Sa’afia said, “Fuck oath.” The first time I’d heard her say that I’d thought she was saying “fuck off”. But it was her version of “fucking oath”. It meant roughly the same as “damn right”.

She didn’t want any talk that suggested that her father was a bad man, and she didn’t want to have any tediously social-workery conversation. It wasn’t sexy. So she was pleased I was back on track.

But I’d only switched the topic back, not the mood. So I said, coldly, “I’ll tell you when you’re allowed to talk, girl.” I swung the stick and caught her, smartly, on the side of her left thigh. The stick made a sharp impact sound. Sa’afia didn’t. She breathed the pain hard through pursed lips, and was silent, staring hard into my eyes.

I nodded and didn’t smile. Smiles are reassuring and things would be sexier, for now, without that. I tapped her right thigh with the stick, because that was information she could think about. I said, “Put your hands back on her head.”

I waited for Sa’afia to obey, and didn’t praise her for it. I tapped her thigh again. “Keep still.” 

Sa’afia inclined her head. She was back in that state she’d floated in while I’d spanked her. I raised the stick, letting her watch her pain approach, and swung it, medium hard, to strike her right thigh.