I’m still not quite sure if I like this piece but I’m posting it anyway. Maybe I shall write what happens next someday too.
It’s just another night, sitting at home and watching a film. You ask me to get you a drink.
“Get it yourself!, I’m busy watching this.”
I sense the mistake the moment I catch the look in your eyes but I can’t help it.
“What are you going to do if I don’t?” sticking my tongue out.
It’s stupid; I’m not even trying to egg you on. You get up and head towards the kitchen and I shout after you, asking for my own. I know I’m pushing my luck, but I don’t see the harm. I’m distracted by the film so I don’t notice you coming back into the room until you’re placing the bowl in front of me.
“What’s this?” disgust undisguised in my tone.
I look up to you and you’re smirking.
“I’m not going to drink it. You can’t make me.”
What am I saying? Your hand is firm on the back of my head as I try to resist, locking my arms out, palms on the floor. Your hand grips at my hair, disabling me as if you were scruffing a cat. My face is in the bowl, mouth open from protesting, held down for as long as you dare, water filling my nose and mouth, making me struggle. You pull me back, sitting me up and looking straight into my eyes. A sensible girl whould be meek and apologetic but it seems that she’s not here today. I stick my tongue out again and you react by pushing me straight back into the water.
When you let me back up, water is dripping from my hair and I splutter water straight out from my mouth and into your face, You’re clearly not impressed. You grab me roughly and pull me over your knee. I’m not going easily though, kicking, scrabbling, wriggling. My knickers are tugged down and I try to pull them back up. Again, you pull my hair. A moment of calm and my knickers are down again. I’m about to protest when the strap comes down on my backside. The pain is intense, burning, stinging, catching my breath. Before I know it, the strap cracks down again and again. You hesitate a moment and I start to wriggle again, trying to get up, to escape, but you have an iron grip on my back. Another series of strokes from the strap and I can feel the heat rising from my bottom but, instead of feeling sorry, I just want to kick and scream. You seem to know this and pull me up off your lap.
“Stand up straight, facing me”
I do it, looking sullen, apathetic.
“Get the cane from the hook and present it to me”
You’re trying to gain control, to get me to behave. I amble over to the wall, grab the cane and hold it out to you, lazily. You glare at me. I know why; I’m not doing things the way I should, the way you have trained me.
I hold them out, palms down. Instead of shouting at me, you roughly turn them over and place them one on top of the other. Three strokes on each hand. Three stripes on each palm. It hurts and it’s hard not to let it show.
“Clothes off and pull up your kickers.”
I do as you tell me, leaving my discarded garments untidily strewn over the floor. I stand, fidgeting, playing with my hair, looking bored.
You’re on me in a second, pulling me by my hair, dragging me to the cage, my feet barely keeping up with you, my body feeling out of control. Bundled inside, cramped, body folded over, I hear you snap shut the padlock.
“You will stay here and contemplate your actions. You will have all privileges removed. No clothes, no attention, no acknowledgement, no voice. Food and drink will be limited.”
You don’t even look at me.
You walk off and I wait. The minutes tick by and I sit, still bored, still fidgeting. I shiver a little in my nakedness but try to control it, in case you come back. I don’t want you to get pleasure from me struggling. More time passes and I rearrange my body, trying to avoid stiffness and discomfort. There’s enough space in here to move but never quite get comfortable. When you haven’t come back in what seems like hours, I finally realise that this is no joke. I have disappointed you. I have disappointed myself. The tears start then, the second I realise that all I want is to be your good girl again.