Cane

*Heightened Reality are entries that are fantasy versions of actual play. There is always some truth in the mix…

Sir has texted me.

He is on his way home.

I am up to my elbows in dishes, wet crumbs, and soapy water. I finish washing the dishes–the rule is that there are no dishes in the sink when he walks in the door. I strip off the rubber dish gloves, and grab my phone.

I want you stripped and ready, upon my arrival.

The text was sent a while ago. He should be home very soon. I strip, folding my clothes and putting them on a chair. Sir prefers that I be neat during maintenance.

I stand, waiting. The refrigerator hums. The floor beneath my feet is cool. Sir laid that floor a few years ago. It is beautiful. I feel a small bead of wetness slowly work its way down my thigh. Sir has been away for a few days, and I miss him.

The key turning in the front door lock announces his arrival.

“Welcome home, Sir!” I say. He smiles and removes his coat. He hangs it with deliberate gravity in the closet. Then he comes to me. I look forward. That is my job right now. Looking forward and not moving. I hear the jangle of the rings on the more robust and heavy collar. Sir puts it on my neck, the metal rings cold against my skin.

I hear the swish just before Sir lightly taps the carbon fibre cane against my skin. “Waking it up!” he always says. The slight warming and the regular tapping of the cane feel comforting, yet nerve-wracking because I know that what comes next hurts.

The next few minutes are a flurry of increasingly harder blows. I breathe and try not to dance, but it is difficult.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s