Long Time Coming

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Jen tried to begin. Of course, he knew that. That’s why she was here - or why she was here today. A glass of wine and intellectual conversation, that was the purpose of most of her visits. He understood things so profoundly - and yet seemed to gain insight from her. It made her happy. But he also served another purpose.

She sat rigidly with her hands in her lap, fingers interlocked, looking out the French doors into the backyard. A beautiful, sunny spring day here, trees in leaf, the glistening blue pool still cold but waiting. In season there would be oranges, and lemons, and olives. In here it was cool and shaded. Both were places of quiet, places where she could feel peace. She wanted to feel peace.

Maybe it had been a mistake. She felt a little foolish, it was so obvious. She intended it to be symbolic - and he did not express any disapproval, or amusement. She had worn a coarse linen dress, lovely though out-of-date, simple, straight, unadorned. Accessorized, it had once been suitable for an office setting, but today it was a costume, rescued from the far reaches of the closet. She accompanied it with her simplest sandals, barest make-up. She wore nothing underneath. The rough fabric scraped her breasts, and she felt foolish without a bra. Yet looking at him, she knew, with certainty, that he understood.

It was Good Friday.

Tears came to her eyes, she almost didn’t know why. Guilt? The years of guilt? Fear? Relief to soon have it all be over, after waiting so long?

“I’m not here to judge you, Jen,” he assured her. Still, the habit of years, the habit of silence held her tongue. His look went right into her eyes. Not piercingly, but in communion. Trying to see, trying to understand every feeling when she chose to speak. And yet, the feelings were so simple. So universal. They were not difficult to understand. Only difficult to admit, difficult to share, difficult to believe that the importance - the importance of something seemingly so unimportant - would be, could be understood by another.

“It was a long time ago,” she began. He nodded slowly. She turned her head and looked once again into the empty back yard, into the bright light beyond the deep shade. He turned his head in the other direction, sparing her from his watch. She believed she could feel him wanting to reach out and touch her. She shifted, turning her whole body away from him.

“It was a long time ago and there’s nothing to be done about it now,” she stated, as if preparing for an argument, even as she knew it was entirely her analysis, her feelings about it that would matter. “A little time went by, and then a lot, and then it was too late. And then it was much too late, impossible, and... ”

“And you didn’t know what to do about it anyway,” he guessed.

“No. I did not.”

She went on with a story, a story so removed from her present life that it might have happened to another person. But it had not. She was the person who had done this thing and she still was that person. And there was nothing to be done, certainly not now.

As she spoke, she became more and more embarrassed. Embarrassed that her story was so trite, so commonplace. Her voice grew strident in her attempt to give it significance, in trying to communicate how it could be so vital to her, if no one else. Tears of embarrassment and frustration came to her eyes.

“Jen.” She had been repeating herself more and more, getting more and more desperate and upset. He was looking at her. She turned her head away.

“Jen, I understand,” he said. Claimed. He rose. Turned his chair. Said “Jen, come here now.”

Oh God, she thought, oh God. She stood, chin up, brave. She couldn’t. She bowed her head to her chest. Stepping out of her sandals, she approached him, stood before him in her designer sackcloth, feeling foolish.

“Lift your dress,” he asked, with a small movement. It was unfashionably long, particularly unbelted. She lifted the hem an inch, knelt carefully on the bare tile, rested her forearms on his thighs. The implication of this position did not embarrass her. She tilted her face upward as he held her under her jaw on each side. She felt herself retreating into herself again, regretting it without stopping it.

“Jen, what you did is almost unforgivable. In all the years since you’ve never done anything like it. Never came close. Never came close because you never gave yourself the chance to ever come close.” Her face burned in his hands. “Is this true? Or are there many things you haven’t told me?”

“True,” she breathed, letting the tears run.

“But.” There must be a but. If there wasn’t a but, why did she still feel this way? “But you are afraid,” he went on, “that you could do something like this again. That you are not as strong as you want to be. That in your weakness, you might hurt someone again as you did that time. Is this right?”

She shook. Exhaled deeply through her mouth to keep her nose from running. Afraid to open her eyes. His right hand left her to withdraw a handkerchief from his back pocket.
“What was the worst part of what you did?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t know. She didn’t want to - wasn’t willing to - think aloud.

“Jen. What is it, above all things, that you must never do again?”

Tell me, Jen thought. You know, damn you - tell me!

