A week later Jayavardhini Mudiliar opened Chetana’s door. Inside there was a woman singing. With an orchestra. Her voice seemed to circle like a soaring eagle, higher and higher. The sound was clear, though a little scratchy. 

Oh, she thought. Philip’s wind-up gramophone. She didn’t know the music, but it was beautiful and very overtly sexual. 

Chetana was on her back on her bed, with Philip above her, pumping her, roughly in time with the pulse of the music. Chetana was making a cooing, pre-orgasmic song of her own. 

Jayavardhini’s parents would have said she should withdraw discreetly, but instead she walked in and watched them.

Chetana’s body she knew well, dark, dark black and her flesh muscular but lusciously voluptuous, while Philip, held between her thighs, was wiry and mostly white except where his arms and legs were tanned.

Philip had one hand on Chetana’s throat, constricting her, his other hand tight on her shoulder, fingers digging into her. As they plunged and rose together his face was fierce, while Chetana’s seemed abstracted.

Her body arched beneath him, hips and thighs surging upwards to meet his thrusts, greedy and hard. When Philip released her throat and slapped her face lightly, Chetana closed her eyes, her mouth open, a line of drool spilling from its edge.

She moaned, low like a big cat, a puma being fucked, then abruptly clenched, thighs and arms tight around him, her head thrown back to scream. 

Chetana’s orgasm scream was loud and uninhibited. Philip slapped her again and the scream repeated, then again a few frenzied seconds later, quieter now and dropping in pitch.

The woman singing came too, at roughly the same time as Chetana. The orchestra seemed to move in then, to caress her with infinite tenderness and then carry her gently into sleep.

Chetana was done for the moment, though Philip did not stop. Chetana stared up at him, as if he were a frightening but wonderful gift, until he gasped, both hands holding her shoulders down, hands cruelly tight, and when he came he growled at Chetana like an angry bear.

Chetana reached up and touched his face. She said, “Oh, my love.”

Jayavardhini was surprised, but she couldn’t help but smile. They were in love. She hadn’t quite understood that, though the way Chetana had spoken of him when she and her were making love had puzzled her. She hadn’t known Chetana be so moved by a man before, or, even as Chetana’s female lover she had to admit it, by a woman.

Philip was a surprise. He was so polite and diffident when he had his clothes on that she had assumed that was the real him. She’d been wrong. In intimacy the man was ferocious. And slightly cruel.

They still hadn’t noticed her, but the record had ended. She took the spindle off, and Chetana suddenly looked her way.

Four days later, when the weather was calm and the ship was making good speed across a flat sea, Philip searched through his luggage. He had spent every night and most of the time they were both free in Chetana’s cabin, and this was the first time he’d spent in his own place. It was unfamiliar to him, and because he’d been busy while the ships were stowed, it wasn’t him who had put his belongings in the cabin.

He found the small Burberry case at the top of the wardrobe, and brought it down carefully, hoping it had been put there with the same care. 

He undid its leather straps and checked it, fearfully. Nothing seemed to be broken.

He whistled, closed it again, and took up the case. He walked the short distance down the corridor, and turned right towards Chetana’s cabin, near the Jagannath’s prow.

As he approached the door opened and a woman stepped out. Philip hadn’t seen her before. She was Tamil like Chetana, smaller, younger, with the same shock of black hair, emerald eyes and bruised purple-pink lips. She was smiling.

She saw Philip approaching, and her mouth opened, still pleased with the world. “Hello! You’re Philip! I’ve seen you, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I would certainly remember it.”

“So I have you at a disadvantage! From what Chetana says, that’s almost impossible. But I should abandon it.” She held out her hand.

She smelled of lemon. And something floral. And sex. “I’m Jayavardhini, Jayavardhini Mudiliar. You can call me Jaya.”

Philip frowned, then smiled back at her. “I know the name Jayavardhini. It’s a beautiful name. And auspicious. If you prefer Jaya, then I’ll follow that. But please don’t shorten your name out of politeness.”

The woman, named after a goddess of victory, laughed. “Well, then, I do prefer Jayavardhini. Thank you. Most people find it a mouthful.”

Philip had an urge to say something inane and flirtatious about her and mouthfuls. The urge surprised him. He said, “Jayavardhini. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“It’s been lovely to meet you, Philip. I’ve heard about you for so long. In Chetana’s emails. It’s like finally coming face to face with a legend.” She glanced at the case in his hand. “You’ve brought Chetana a picnic? You smuggled caviar or something else she likes on-board?”

He shook his head. “I’d love to be able to. But the rule is that food is a common resource. No private stashes.”

“I bet you made that rule.”

“I proposed it.”

She was still laughing at him. “Most people who invent rules don’t apply them to themselves. I suppose your legend is true, then. Anyway, I’m holding you up. I should go, I think.”

