Silence continued. A cruel man might have insisted that Raylene declare her readiness to be flogged. I was a cruel man, at that moment. Still, mercy and cruelty fluctuate by microseconds, and when I spoke the words were kinder than the savage excitement that I felt. “Well, we’re going to begin. Just be a good girl and you’ll be fine.”
“Fine! Oh fucking HAH! I mean, yes, Sir. Yeah, I’ll be totally fine. Right.”
Raylene had every right to be sceptical, and I liked that she could mock me, even in that position. She was brave, though I already knew that. “Well, of course you’re going to get a sore arse, love. But I mean you’ll be okay. I’ll look after you.”
I knew what that meant, that if she accepted my dominance and her submision to it, then she could allow me to guide and support her through the pain. And if she did that, then she really would be fine. I had no idea what Raylene thought it meant. She said nothing, but she moved her left foot a little wider, so her stance was a little steadier. I took that as a sign of acceptance, and probably all I was going to get without being needy or a bully.
I raised the strop, feeling the leather hanging over my shoulder. The cruelty, the desire to hurt her, was now leading. “So, give or take this or that, would you say you were ready?”
I aimed for a segment of round, sexy and charming girl-flesh a little higher on her bottom than that first stroke I’d delivered. It still blazed a red stripe across her arse.
I swung the strop in a wide horizontal arc, letting the strength of its impact be guided largely and lazily by its own solid weight.