“Is it that you let it go? That you never said anything about it? That you could never say how sorry you were?”

His hands released her. She sat back on her heels. His voice took on another tone. “That’s what I think, Jen. Maybe you’ll be weak sometime, maybe you’ll hurt someone again - not because you want to, just because it happens. If you do, I hope you have the chance to say you’re sorry.

“People forgive, Jen. It has been a long time, and wise people, people who will be happy, learn to forgive. I know you and I know you’ve forgiven everyone - don’t even realize the need to forgive, you accept them so completely. Bad things have happened to you since that time - you would have a hard time remembering what those bad things even were. It’s good that you do that, and you have to see that other people do that, too. The world is really a very forgiving place. When you stop doing something, there are many, many people anxious to accept you. We all hurt someone sometime, Jen, even if we try hard not to - and we all must learn to accept that.”

He stood, stepped away from her. “As for you. You need to go on, trying to be good. You need to try to say you’re sorry when you have to. And you need to forgive yourself when you are the last person left who hasn’t forgiven you.

“That’s what I think. It may not be right, but it’s nice to think about, and I think it’s worth a try.”

Jen hung her head, almost sick with humiliation. She felt very, very alone. “I need to be whipped,” she whispered. It came out as a cry, a snarl, and a complaint - accusing him of not understanding. She was crushed, and she was furious. If not him, who? Would no one ever understand?

He spoke with regret. “Stripped and whipped.” The words were passionless in his mouth. Her stomach twisted, her shoulders caved in. Wasn’t this what she came here for today? Wasn’t this what she expected? The dark tile, the rough furniture, the leather - isn't that what put the thought in her head and the word on her tongue?

“We understand each other very well, don’t we, Jen?” The question was not rhetorical - his intonation demanded a reply. She looked at him, her own understanding growing. Who whips you, she thought. For what? How hard? He seemed so strong, it seemed an impossible task.

She cocked her head and studied him. He was nervous, hesitant - this was a surprise. He had spanked her before, had never shown any compunction about leaving her wailing and sore. He wouldn’t harm her, she knew - and still, she was afraid. Afraid - afraid that he understood? Afraid that he didn’t? Afraid that he was her only chance?

“Yes,” she said carefully, “Yes. We do. Don’t we? Understand each other very well.” She put out her hand to him, he crossed and helped her to her feet. He was looking resolute again. She had never before been able to imagine him as anything else.

“Thank you,” she said, rising. She called him by name. She was understanding him better than she ever had before. So odd to realize that they were so much alike, that they wrestled the same demons.

Looking into his face, she saw none of the disapproval she had seen in certain earlier visits - she began to study it, to try to read its silence, when suddenly she realized that he was waiting for her. Not with impatience, but waiting nonetheless.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, more embarrassed at having forgotten than fearful of what was to come. That feeling returned quickly enough. She turned around, offering him her back. With careful hands he lowered her zipper, slid the dress off her shoulders, let it fall. She stepped out of it with a feeling of stepping out of a shower, a lake - clean, pure, newly baptized. She was completely nude. Completely, she thought, body and soul. Taking another step away she turned to face him. Under his gaze she felt nothing but admiration.
She shook her head minutely to restore her thoughts. This is not a day for desire, she thought. Waiting will be part of my punishment. Release will be my reward. Release from regret.

Her mind turned to practical matters and she glanced around her, seeing everything once again as she saw them when she arrived. What would it be? Stretched out on the couch, hands gripping the seat-frame at one end, feet through the armrest on the other? Cushions below, target high? Even in her own mind she had trouble putting a word to were she would be punished - she felt ridiculous in her reticence, standing there nude in the fresh spring air.

Kneeling on the seat of the heavy chair, bent over the back? Two chairs back to back, holding the other seat, or trying to? Where had she heard of that? What would he use in that position, what did he have, how serious would this get? She had said “whipped,” it seemed in character with the setting, though all she’d ever from him had was a hairbrush. All - that had been plenty! but he’d never indicated that he had any kind of collection or arsenal.

Laid out on the hard tiles, or kneeling? The kneeling had hurt, though she hadn’t noticed at the time. But laid flat would be just as bad, if she thrashed about she’d be hurt on the hips and knees and elsewhere - and were they smooth enough, or would they scrape her breasts and face?

He walked away from her, as she waited before following. The sound of the doors closing, the sound of the lock snapping into place, were matched by sounds within her chest. The silence reverberated within the closed room. He moved to the edge of the rug and took up a stance there. Come, he said.

