She looked back at me, her crimson bottom almost glowing in the subdued lighting. Tears were still rolling silently down her cheeks, even now that the sobbing had stopped. She had her hands against the wall, her tender, round, and bruised bottom on display. The cane strokes had left clear marks on it, straights line on the curves of her buttocks, whiter at their center where the rattan had struck. I could almost still hear the dry, cruel crack of it against her pale skin, a fraction of a second before her cries of pain.
She had not protested when she had been told to bend over the back of the sofa, her hands flat on the cushions, her pale orbs high up in the air. She had shivered and moaned as I had caressed her with the cane —a prelude to the pain to come— but she hadn’t said a word.
The cane had risen and fallen again and again, coming down hard, criss-crossing her behind in fiery lines of pain. She was in tears by the second stroke, bawling by the sixth, stomping her feet in between each hard stroke in the vain hope that it would make the burn go away. She had clenched her cheeks, shut her eyes, gritted her teeth, and withered the storm like the good girl she knew I wanted her to be.