The need for discipline

Her skirt is bunched up around her waist. His hand forages in her knickers.

‘Let’s see what kind of girl you are,’ he says, pushing a finger into her cunt.

‘Oh dear,’ he says.

He takes it out and wipes it on her cheek. ‘Dripping wet already,’ he says, ‘and we’ve hardly started.’

She can’t look at him; her eyes are rooted on the floor.

‘There’s a word for girls like you,’ he says. ‘And I think you know what it is.’

‘Maybe,’ she says.

‘Being a slut isn’t a punishable offence. In fact I rather admire it; I’ve even been known to indulge it. But sluts do need guidance and control. They need discipline. Do you understand?’

‘I suppose so,’ she says slowly.

‘And I think you know what I mean by discipline.’

‘I’ve got some idea, yes.’

There’s a slightly sulky look on her face. Something about her stance expresses, if not resistance, then a reluctance to give in too easily.

‘Bend over the chair,’ he says.

She hesitates. ‘Don’t you think,’ she says, ‘that my wetness is not entirely of my own making? That it might not be all my fault?’

Without a word he grabs her by the hair and twists, forcing her down over the chair. She squeals. While he holds her in place, he takes off his belt with his other hand. She knows that sound, the slithering of the leather, the clink of the buckle. There’s a knot in her stomach. It seems that he means business.