I was a teenage Satanist. In other words, I was a Goth embarrassment, a pale, thin brunette in black. Red was my second favourite colour, particular the shade of soundly smacked bottoms. Cane lines crayoned on white flesh. Red passion flowers. Or perhaps it was the canvas on which they were etched. Artists need a flat easel but those who work on flesh prefer curves. This sort of work should be done as slowly as possible, preferably on chubby buttocks, the sort one must fondle before, during and after a punishment. Just to ascertain whether the skin can take any more reddening, of course. One wouldn’t want to besmirch the noble art of chastisement with sexuality. At least not until the receiver has been allowed to rub their bottom, perhaps while pouting defiantly, and after they have spread themselves in whatever position in which they like to receive oral sex. Or something a little more invasive…
My teenage hobbies were mooching around and deciding how suicidal I was. Usually while reading Sylvia Plath. I would wonder who would miss me after I was gone. How much I could hurt them. How they would rue the day they upset me, the centre of the known universe.
Perhaps I just needed someone to thrash some sense into me, fortunately I met a wise older woman. Her name was also Sylvia, although, unlike Plath, there was nothing remotely masochist about her. She taught me the benefits of a sound scourging on a moonlit night. Black clothes, red wine, white moon, red bums, shared sighs. We were the cruel sisters, taking it in turns to whip each other into a frenzy. I was fond of my teacher. She whipped me well. She showed me how to make money from my passion, helping me to become a pro-Domme. She even taught me new words to describe a beating, sometimes over her knee, with one spank for each letter.
“Vapulation” – an obscure word for flogging – how it hurt memorising that one! “Rubious” was another one of Sylvia’s obscure words, one that would drive any Scrabble opponent into a red mist rage. It took fewer smacks to learn that one, perhaps because ‘the colour of rubies’ was poetic enough to be memorable. Just like the way she sucked and fucked me afterwards, till I gasped and squirmed in her arms.
