Chopsticks

Those beige plastic ones you get free with your Chinese takeaway; squared-off edges and the name of the restaurant – you presume – embossed in bright ideographs along the sides. Thin, light plastic; landing hard and fast on the plumpness of your inner thigh, leaves a stinging red line.

It takes twenty or so strikes before you squeal, and there’s too much glee in the sound to even pretend to be a protest; it’s half-giggle, and you’re grinning through your grimace, or maybe it’s the other way round.

You want it to hurt, but it’s got to hurt right. You’re more keen on impact than friction, although there’s a lot to be said for the reddening rasp of rope – that’s why you struggle. Not to get away, but to dig it in. Okay, also to make it feel like you’re trying to get away, even though there’s no place in the world you’d rather be than right here, because being helpless and having no choice but to take it is exactly where your captivity kink’s happy place is located.

The chopsticks hurt, deliciously, and they leave such pretty marks. Striped, like your name, in livid flushes across your skin.

And then it doesn’t hurt enough any more, you’re greeting each lash with snorts of derision, pfffft, is that all? Hoping that this kind of brattiness will prompt an escalation, more, harder, worse!

The belt please, or the paddle. Something with a bit of heft behind it, that gives a good, meaty slap when it lands. Something to ripple and judder to. Something to make you hiss and whimper.

Somewhere really sensitive, perhaps?