So Emily had become mine. She’d once tried to get me to make her stop smoking, by taking charge, commanding her and punishing her if I smelled tobacco on her breath, her hair, or her clothes. Though one kiss will reveal that a girl has had a sneaky cigarette. I’d refused, because spanking or caning her because she had a sexy ass, and because she enjoyed submission, was one thing; presuming the right to give her orders and enforce those orders was another step, and I hadn’t been ready to take it.
So she’d done something that put herself in danger, and hurt me, and I caned her for it. A real world offence. She still had two more canings to go.
After her first caning, she’d told me that it was up to me to stop her smoking. I realised something I’d thought was a one-off event – in three instalments – was not that, in her mind. This was how she wanted to live.
So, finally, I stepped up and claimed her. We’d agreed: Emily was my property now, for me to reward or punish, and she was to do as I told her.
We fucked again to celebrate.
When we rose, it was only three hours before Emily was due for her second caning, the one I’d promised her for lying to me.
She went to her room to work, though I doubt that she got much done. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading.
After dinner, Emily left while I cleared the table. She came back, naked, with the cane in her right hand. This time I had her bend over the table, holding on to the far edge. She was still brightly marked from yesterday’s caning, but I decided that didn’t matter. Or rather, it did matter. The fact that I was prepared to be merciless when she was already sore would make it hotter.
I’ve described what caning Emily is like, so I’ll only say that this second time was noisier, because Emily made no effort to restrain her cries. She was lusty and loud, and she rocked, spectacularly, with the impacts, but she took her eight strokes across already marked skin, and didn’t let go of the table.
I felt sorry for her, but her punishment felt natural within the new terms of our relationship. It was amazing how fast I got used to having this right.
But underneath the rhetoric about justice and guidance I enjoyed the sight and sounds of her submission and her reactions, and Emily took her own pleasures from me. I knew she was floating in lust.
It was odd that she both enjoyed it and felt it as punishment. We were running on two emotional tracks at once. One was about punishing Emily for her behaviour and the expiation of her fault, and the other track was about her enjoyment of submission, and sex. One made her feel sorry and small, and the other made her wet and happy. Both tracks were true.
Afterwards, in bed, I lay back so Emily could lie on her stomach, on mine. She cried onto my shoulder, eventually subsiding to snuffles. She said she was sorry, she’d been stupid, and she loved me. I held her, stroked her hair, kissed her over and over, and told her that it was done now, for tonight, and she was forgiven.
When she fell asleep I thought about her love and whether I deserved it. I decided she was in a life that excited her sexually and that committed me to keeping her from harm.
And while it hadn’t been a perfect negotiation, involving calm people, we’d both agreed to it, and the respective duties that imposed on us. So perhaps I was on reasonable moral ground.
It wasn’t about men and women or patriarchy. It was personal: she had a right to submit to me. She was one person, getting what she wanted from her lover.
That’s where I felt that the ethics, the politics and the sex were lined up again.
I had another unsettling thought: was this why she’d fucked Marty? Had she staged a crisis to push me into taking control? It was something she’d asked for before, and I’d refused her. So it made a kind of psychological sense. On the other hand, Emily wasn’t really devious. Our new arrangement suited her, and I’d resisted it for a long time. But she wouldn’t be that manipulative. But… Emily slept beside me and I lay awake, wide-eyed.