to silence her.
“Come here.”
With all the grace she could muster she stood and approached him. She was gazing into his eyes all the time, never a flicker of a sideways glance.
“Then we are in agreement. Take off your panties.”
Without even a second’s pause, she did so. He took them from her and pushed them straight into her mouth. He had a pair of her tights in his pocket which he pulled out and began stuffing into her mouth until she resembled a hamster. He pushed them into her cheeks and as soon as she thought there was no more room, he found more room.
From another pocket in his immaculate suit, he produced a roll of duct tape. He tore off piece after piece, placing each layer in a slightly different place over her mouth, sealing and further packing the tights and panties.
He took one pace back from her, then with one single swoop of his hand he slapped her face, more to humiliate her than to hurt her. She managed to maintain eye contact for the relentless torrent that was to follow.
“You filthy cunt. You will never, ever do that again. Or anything like it. Am I making myself abundantly clear?”
She nodded but before she could have any thoughts of the humiliation being over, he ripped open her dress, exposing her breasts. He smacked them, too. Over and over and with no sign of a pattern or rhythm to his method. Again and again his hands made contact, sometimes just catching her fiercely erect nipples.
The Journal (Her Master's Voice) Page 3
