I picked up the birch while Diane was fiddling about in the bedroom, untying the cords attached to her bed. I gave it a couple of practice swings, making a silken, dangerous sound in the air. Diane returned just as I swished it the third time, and she paused and swallowed before taking another step towards me.
She held out the rope: three separate pieces, each neatly coiled and about four metres long, “Sir? How do you want me?”
I ignored the rope she held out and looked at her. “Er,” she said, “want me to be, when you birch me.”
“Put two cushions on the coffee table. In the middle so you can get your ass on them. Nice and high.”
“Yes, Sir.” Diane arranged the cushions as instructed, and looked at me again. “Shall I take my shirt off now, Sir?”
“I’ll tell you if I want you to do anything. And I don’t need helpful suggestions, Diane.”
“No, sorry, Sir. Shall I bend – Oh. No, sorry Sir.”
“That’s better. And yes, Diane, get on the table now. Face down. Get your hips over the cushions and keep your ass up. Good girl. Now spread your legs. Because I’m going to want to birch the insides of your thighs, girl. Spread wider. That’s right.”
Diane obeyed. That line about “inner thighs” had reached her.
Once she’d arranged herself as ordered, she waited, looking at me, a man with a birch in his hand. I was looking at a submissive woman entirely offered, presented, on a table. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something. But she remembered in time, and did not speak.