I tightened my hand under her breast, holding her firmness. Her flesh was rubbery-taut in my hand. I smacked that rounded flesh with the ruler, harder still, letting the pinewood land along the pink band I had already ruled, an inch below Raylene’s nipple.
As the ruler made its little impact sound Raylene formed, and sounded, an “o” with her mouth. It was not a pain sound. She kept herself still, except for the ripple in her breast as the ruler landed. I watched that sweet roundness tremble and then settle. And I watched the colour deepen, on that band where the ruler landed.
“You should see yourself. You look so beautiful.”
“No really. And that stripe on your breast. It’s sexy. You’ll look even better when I’ve striped …” And I fondled her right breast, to indicate exactly where the ruler would be visiting next. “I’ll show you your marks in the mirror later.”
That idea seemed to please her. “Is it very red?”
“Nah, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just pink, love. Like the blush on a peach.”
“Peach. Hmmm.” Raylene was happy. And when I held and presented her right breast for pain, she took the three smacks with cooperation and deep interest in the procedure. She made sweet moan with each impact.
I collected a vanity mirror from the kitchen sideboard, where Raylene’s mother’s boyfriend had collected bottles of wine and other signs of the good life. It was one of these round items on a little stand, with an ordinary reflection on one side and a magnifying reflection on the other.
Raylene took it from me and held it, turning it this way and that, admiring the large-reflection version of her breasts: two pale, firm teats, the nipples erect and hard, each with a band of punished pink below.
“That is lovely, isn’t it?” She said that. I smiled.