LITMIR.BIZ

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chuckle.

      ‘So, how do you want me?’

      ‘I don’t follow. I don’t know the form – you do. You’re going to have to help me out here.’

      ‘The point is, Lulu, you tell me what to do.’

      ‘Yes, but I don’t know how to do it.’

      He sighed.

      ‘Think of me, think of what I was like when I was nine. Be like that.’

      I really wasn’t sure I could do it, then all my memories of that time came rushing in at once and I knew I could. I owed it to that shivering, scared seven-year-old girl to make her bully understand the effect he’d had on her.

      ‘Get on your knees,’ I said, and he dropped at my feet before I’d even finished speaking. I looked down at the crown of his head, at his luxuriant dark hair. He wouldn’t be thinning any time soon. ‘I’m going to hurt you.’

      He said nothing, but bowed his head a little in acquiescence.

      ‘I’m going to do it,’ I continued, letting the strands drape over his shoulder before dragging them up his cheek, ‘but first I want to hear you beg me for mercy. Really beg me, even though it won’t have the slightest effect on what I do to you. I just want to hear it. No, don’t look at me,’ I said hurriedly, for he had raised his eyes to mine. ‘I can’t do this if you look at me. Keep your eyes on the floor.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said, then he cleared his throat. ‘Erm. Please spare me, ma’am,’ he said. But he wasn’t taking it seriously enough, his manner overly theatrical.

      ‘That won’t do,’ I told him. ‘Plead.’

      ‘OK.’ He seemed to steady himself, furrowing his brow in thought. ‘What about … I beg you not to hurt me. I promise I’ll be good now. I’ll behave myself. I’ll do anything you want, anything you say.’

      ‘You’re not feeling it yet,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten, I suppose, how I used to cry and beg you to let me go. Have you?’

      ‘No. Of course I haven’t.’

      His voice was whisper-quiet.

      ‘So?’

      ‘So perhaps that place is too dark for me to go back to,’ he said.

      I gasped.

      ‘Too … are you serious? Too dark for you to go back to? Did you actually say that? Too dark for you?’

      ‘OK,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m sorry. This wasn’t a good idea. There’s too much –’

      ‘Shut up,’ I said, lashing out to grab him by the wrist. ‘Shut up and bend over the bed. Now.’

      He thought he could get away with this, but he was dead wrong. I was going to calm my troubled spirit by thrashing his gorgeous arse until he begged me properly. I deserved this. I owed it to myself – and to him.

      He obeyed straightaway, kneeling at the foot of the bed with his upper torso pressed against the mattress. The cream linen trousers strained a little over a backside slightly more generous than I remembered, but still splendidly peachy and firm.

      ‘I want those trousers down,’ I said.

      He said nothing but his breathing was hectic as he fumbled with the fastening then lowered the trousers over his bottom.

      ‘Boxers too.’

      ‘Lulu,’ he said, and I could tell by the quiver in his voice that he hadn’t realised until now what he had let himself in for.

      ‘Don’t you dare call me that,’ I shouted. I brought the flogger down with a swish on his perfect buttocks and he sucked in a breath. ‘Don’t you ever!’ I lashed again. ‘Call me.’ Again. ‘By that name.’ Again. ‘Again.’ And again.

      A pink glow was spreading across his skin. Men’s bottoms were too hairy for this, I thought, trying to picture mine in the same condition. It gave me a weak, dizzy feeling to imagine our roles reversed; Joss with the whip, me bent over for chastisement.

      ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said, sounding so subdued that my whip hand wavered.

      ‘You don’t flinch,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you flinch?’

      ‘It doesn’t really hurt,’ he said. ‘Not as much as you might think.’

      This was at once both disappointing and satisfying.

      ‘What would I have to do to really hurt you? Use a cane or something?’

      ‘Yeah, the cane would hurt, but I don’t … I can’t really explain it, Lu–, sorry, ma’am, but I don’t really …’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I’m good at cutting myself off from pain,’ he said. ‘I’m good at not letting anything touch me.’

      I wound a leather thong round and round my finger, taking this in.

      ‘That’s weird,’ I said. ‘How the hell do you do it? I wish I could.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’ He was still bent over the bed, talking to the pillows at its head. ‘It’s an overrated skill. But you’d have to pretty much kill me to get a real reaction from me.’

      Why did this make me want to run over and hold him in my arms, why? After everything he had done, he could still wrap me round his little finger.

      ‘Do you have any kind of explanation for that?’ I asked, coming to sit on the side of the bed, so I could see his face. I put the flogger down. This clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But you said you didn’t want to get involved. So it wouldn’t be fair to tell you.’

      ‘You’re a bastard,’ I said, outmanoeuvred again. He had made me do what I had vowed not to. He had made me care about him again.

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Don’t you want to hit me some more?’

      ‘No. There’s no point.’

      ‘But you’re still up for the collaring plan?’

      ‘Yes. About that … oh, for God’s sake, get up, pull your pants up. I feel like bloody Cruella de Vil.’

      ‘I’d never confuse the two of you.’ He hitched up his trousers and the little trace of blush on his cheeks was enchanting.

      ‘Great hair, though,’ I remarked.

      ‘I prefer yours.’

      ‘Shut up.’ That interval of eye contact had gone on far too long and needed a rude interruption of some kind.

      ‘So, anyway,’ he said, throwing himself into an armchair and inviting me to do the same in its opposite number. ‘What did you want to say to me? About the collaring?’

      I took a breath.

      ‘I want to make sure you’re clear about what’s on the table,’ I said.

      He looked over at his dressing table, as if that was what I was talking about. He had a great collection of after-shaves and colognes scattered across it, plus a not-so-impressive collection of miniature spirits bottles.

      ‘Not that table,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

      ‘Maybe the long table in the great hall?’ he suggested. ‘You can get a hell of a lot on that.’

      ‘No, not that one either,’ I said severely. ‘It’s a metaphorical table and it’s really rather small. More of an occasional table – the one at the bottom of the nest that you can fit maybe a cup of coffee and a small side plate on.’

      ‘What’s on the side plate?’

      ‘A scone. I don’t

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