I've been thinking a lot about what make a scene work well and my most memorable scenes recently, working out what makes me tick. So I thought I'd share a few of them...
It was a cold February evening and I was in the middle of a ridiculously busy week at work. I remember nervously watching the clock as I attempted to race through my deliverables, hoping desperately that my manager wouldn't present yet another issue that would stop me from leaving on time. I rushed out of the door into the rain at 7pm on the dot and fixed my make-up on the tube, thanking my lucky stars that for once at least TFL appeared to be on my side.
It was raining really hard by the time I got off the tube, soaking through my shoes and leaving me damp and dishevelled by the time I knocked on his door. The disapproving look on his face told me that my mascara was smudged. He gave me a cup of tea and I sat curled up on his sofa, feet tucked beneath me as we made small talk about work, the weather, me being a bit late.
Then he sent me to get changed.
Venturing back into the living room it seemed darker and more ominous. I suddenly felt very small standing before his 6'4" frame. He jerked my head back with my ponytail and I gasped.
"Where have you been Rebecca?"
"I don't think so, not dressed like that." He said, referring to the low cut top, tiny skirt, stockings and suspenders I was wearing.
"I've been rehearsing for a show." I said meekly.
"At midnight, in the rain? Are you trying to insult my intelligence?" He hissed, pulling my head further back.
"To be honest Williams I don't care what your sordid little secret is because I'm going to punish you anyway for being such a shocking tart." He whispers.
"Fuck off!" I retort before shrieking as he virtually picks me up and throws me over his knee.
"That was very, very stupid..." He said quietly, clamping his leg over my thighs and twisting my wrists behind my back.
There was no warm-up as the heavy strap landed hard on my bottom and no respite, despite my whimpers. I remember counting, thinking maybe he'd stop after six, after twelve, after twenty. He stopped after forty, just when I could feel the tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I lay there recovering my breath as he traced the outline of the welts on my bottom. Somehow the pain made me feel a bit calmer, a bit less argumentative. This was, after all what we both wanted, just on his terms not mine.
"Go next door, kneel on the bed and wait." He ordered and I nodded, staring at the floor.
"Hands behind your head, knees apart, no moving." He added.
I slipped off the skyscraper heels. I'd got them secondhand the week before, knowing he had a thing for fuck-me shoes I'd been unable to resist the black patent courts with their six inch heels for a bargainous £10. Then I climbed onto the big white bed, spread my knees apart and linked my hands behind my head and waited. Until my ear started really itching and I moved to scratch it - just as he walked through the door.
"Why are you so unable to obey simple instructions Rebecca? Are you stupid?" He questioned, quashing my protests about having an itchy ear before I could even really make them. Roughly he ripped my top and skirt from my body leaving me kneeling in just my knickers. He slipped a hand between my legs and sniggered.
"Slut." He breathed into my ear before taking my arms and tying them in a prayer position behind my back. Then he slipped a blindfold over my eyes and proceeded to tie my ankles to my thighs before suddenly pushing me forwards so I took my weight on my arms and was kneeling with my body slightly forwards.
"We're going to practice doing as you're told," he whispered "and you can trust that if you fail I'll make you very sorry indeed."
I shivered. He told me I was to stay silent, that it was a little test. I sighed as he started to stroke my nipples and then pinch them hard until I bit my lip. Then he was gone and I heard a swish and inhaled sharply as the crop landed on my nipple. Before I'd even processed the pain it landed again on the other nipple. I moaned and he laughed, swishing the crop menacingly before lashing down again. I stayed quiet but whimpered as the next one landed, seemingly even more agonising and gasped as two more rained down in quick succession.
He stopped, cruelly twisting my sore nipples, whispering in my ear that I'd been too noisy, asking me if I could add up four fives.
"Twenty." I sighed, moaning again, this time in pleasure as he placed his hand between my legs to tease me and then in disappointment as he stopped. Then he started tapping the crop against my inner thighs and I whimpered, knowing it was going to hurt and feeling a bit scared.
"Fast or slow?" He questioned.
"Fast." I stuttered. At least it would be over quicker that way. He struck hard and I was quiet at first but at some point broke and yelped, writhing against my bonds and then gasping in pain. When he finished I hung limply against the rope, somewhere between sobbing and hyperventilating. He stroked my hair, removed my blindfold, looked into my eyes and smiled.
I relaxed into the rope as he kneaded my shoulders and gently soothed the pain away from my thighs. He undid ties suspending my weight from my arms and I settled onto my stomach on the bed, not fighting him as he re-arranged the rope work, somehow bundling me up but leaving my bottom exposed. He stroked my back again, told me that we were almost finished as I sunk into the moment and started to drift away.
Then I felt a cane tapping against my bottom and sighed. My favourite and least favourite all at once. He'd caned me before, I knew it would hurt a lot but trusted him to know how far to push me. The cane slashed down against my bottom and I exhaled, relaxing into the rope. I love the concentrated pain the cane brings but it's hard, none of the 'couple of strokes, little break routine' just slow and methodological strokes striping me from top to bottom as I twitched my toes, whimpered, gasped and just started to question whether I could bear it anymore. Then he stopped, untied me and held me before standing me up to examine the marks in the mirror. A mussed, smudged girl with a red bottom and contented smile gazed back at me, wincing slightly as he ran his hands over her body.
Ten minutes later I was curled up on his sofa again, the bottom of my trousers still slightly soggy from the rain but somehow more mellow, happier, relaxed.