Raylene positioned herself again, straightening her spread legs and arching her ass up, presented and waiting.
She had 24 strokes to go. I wanted her to succeed in taking them, and to feel excited and proud of herself.
But Raylene had never had to hold position before. She had no reason to trust that the heat and sting left by the strop would soon be glowing and feeling good. She’d been told about that, not only by me, but she’d never experienced it for herself.
I’d chosen the number of strokes for the psychological effect on Raylene, so she’d be impressed with herself – 30 strokes! – and feel she’d taken a new and major step in her life.
She’d only ask that question if she wasn’t enjoying herself. She’d get up, and we’d never get the momentum back. We’d lose this mutual recognition we’d achieved.
Usually I’d make the force of the middle strokes about half as hard as I did for the first and last strokes. But as I read Raylene, she’d be grateful for the respite while it was happening, and then unhappy afterwards because I hadn’t trusted her enough, and she hadn’t really had those 30 strokes.
So if I made the next three lots of six as hard as the first six, then there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to take it, and it’d all be over. Anyway I hadn’t really wanted or intended to be as severe as “thirty strokes” sounded. But if she noticed me going easy on her, I’d also be disappointing her.
So I put my hands on her hips, and began to lie to her.