Game

Since Lloyd took over the hotel management, he’s been availing himself of that free gym membership like a man with an addiction to kettlebells. His backside is a piece of sculpture, firm and tight and round and biteable as an apple.

It seems a shame to harm it. But harm it I must.

I smack one rubber-gloved hand down on his right cheek, such a lovely sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lose control of a breath.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he says flirtatiously, wiggling his hips. ‘Do you want me to bend over too?’

‘No. I want you to crawl over to where those cuffs are hanging. Get on your hands and knees. Now.’

I send my obedient serf on his way with a polished toe to his rear, stalking him and swishing the crop, making it land in light little pats on his skin.

‘On your feet.’ I encourage him with a slightly harder stroke.

‘Are you really going to beat me with that thing?’ he asks, appealing to my mercy. ‘I mean, really hard?’

‘Of course I am. You were unforgivably insolent just now. I have to punish you for it.’

‘Oh God.’ He is rueful but compliant, holding up his wrists for me to cuff.

‘Regretting this? I’m not failing it, if that’s what you were hoping. Not a chance. I mean to pass this test with flying colours.’

I click the cuffs shut, then pull on the length of chain that acts as a pulley, lifting his arms so that they are way over his head. It’s hard work, because I’m lighter than him and have to rely on his co-operation, but he helps me tighten it until he’s on tiptoes. He did this to me once and my arms were sore for two days. Revenge is sweet.

Except it isn’t. Sweet is the wrong word. Grimly satisfying on only one of many levels. Aside from that, I feel sorry for him. He looks so helpless I want to rescue him.

‘You can just concede this and we can go home,’ I whisper to him.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m going to make you hurt me.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Well, you can always concede this and we can go home.’

‘I’m not letting you win!’

‘Right. Best get to it then, ma’am. And make me scream.’

I pick up the flogger, a gentler instrument, and study its plaited strands. He is evil. He knows there’s a very good chance I won’t be able to hurt him.

I swoosh it against his backside.

‘That tickles,’ he says laconically.

I ply it harder. God, he looks good in bondage. That element of the punishment is pleasing me a great deal. His body, stretched and supplicating, cries out to be touched. But his voice doesn’t cry out at all.

I keep going, doggedly, trying to change the colour of his pale bottom and not getting very far.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he says, ‘but have you started yet?’

‘Argh!’ My frustration puts weight behind my stroke, and the next one hits the spot, rewarding me with a grunt.

Gradually, his skin flushes pink, but it takes a lot of flogging by me and gritted teeth by him to get to that point.

‘I’m going to use the crop now,’ I tell him, worried I might wear out my arm.

‘OK, but you have to do it hard,’ he says.

‘Do you think you could stop topping from the bottom for a few moments?’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s important. This won’t work if you don’t really lay it on. I want you to make me beg you to stop.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to see what you’ll do. I kind of need to see what you’ll do, actually.’

‘You should have a safe word, like I do when it’s the other way round.’

‘No, I don’t want a safe word. I want you to carry on. If you want to win this, you have to carry on.’

‘You’re asking too much of me.’

‘Fine. Then concede it.’

‘No.’

‘Hurt me then. Whip me till I cry.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Lloyd.’

‘Just do it.’

Sheer frustration makes me lay the first stroke much harder than I intended.

‘Ohhhh.’ He howls and pants, pulling at the cuffs.

‘Shit, I’m sorry! Oh, that looks sore.’

A welt rises, long and red and solemn. I touch it with my fingertips. It’s so hot. But he does this to me, so why should I feel guilty? Besides, it looks good. It suits him. I make up my mind to give him twenty. I can take twenty myself. More on a good day, so it shouldn’t be a problem for Lloyd. But then, I like a bit of pain. He doesn’t.

‘It’s OK,’ he puffs. ‘Go on. More.’

He manages to stay silent for the second and third, but his shoulder blades are so tense that I’m the one wincing. His flesh flattens under the whip then bounces back. It’s interesting to watch. I’ve seen video footage of him whipping me before, but it’s different when the handiwork is your own. I find myself taking pride in my work, wanting to keep the strokes even and symmetrical.

At the same time, I want to look at his face. I need an angle that will show me both. I find a stance that allows me to watch his head in profile while still examining the welts that rise on his backside. With each stroke he throws back his neck and I see the curving line, interrupted by his Adam’s apple, ending in a jumble of facial features contorted with pain. He starts to make noises around the fifth stroke, weird grunts and exhalations. I almost give up. Is this what I am like when he does this to me? And, if so, how can he carry on?

But he knows I want him to.

I know no such thing.