Chloe turned her head away when my arm moved, fixing her gaze on the chair seat. The strap landed with an astonishingly loud crack, wrapping itself round the lower slopes of Chloe’s buttocks.

The effect was dramatic. Chloe’s head shot up, and she sang out “heee-uuu”. On one hearing, that soprano cry became one of my sexual tastes. I wanted to hear it again.

I also liked the shockwave in Chloe’s flesh, as the heavy strap impacted, though because she was fit it lasted only a second. I watched the miracle of her skin changing colour, a brilliant pink stripe emerging, blooming like a stop-motion flower, about three inches across, with sharply defined edges.

It bobbed and weaved, that stripe, as Chloe’s hips bucked in the seconds after that impact, throwing off the pain like a horse trying to throw a rider.

I waited until she’d settled and arched her bottom up again. I aimed to leave the next stripe just above the first, neither overlapping nor leaving a gap. That was misplaced confidence; no-one should expect to land a strap accurately without practice. The strap landed high, leaving a sloping welt across the top of Chloe’s left buttock and wrapping painfully high across her right hip. Chloe’s cry was higher in pitch and volume. It was the wrong sort of pain.

But I swallowed the apology I wanted to speak, because it would break the mood and make things worse. I said, in the harshest, angriest voice I could manage, “Get that bottom up, girl. You’re getting strapped. And keep still!”

That was kinder.

For the third stroke, and all those subsequent, I aimed for the fleshiest part of her buttocks, reasoning that since my aim was lousy I’d achieve a reasonable spread of strokes just by accident, and that at least the strokes would land somewhere well padded.

“Lift up your skirt, Chloe, right up above your waist. Good girl. That’s a very pretty cunt, isn’t it?” I placed my palm against her, fingertips just inside, and stroked wetly. I held her to me with my other arm. We were almost ourselves.

Chloe said, eventually, “I don’t know, sir.”

I squeezed her lips, enough to hurt. “Isn’t it?”

“Uhh. Yes, my cunt is very pretty, sir. Would you like to fuck me, sir?”

“Chloe, I want you more than anything in the world. Or the world.” I said that. Mr Mortimer said, “But you’ve still been a naughty girl. You’ve got a pretty little bottom, too, haven’t you?”

Chloe had to think about that. Eventually she said, “Um. You might be nice enough to think so, sir.”

I gave her five more strokes, feeling the temptation to go harder with each stroke, and resisting it. It seemed that in any case each stroke hurt a little more than the one before.

She found it harder to keep her hands out for the last three strokes, and she had to breathe heavily, several times, before she could speak the last two ‘thank you, sirs’.

I lowered the strap and contemplated her. She was still panting a little, but holding her hands out bravely, not sure if I’d finished. I remembered something. “You were a very good girl then, Chloe. You’re a very brave and good girl.”

Chloe brightened. “Thank you, sir.”

I’d never used a strap on a woman before. It had clearly hurt.

My conscience was a little worried that I’d hurt her, deliberately, and I’d enjoyed watching her reactions. I’d loved her obedience. Chloe watched me, her hands still held out. To be convenient for me, in case I wanted to hurt her more.

I’d decided that six was enough for now. On her hands, at least. But it seemed best to keep her waiting for that information. At last she asked, “May I rub my hands, sir?”

I would always have said yes. But Mr Mortimer was the pilot for the moment, and that man, he was a bastard. “Of course not.”

“Ohhh, si-ir.” But she kept her hands up and presented. 

I considered putting my fingers in her mouth, making her lick them clean. But perhaps that’d be in the wrong genre. Another time. “Hold out your hands, Chloe.”

“Yes, sir.” Chloe obeyed, and watched me lift the strap and let it fall behind my shoulder. I didn’t know how hard I should swing it, but without some force it wouldn’t swing at all. Well, many generations of real schoolgirls and schoolboys had been strapped on the hand, so although I disapproved of real corporal punishment, hand-strapping must be basically safe.

I swung the strap as gently as I could while making sure the folded leather arced through the air and landed on Chloe’s outstretched hands. There was a loud swack – a heavy piece of leather doesn’t want to be gentle – and a musical “ah ow!” from Chloe.

She’d flinched before the strap landed, and winced attractively when it did. It had hurt, which was good, but not too much. It hadn’t jolted her out of her game. She kept her hands steady. A second or two later she said, “One, thank you, Sir.” 

“Hands on head.” She obeyed. I stepped forward. “Feet apart.” She shuffled on the spot. “Further.” She spread her legs as far as the panties at her thighs would allow.

Mr Mortimer said, “I’ve heard that there are very naughty girls who enjoy getting the strap. They need to be dealt with extra, I don’t know, um, firmly. Are you one of those very naughty girls, Miss Sendak?”

Chloe shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh no, Mr Mortimer, sir.” I stood close, looking down into Chloe’s eyes, and reached under the skirt to touch her cunt. Chloe gasped, not entirely theatrically. I stroked gently, and she fell against me. My fingers entered her easily; of course she was one of those very naughty girls. She nestled her head into my armpit and sighed while I pleasured her.

Mr Mortimer said, three fingers deep in lusty girl, “I think, under the circumstances, Miss Sendak, that from now on I’ll call you Chloe.”

Chloe giggled. I hadn’t heard that sound before. “I’d like that, sir.”