But she didn’t move. For a second Philip had the impression that she was going to kiss him. He knew Chetana was not a one-man woman. Nor was she a one-woman woman, probably. But he was a one-woman man. Still, he would not have minded if she had kissed him. He said, “I’ll see you.”

She said, “I should hope so! I’m a botanist, so I’ve been sorting out our plants: hydroponics and soils. It’s still a nightmare down there. You have… noidea. But it should get less frantic in about three days’ time. I’ll be more visible after that.”

He smiled at her. “Good.”

Then she did kiss him. She changed her aim at the last instant to touch her lips to his cheek, but he could not have been more astonished. Or, he supposed, charmed. Then she kissed his mouth. 

He’d been right: a kiss from her wasn’t something he would mind.

He realised he’d have been shocked, stammering in embarrassment, a week ago. Chetana’s sexual appreciation had changed him. So he grinned, only happy. “All right. I’ll look forward to you being free.”

He had the urge to ask if Chetana was all right, and alone now. But she was only a door away. So he watched the woman walk away, sarong tied under her armpits, probably all she wore.

I’d just said to Emily, “You’ll do as you’re told whether you want to or not. You obey orders, and you accept punishment when I say you deserve it. The final say is mine. That’s how we are, now.” 

She’d frowned, considering. My heart was thudding. She had every right to say no, since it was a hell of a lot to ask. Still, I’d be devastated if she did. 

But she didn’t say, Yes. She said, “Hey, Jaime?”

So now I was worried. “Yes?”

“This is totally not normal, this.”

“No. It’s perverse.”

“And I’m thinking of agreeing to it. I even think it’s hot, for god’s sake. We’re so strange. Does this feel right to you?”

“Oh absolutely. Yes. Completely right.” 

“Actually it does sort of feel right to me too. But it’s a bit scary, Jaime.”

“Well. Jump and I’ll catch you, my love.” 

“I love you too. Will you really catch me? Always?”

“Yeah, actually I will.” We were solemn together. I stroked her cunt gently, and unfairly, since I knew it interfered with her thinking, then slipped a finger into her ass. Emily sighed. She liked that.

She said, “Then. I jump. I’ll do as I’m told, from now on. I’m yours.”

“So. Emily Maria Viviani, under new management. You’ve changed hands.”

“Jaime, this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. It is so not normal. I’m absolutely terrified. But happy. I seem to be ridiculously happy. Well, so far.”

“I love you. I’m not scared at all,” I lied, “and I’m happy. You’re mine. And it is ridiculous.”

That the most amazing gift I have ever been given. It was considerably better than Christmas.

Emily had just confirmed that I was in a position that I could order her to stop smoking. And she’d obey. Sort of. As best she could. Until I made it so, through perseverance and discipline. I decided to accept that gift. “Yes. You quit smoking, for good, on Monday. After you’ve had the third instalment.”

Smoke spurted. “Instalment!”

“Well, you know.”

“All right. I’ll try. No, of course I’ll stop. If you help me.” She saw my face. “Not just by caning me, you bastard. I mean, I’ll need you to help. In other ways. But all right.”

This was more, and easier, than I’d expected. I said, naively, “Good. That’s settled.”

Emily stubbed out her cig and turned to me. I hated tobacco, but it was never the only thing she tasted of. Just then, she tasted of milk and sweat. She said, “Yeah… this is good.” I almost patted her welted and super-sensitive bum. I remembered to stroke the small of her back instead.

“We’ll be all right. Well then. Brush your teeth and come back to bed.” And Emma obeyed. I pretended to be nonchalant. I was jubilant.   

 We slept through the morning, and greeted each other across the pillows in the early afternoon. Emily had slept on her stomach. I kissed her, and inspected the damage. The stripes were bright and her skin was flushed red, even where the cane hadn’t touched, but there was no swelling. Her body was impressively efficient at repairing itself. I kissed each rounded hillock, which drew a sigh rather than a yelp, another sign of healing. I gave Emily a progress report, took a photo of her ass and showed it to her, and got up to make lunch. 

Emily said, from the bed, “Shouldn’t I do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“Well, make lunch. Things. Now that I do what I’m told, shouldn’t I make lunch?” 

“Well, you can do the vacuuming. So long as you’re naked. And dusting, I completely hate dusting. But I’ll watch you dust. I’ll get you a feather duster.” 

“Will you test the surfaces with a white glove? And beat me if the glove gets dirty?” 

“Okay, a feather duster and white gloves. And I’ll definitely beat you. One moment.” 

In the kitchen I put rolls in the oven and made omelettes. It was a gesture, to show that certain things would go on as before. We’d shared chores and making meals, and we still would. I reflected, pouring out orange juice, that I could make Emma do all the housework.

