I waited, holding the rod high until Sa’afia forgot, for a microsecond to be tense. I struck quickly, still medium hard. Hard wood and soft thigh met, loudly. I could feel the impact, transmitted down the length of the rod to my hand. I could feel the sweet resilience of her. 

Sa’afia’s sensations were intense where mine were subtle. She shook her head under her clasped hands. “Ahh-ooahhhh.” It was breathed through her obediently open mouth, not spoken. She puffed twice more, until the pain was under control. In a few seconds it would start to feel warm and sexually strong. The new line on her thigh formed and darkened. Her marks were beautiful.

I nodded. “Good. Good girl. Now, can you remember how many strokes you’re going to get on the back of your thighs?” 

Sa’afia nodded. There was a little shine of saliva at the left corner of her mouth. “‘es, sir.” She kept her mouth open, as instructed, even when she spoke. “Ten.” 

“Good. You’ll bend over and touch your toes for them. No, stupid girl. Not yet!” 

“Sir?” 

“One other thing first. You can put your hands down now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And keep your mouth open, stupid girl, or I’ll punish you.”

The first time I’d said ‘stupid girl’ I’d worried if it was traditional, or just a cliché. Well, the next thing I said would be both. 

“Now, girl. Kneel.” 

Sa’afia said, “ah.”