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.