I could sit on a couch and have her do all the work while I wore me a wifebeater singlet and shouted at the sports game. But getting out of housework still seemed a petty use of something as grand as Emily’s submission. It’d be a quick way to have her fall out of love with me. Anyway, I didn’t watch sports.

We fucked after Emily’s punishment. We were making certain assurances to each other. Emily still hurt, and she needed to know and trust that I hadn’t hurt her because I despised her, and she also needed to know that I didn’t think less of her for allowing me to hurt her.

I needed her reassurance just as much, that I hadn’t done a wicked thing, that she still loved me and trusted that I loved her and was vehemently on her side. Our gentleness said that I held Emily in awe, and I thought she was braver, more honourable and desirable than I could have imagined.

Our gentleness said that Emily, somehow, still loved me. So we were comforted and reconciled.

Hours later, Emily slipped out of bed, taking care not to wake me. I hadn’t been asleep. It was after midnight. I heard the toilet flush, but she didn’t return. I listened, thinking of Emily in the house without me.

Was she unhappy? If she was unhappy, why didn’t she come to me? She must be brooding, thinking bitter thoughts. Bitter thoughts about me. I told myself this was paranoid and self-obsessed, and to relax. I lasted, sane, for about a minute. Then I got up.

I found her on the balcony, watching the motorway below our apartment. Emily usually wore a robe for her balcony appearances, but her skin was both sensitive and warm.

She drew on a cigarette, her breasts and arms resting on the balcony wall, absently gazing down at the ribbons of car headlights and the nightworld below. She hadn’t noticed my arrival.

I gazed admiringly at the welts I’d given her, which were now a darker red with some black where the last couple of strokes had crossed.

So long as Emily was pleased with this, then I could be proud of giving it. I thought those marks were utterly beautiful and headily sexy. Politics could wait. 

Emily sensed me behind her and glanced back. With no time to compose her face she looked pleased by my presence. My heart lifted. A second later she made a guilty grab at her cigarette pack, then stopped. I’d seen it. But I’d never told her to stop smoking. I’d only advised it. We spoke simultaneously. I said, “you look lovely”, which was true but boring, and Emily said, “I suppose you’ll make me stop smoking, now.” 

Ah. There are many possible reactions to those words. I’m afraid mine was to get a rush of blood to my cock. Emily had given me more power over her than I’d realised. I stepped forward.

I knew her well enough to know she’d probably like to kneel and suck my cock, at that moment. That would let her feel she was serving, she was so owned.

But I wanted out bodies to be pushed closer than that. I was going to fuck her from behind, bending over that balcony, and that was probably going to hurt her hotly welted ass. At least, in that moment, I hoped so.

Emily was crying, but pressing her body against me. I was in territory I’d read about but never been in before. I said, again, “I know you’re a good girl, you’re so good, my love. We’re going to get through this. You’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” I hoped that tone of voice counted for more than the words, because I couldn’t think clearly. Then I took my hand away. “But stay in position, darling. We’re nearly done.”

We got through the ten strokes of the cane she’d been promised, with one more stop for emotional comfort. It seemed to be over quickly, though Emily’s time must’ve moved more slowly than mine. She stayed in position afterwards. She was vividly striped, and mouthed the syllables, “ol-cha, ol-cha” over and over, sometimes aloud and sometimes silent.

She honked back phlegm, and her bottom ducked and rose while she managed and absorbed the pain. I stood beside her.  “We’re done. For today. You were so brave, love.”

Emily snuffled for answer, and reached over to caress my leg. I ran the fingers of my left hand down the corrugations on her bottom. Ten stripes blossomed there, on golden curved girlskin, each stripe in a different stage of development. Emily would have something to admire in the mirror. Probably for about a week.

I stroked her cunt, to show that whatever changes we were forging, I was still here to serve her pleasure. After our fashion.

I hoped to find her wet, for my own reassurance. She, thank god, was. My fingers entered easily, slickly welcome, and Emily made a soft, pleasured sound.

These sounds continued, and raised slightly in pitch. That was encouraging.

So was the beauty and the sheer, shocking, sexual power of those ten stripes. Those stripes were sex. Those stripes were lust. I’d put those stripes there, ten flags of conquest. They claimed new territory, they were pink pennants of victory. She was mine, in some more literal and deeper sense than we’d had before.

I helped Emma straighten up after she’d come, and she put her arms around my neck and her head in my shoulder, and we rocked together, my arms round her waist. We walked crabwise to bed, where she lay on her front. I undressed and lay facing her, kissed, praised and comforted her while she shed tears and made small hurt-animal noises.

The fiercest heat of a caning, that makes the recipient cry and cry out, fades quite quickly. But Emma’s marks still radiated heat to the air and pain into her body, and she winced even at my gentlest touch. I thought we’d lie together like this until she slept. But after a while our occasional kisses became more focussed.

I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top. We fucked slowly, holding hands and caressing, looking into each other’s eyes.