She approached with bowed head and short steps - she couldn’t seem to separate her knees. The heavy coffee table was pulled to the side - she couldn’t take her eyes off it, her mind raced with speculation. He closed the magazine rack and it became a chest - a chest that he pulled to the center of the rug. She wriggled her toes and was thankful for the soft luxury beneath her feet.

“Can you hang on to that table leg?” he asked, and she really didn’t know, but she was getting the idea now, at least.

“I’ll try,” she promised, kneeling in front of the chest. She had to stretch for the table - it was out of reach, but he moved it closer, so that she didn’t have to tip the chest under her hips. The rug was thick under her elbows, toes, forehead and breasts.

“May I have a pillow?” she asked meekly. “Um, it’s just - I don’t want to scream.” The word made her tummy twist again, her heart to pound, her thighs and shoulders to cringe. He left her like this. Alone, she was scared. She wondered how far apart her knees should be. She wondered if she could hang on to the table leg. Her skin was cool - cold, actually, and she shivered.

Returning, he knelt beside her. The pillow, from the bedroom, seemed extremely incongruous, with its fluffiness and pastel cotton pillowcase. He adjusted it across her elbows, under her chin. It smelled like him - I like this pillow, Jen thought. Then when he rose, she saw the long broad belt rise next to him, trailing from his hand.

Her first feeling was one of relief - relief from the fear of not knowing, relief that this would all actually happen, and be over, and never have to happen again, relief that she might lose the regret and guilt that she hated. Then fear - call it performance anxiety - that she would be able to take this punishment, that she wouldn’t embarrass herself, that he wouldn’t have to stop on her behalf. She so much wanted to accept what he thought she needed... she was so afraid that she would not be able to. Then the second fear hit her, and she began to shake, violently.

“Jen, you need to be whipped. You have needed to be whipped for a long time, and now you need to be whipped for a long time.” The belt was somewhere far up behind her. Waiting. Over his shoulder, she wondered?

“You are going to be sorry for what you have done.” Yes, so true - she was always amazed at how punishment actually made her feel more remorse...

“I want you to be thankful that you are forgiven,” he told her, speaking slowly.

“I want you to be generous to others in your joy that you are forgiven.” The words had the stiffness and repetition of a prayer.

“I want you to be glad that you have learned to forgive others easily.” He paused, and Jen wondered if she should reply.

“I want you to be sympathetic to those who have not learned this yet.” Am I not all these thing, she asked herself? Am I that bad?

“I want these things for your own sake, Jen.”

Jen braced herself and began to cry in earnest, bewildered at trying to hold all of these things in her mind, at once, in her current mental state. She held her breath against the blow that didn’t come.

“I want you to be thankful that we have each other, and be as grateful for me as I am for you, Jen.”

That I can remember, she thought, except that her mind exploded into a kaleidoscope of shattered images that were most likely the nerve endings in her poor bottom. It took a moment for the first stroke to fully register, she was so shocked, and by that time a second stroke had joined it. Her mind was emptied - there was no room for other thought. Pain tried to escape through her wide-open mouth as her voice overshot the pillow. Even through these explosions of sensation she could feel the ache of clenching her stomach so tightly. Her skin was no longer cold. Curling her toes, crossing her ankles and tensing her legs helped minutely, but only briefly - why had he started so hard and so fast? He knows I can’t take this, can’t take it like this, oh God, don’t be mean!

She had never before asked him to stop - had never considered it, she would die of shame and regret as well, she knew she deserved so much more than she ever could get - but now she was screaming it, demanding it and soon just begging, stop, and please, two words she hated... she knew that he knew her well, knew what she needed and it seemed hopeless anyway so soon she stopped saying stop and that left only please which she repeated as a mantra not even knowing what she wanted just knowing she wanted to beg for something and in her head where she thought she knew that if she was really spilt open he would stop and those were tears that wet her face and sweat that poured cold from her underarms, blood would be warm and he would stop... her ears could already tell which ones would burn deep and which ones screwed her eyes shut with the sting... from long, long ago she remembered her safeword, yes, they had one, of course, he’d insisted, she had intended to forget it and not even know it but now it filled her mind saying “don’t say it, don’t say it, please God, don’t let me say it he knows what I need I want I have to get it please God don’t let me say that word any word but that... ” another thought came to her, scared her and yet would not go away so pulling herself forward she offered her legs not because of the pain on her bottom but because she needed that too and she wanted it all at once and be done with - no sooner had she tensed her arms than he must have seen and the belt came down across her thighs, the deep-burning type not once but more then snapped off her cheeks as she jumped and shook, one type and the other in two places now - she crosses her knees, her last hope - oh GOD! don’t snap it off my thigh you don’t KNOW how that hurts and if one then certainly it will have to be the other oh please oh GOD!

