Bad Girl

Hurt me, please. I’m a bad girl. I need to be taught a lesson, the hard way. The only way I learn.

Today I am sullen and resentful, prickly and waspish. Don’t fucking coo at me like a pigeon, it’s irritating me. Yes, I swore at you. Spoke disrespectfully. What are you going to do about it, eh?

Will you pull me over your knee and slap my legs until I squeal? You’ll have to work hard for it. I’m in no mood to capitulate.

Perhaps you sense this, forgoing the intimacy of open-handed blows for the stern authority of the tawse? Stiff, stitched leather ringing on impact as I squirm, flinching from the next blow as the last burns deeper into my skin. You might bring me to heel this way. Or maybe not.

Fuck you, make me cry. No, I won’t say please.

I taunt you with eyes and mouth, affecting unconcern, haughty disinterest. I’m trying to provoke you, is it working? Do you itch to wipe the smug, condescension from my face, replace it with pleading supplication? Will you try?

I need you to try.

You know I’m not really fighting you. I’m battling my own contrary, wilful nature. I just need your help, that’s all. Help me.

Humble me.

Hurt me.

Fight me, I want to lose. Command me, I want to be punished for my disobedience. Chastise me, I not only deserve it, I desire it.

It’s for my own good, please, be harsh. Give me no quarter. No mercy.

Once you have used me, when I lie huddled, wrists chafed from the rope, mascara smeared across the pillows, skin aflame with lash-marks, I might find some peace. With my mind wiped clean of regrets and recriminations, I am free to accept your caresses without the guilt of the petulant child who knows she’s behaved badly. I have earned my reward.