Moments with Sir - Punishment Paddling

The light glints off the black case of my phone. I wonder at the absurdity of the mundane things my mind fixates on in these moments… The light on the logo of my cell phone case… The small scrap of paper on the desk. The reflection, warped by the facets, in the empty water glass.

I should be scared. I can feel something, deep in my belly, like a snowstorm cold and blowing, but it is as if I am watching it from indoors. Watching through thick windows and sturdy walls, hearing only the faintest murmur of its roar, feeling nothing of its cold.

I hear Sir move behind me and the windows rattle in the teeth of the storm in my belly, but only for a moment before the cell phone case and the scrap of paper and the water glass once more occupy the space of my thoughts.

I hear the sound and I don’t, of the varnished wood against my skin. I’ve written in stories about hearing the sound a split second before feeling the pain, but in this moment I’m not sure if that’s true. In fact, I don’t spare the energy to contemplate it. Sound and sting and the blizzard in my belly all burst into my awareness. Any subtlety in the order of their entry is lost on me and all I can think is… Freeze. Breathe. Stay in position for the next one.

And I have just long enough to think about the next one. To anticipate it coming and then it is come. The shock of the first is absent by the second, already adjusted to my new reality, but the pain fills the void. Or the shock occupied some of the space pain would fill and just now at the second swat I finally feel it fully.

My breath comes out in a soft sound, a whimper. My body wants to wriggle, to writhe, to move out of the way, but I fight it, tensing against my need to move, forcing the heel of my right foot to the floor, because I realize it has risen with the bend of my knee.

It’s the fourth swat but I’m not counting in the moment. I can’t fight it, I bend both knees, my shins bumping against the edge of the stool. My breath comes out in a whine and back in as a thick hiss through clenched teeth. My fists clench and I pull my forearms up over my head, trying to stay down, stay in position.

Fuck.

The fifth swat but it is all a miasma of sound and pain and desperation, I can’t think in anything so abstract as numbers. My keening comes out of my throat broken into shards, my chest shaking with the breaking of my breath. I’ve fallen onto my forearms, crumpled as far as my shins will allow me to curl against the stool.

The sixth. I shriek. My voice doesn’t sound like my own to my ears. My legs are trembling, all of me is trembling. I can’t remember how many I’ve taken. I cling to the edges of the stool, cling to my position, cling to my obedience. My world has become a pinpoint. A single moment. Pain, fear, control… My nose is running, and I hear myself sniffle. Saliva has escaped the corners of my mouth, and I suck it back. Each breath comes out as a whimpering cry.

And the sound of wood on skin hits my ears but the pain isn’t mine this time. I hear my sub brother gasp and suck in his breath. I drop my forehead to the surface of the stool, sobbing softly. Though tears won’t come, my muscles shudder, making me shake. I hear his second stroke and his cry of pain. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I think it into the wood of the bench, my mouth forms the words around my snot and saliva, too much of both and gravity too strong to fight. It’s my fault. I hear his tears break in the third. He always cries more easily than I do when we are punished. As if my brain is too occupied with survival to spare the resources.

Though my legs still twitch with shocks of pain, aftereffects, my nerves frantic and confused, my mind has kept count of my sub brother’s swats as it couldn’t do for my own. The fourth is a crack in the air. Sub Brother is sobbing, he stammers desperate apologies that only I can hear. I squeeze the legs of my stool, wishing they were his hands, wishing I could give him any comfort. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I whisper to the wood. All of this is my fault.

Time feels like taffy stretching long and thin. I wait for his next swat, more anxious than I was for my own, nothing to occupy my mind but my agony of guilt and the burning, stinging aftermath of my own retribution. My belly clenches at the fifth crack of wood and his shriek. I can hear the panic in his voice now. I will my own calm onto him. “Just one more,” I send across the space between us. “You can do it. Just hang on. I’m so sorry.”

The sixth comes an infinity later. Sub Brother is undone, far worse off than me. Sir comforts him before he returns to me and I close my eyes and I realize through my own pain I want him to hurt me more.

I wish it silently, thrust the thought towards him. Another swat. Two. I started the argument. It was my fault. Please…

Sir’s hand strokes the back of my head, my back, my bottom scorched and flinching at his touch.

“Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me,” I shout at the insides of my skull, but his hand falls on my neck and rubs.

“He’s okay. You’ve had enough. Get up.” As if he has heard my thoughts and denies my request. My chest seizes and suddenly the tears I couldn’t cry for myself break free.

Sir’s hand remains on my neck, I can feel where he presses the clasp of my collar against my skin. “He’s okay,” he says again. “Get up. Get dressed.”

Defeated, I push myself up. It hurts to move, to bend, to stretch, to compress. I reach for my jeans, my breath hitching with the pain, and I pull them up roughly, darkly relishing the rough abrasion of the material against my raw skin even as my jaw tightens and my breath hisses against my teeth.

Sir’s hand is suddenly tight around my upper arm and he puts his lips close to my ear, his voice is hard “Your punishment is over. If you try to hurt yourself again, I will give you the cane. Clear?”

My resolve crumbles at his anger and disapproval, and the threat of the cane feels like ice water in my guts. I nod mutely and he lets me go, stepping back, and Sub Brother is there.

I look up at him, his face is blotchy red, tears still clinging on his eyes lashes. He still sniffs softly with each breath. I can only meet his eyes for a moment before I crumble into myself.

“I’m so sorry!” I slur it out through a flood of tears and mucus and then he is with me, all around me, holding me close to him, his arms around me, my own pinned to my chest.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs to me, “It’s okay, I’m sorry, I love you.”

Shuddering sobs weakening my legs, I wriggle my arms free and snake them around his waist, and our bodies shift and find our fit against each other.

“I’m sorry,” my sobs slow to hitching breaths, his warmth spreading into my chest. “I love you.”