My bones almost leap from my skin when the grandfather clock in the corner of the room declares that midnight has arrived. It’s a dolorous sounding thing at the best of times, but tonight the tolling weighs heavily upon me. It feels like I’m listening to my own death knell. My heart rattles out at least six beats for every pitying chime.
As the last one fades to silence, the door behind me opens. It’s almost as if whoever has come had been loitering in the hall, waiting for this most ominous of moments to make their entrance. The blindfold that had been left on the floor was custom made to my face shape, so even though the room is brightly lit, for me darkness is absolute. I don’t know which of his Controllers the Master has sent.
The one who has come approaches me. He walks around me in a wide circle, just the once, before heading to the table by the bed. As usual, I try to figure out who it is using the senses I have available to me. But, as usual, it’s a pointless exercise. All of the listening and breathing and feeling I’m doing is a waste of time, I’m never going to be able to guess.
They’ve all been trained to do it in exactly the same way. Slow, measured steps, moving clockwise about three feet away so that they can’t be identified by the pattern of their breathing. They all shower before coming to the Room of Correction, using the same strong soap to eliminate their natural scent. It’s done this way intentionally because the Master doesn’t want us to know which of his Controllers double as Punishers.
I used to count while I waited for them to ready themselves. It passed the time, but that’s about it because they count too, and we both know it takes them exactly six minutes. All too soon he’ll signal that it’s time for me to declare my misdeeds, so instead of counting, I go over them in my head. The bubble of embarrassment I felt when I first entered the room solidifies into a rock of shame as I think about how bad I’ve been. Nothing the Punisher does to me could possibly sting as much as regret.
The sharp clack of a gavel hitting wood signals the commencement of my Trial. A snigger races from my belly to my throat and I have to gulp quickly to swallow it back down. How can they call it a Trial when we already know I’m guilty? A better word for it would be Sentencing.
Keeping my hands in my lap and my head lowered, I declare my crimes in a monotone voice.
“I have been brought before you today for the following infractions. Being late to five sessions in two weeks. Watching pornography over a Controller’s shoulder and denying it when caught. Looking the Master in the eye and lying when he asked me if I masturbated to orgasm in the shower during the Week of Abstinence.”
I take a steadying breath, knowing those were just the tip of the iceberg. Even so, my voice is less steady when I announce my worst crime.
“Continuing to…” Oh God, why did I do it?! “Continuing to lick June’s cunt and forcing her to come even after the Master expressly forbade it. Ignoring his command even though he used his cease word. And then…” God, forgive me. “And then laughing when he yelled at me.”
Silence. Complete and utter silence. Usually, there’s a rustling of fabric or the dull thwomp of the gavel being tapped against a dry palm. But this time? Nothing.
The Punisher starts to move. To my left. To my right. Something rattles. He tugs at the back of my neck and my collar spins half a turn to the right. There’s a click of metal against metal and when the collar spins back again I feel a leather leash brush against my shoulder.
Five…four…three…two…one…
My palms slap against the floor and I scramble to keep my balance as I’m dragged forward. Oh, the wooden planks are so hard on my knees! I feel sick. Panicked. My wrist twists on a turn and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from crying out. If I do the Punisher will stop and then I’d have to begin my Trial again tomorrow.
He drags me up. Up onto one of the two long benches by the window. The unpadded one. Abrasive wood presses into my knees, my thighs, my belly, and then finally my tits as I’m forced to lie flat.
Click.
My right arm is yanked to the side and secured to a post.
Click.
There goes my left arm, too.
I’m breathing through my teeth, my eyelids flutter wildly behind my blindfold, trying to batter away the saltiness of the sweat that trickles through my lashes. I wonder if I’m really feeling my heartbeat travelling through the wood I’m lying on or if my whole body is pounding with it.
Even in my state of panic I hear the racks on the wall rattle. The scrape lets me know that a long object has been selected and that the Punisher draws it from its slot with deliberate slowness. Savouring his choice because he knows the joy it will bring him.
I think my heart has stopped. My breathing definitely has, I can feel my empty lungs starting to shrivel.
I think I know what he chose. That swish of wood slicing through the air couldn’t be anything else.
He’s beside me again. One finger presses against the side of my left butt cheek. Slowly, he draws a straight line to the other side. Don’t tense, I tell myself. Keep your muscles loose, breathe deeply, you know what –
Thwack!