She had every right to be proud of herself and yet somehow she wasn’t, she just laid there curled up wanting to be sick and crying harder than a person ought to cry, cringing her legs and hoping the pain would stop hurting so bad at least even though she knew it wouldn’t go away. Reaching under her he tried to raise her but she was dead weight and he had to almost drag her to the couch where he sat down. She was laid across his lap except from the wrong side and he tried to be careful but the couch-frame still scraped her as he tried to pull her up onto it a little more. Her legs were still moving but with no hope of supporting her, maybe never again they felt like. He didn’t leave her alone like he normally did, didn’t leave her to her thoughts - did he know she wasn’t having any thoughts yet? Maybe he did, he always seemed to. No matter how hot her bottom felt she got cold again and tried to find a way to hold him, didn’t want him to see her face but wanted his arms around her and they couldn’t seem to work it out so he slid down onto the rug and laid down beneath her. He stayed like that, not moving, for a long time, she could feel that he wasn’t relaxing or resting, just holding himself there for her but she accepted it, let people do things for you, he would tell her, so she was - see? she was learning.

Thoughts began to return and she didn’t want them to, she tried to chase them away, there would be time enough for that. She raised her head to tell him about remembering her safeword and how much she’d wanted to say it, how she couldn’t think of anything else but then she stopped, unsure. Settling back into his embrace she became aware of her desire and she was afraid of it, broke away and had just asked for permission to dress when she felt silly for that, so she did so as if she hadn’t heard his reply.

Putting on her dress she was a little shaky but she remembered how she had felt stepping out of it - he was standing now, ready to help her, so she asked him to open the doors again. She moved stiffly to the chair where she had left her sandals, so long ago now, she could not sit in it now, that had been another world - even outside the sun had shifted, shadows had become light. She was alone now, she knew without looking, and went out onto the patio, using both hands to hold a post of the patio cover for support, almost as if she‘d be whipped there, but now she didn‘t need to be. She tried to think, to think of what she was supposed to think, and all she could remember was “be thankful.” So she was.

She couldn’t think of how she would be comfortable, maybe home in bed lying on her side, if she could survive the trip. She wouldn’t use his bed, or one of his beds, even, not today, so she prepared to leave. She didn’t know if she should see him or not on the way out, the way she was moving was ridiculous and when her dress scraped her, which was all the time, she hissed and grimaced. But she wasn’t quick enough to cross the house without drawing his attention - he may have known she wanted to but for once his concern overrode his discretion - so he was soon with her again.

His face showed regret at what he had done - he had allowed something that was intended as an intellectual game to get out of hand. At times before she had feared his disapproval, had worried that he would not let her return due to her slowness in improving under his discipline. Now she recognized that he feared for her return himself. Her heart flooded with emotion, she did not know how to reassure him perfectly enough. She put her hand on his shoulder, he put her arm around his waist, and like this they proceeded slowly toward the door. She would worry about how she would survive the drive home, and he would let her.

“Okay?” he finally asked. His anxiety was painful as she turned to him, her ruined face deepening what he saw as an accusation. Throwing an arm around his neck, she pulled him into a long kiss. His embrace was tender, tentative, cautious of her aches. She didn’t want to release him but didn’t want to stay, so it was with regret she chose the former. She was surprised to see that she had not reassured him - a long kiss goodbye?

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her mind blank at the inadequacy of the words. She started to tremble at the thought of the misunderstanding that could spring up between them, already hating herself for even a few hurtful hours of separation, then realizing that her behavior was just making everything worse. She hated misunderstanding, when everything seemed to become a whirlpool of quicksand, powerless to fight against it and every effort sinking them deeper and deeper...

“I’d like to see you for brunch on Sunday,” she said shyly, and he smiled lightly, grateful to be broken free of the events of the day.

“Yes, I’d like that,” he told her.

“Until then... ” and with that she left him.

Sunday will be Easter, and by then I will have recovered, she thought. Forever.