"Bastards," she said and swung the ruler. Oliver
groaned for her. He had learned to wait out the initial blows. When she
hit faster, she didn't hit as hard. It seemed that groaning sped her up.
"Don't bullshit me, Goddamn it!" What? She cracked him hard twice,
paused for breath, and then hit him twice more. "Bastards," she said
again. She took her time, winding up for each swing, not speeding up.
Oliver began to groan for real. He squeezed the ball, but he was losing
control. He thought of getting up and running away, but he was
handcuffed and naked.
"Cry, why don't you?" She cracked him again. She was deliberate. "Cry!"
Boys don't. "Cry!" Crack. "Who am I?" Crack.
"Mistress," he managed.
"Damn you." She hit him again. A hot tear squeezed from the corner of
his left eye.
"Cry!" Crack.
"Please," he said. Crack. "Please." Tears began to fall.
"Yes," she said. "More." Crack. He fell forward sobbing, helpless,
howling each time she struck him. He cried so convulsively, so hard,
that he didn't register the moment when she stopped and began to rub
his shoulders, comforting him. He hadn't cried like that since he was a
baby.
"Get up on the bed and turn over.
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