My legs jerk when the first stroke of the cane makes contact. Heat bursts from the exact line the Punisher indicated. The finger is back, an inch below where it started before. Another line is drawn.
Thwack!
This time I whimper. I push my groin down, trying to find something to grind against, then raise my ass up, ready and eager for the next strike.
Thwack!
No line this time, just impact.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Do I look like I’m trying to fuck the bench? I probably do. Do I look like I’m trying to snap the ropes that immobilise my arms? More than likely. The Punisher can probably see my muscles straining, the tendons in my arms taut beneath my skin. He can see me sweating and writhing. I pray to God he stays behind me because if he sees my smile…
Thwack!
I try to hold onto the squeal, but it escapes me. My thighs scissor, trying in vain to dull the pain that’s spreading like wildfire across their backs. The Punisher hits me again and again, softer just above the backs of my knees, harder again on my calves. If he keeps moving down he’ll…
No, no, no, please no! Oh God, he can’t, they know! They all know that I can’t stand it, that I don’t want it, that I hate it…that I won’t ever refuse it. What I did was bad, so bad, but I don’t deserve this, nobody does.
Fear seizes my heart. The pain in my chest is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. So strong is the desire to escape my fate I end up with one foot on the floor as I try fruitlessly to throw myself off the bench.
I’m hauled onto it again and my ankles are swiftly bound. Not just together, but to the bench. A hand rummages between my thighs and I half sob half moan when two fingers test my wetness. Was that a satisfied hiss? The fingers wriggle inside of me and I shift my hips so that I can fuck them. There’s pressure against my aching thigh stripes, one spank, two, three, four. This could make me come. Oh my fucking God I want to come. Was that a desire fuelled growl?
I keep grinding but the fingers are gone. They’re trailing own my calves. I freeze. They’re touching my toe. Just the little one, and so lightly, but it still makes me so nauseous I could faint. Then the touch gets harder. Then harder still, getting firmer and tighter until those fingers are squeezing and I’m crying.
When there’s a pause I know what the Punisher is listening for. I should say it. I want to say it. To scream it so that he unties me quickly and sends the Soother in to hold me and tell me everything is going to be okay. I’m allowed to say it, he expects me to say it.
I say nothing.
Then I scream.
A single stroke and the soles of my feet already feel torn. The Punisher taps my heel and I know what the cruel bastard wants. He hits me again and I cry out, “One!”
Toe squeezing, nail flicking, fingertips tickling my soles until I’m hysterical. “Two!” I sob as he bounces the cane again. “Three, four, fuck, fuh, fucking FIVE!”
Do I care that I used profanity in the Room of Correction? I probably should, but I don’t. In fact, I’m using more of it, even though I should be fighting to stay silent.
The cane hits my thigh, my feet, my arm, my calf. It lashes across my soles twice more before I feel it slip between my soaked thighs until the tip glides back and forth over my clit. The Punisher nips and spanks all the welts he’s made. Despair threatens to swamp me when he takes the cane away so he can whack my feet again.
Light taps get harder and harder. My hips circle faster and faster. One final – evil – smack and I’m freefalling, the orgasm throbbing not just from my chest to my cunt but along every single hot wound the Punisher has gifted me with. Am I burning to death or coming to life?
In the silence that follows I hear dripping. It’s my fluids. They’re rolling off the bench and landing on the floor. Warm lips press against my forehead. Then my cheek, then finally, my mouth. They’re marshmallow soft except for a chapped patch in the right corner of the bottom lip. My gasp doesn’t know whether it’s stunned or ecstatic.
I know who this is.
My blindfold is removed and, after I adjust to the bright light, I find myself staring into the most beautiful hazel eyes that God ever made. Those eyes belong to the most important person in the world. The person I love above all others.
Master drags his hand through his inky black hair and shakes his head in what almost looks like amusement. “Are you ever going to learn to behave yourself?” he asks.
A direct question in the Room of Correction! How shocking. I want to say yes. To nod and promise that I’ll be a good girl from now on. But we both know that isn’t going to happen.
With a shake of my head, I whisper, “Probably not, Sir.”
“Honesty is a good start,” he laughs.
He considers me for a moment and my heart implodes when his smile makes his nose wrinkle. “Well, the worst in you always seems to bring out the best in me, so you just keep right on pushing me, Little Miss Chaos. I’ll find your good girl switch eventually.”
