I bent forward, my feet shoulder-width apart and my hands on my knees. She stood behind me and ran her long fingers down my bare spine until she could feel the base of the heavy steel plug in my arse under the silk. “The medium size?”“Yes, Christina.”“When did you put it in?”“During the afternoon break.”“You were late.”“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get a cab.”“Ten minutes late.” As she spoke, she was walking around me and to a chest of drawers. Opening the top drawer, she took something out then turned to face me. It was the tawse. “Two strokes for each minute. You know what to do.” Her voice was flat, no emotion, no anger, no warmth.I lay on my back on the bed with my legs spread and my knees bent. She stroked my face and put a finger in my mouth. I sucked it. Christina took a strip of leather from the bedside table and placed it gently between my teeth.The first strike was vicious. God, how that tawse stung. It was a bitch of a thing. And there was no gentle start, no crescendo, just an. I always thought I was ugly. Mum had painted me beautiful. She had painted me touching my boob! I know she’d made that part up – Mum had never, ever, ever seen me doing anything like that! Apart from anything else, my boob hasn’t even really started growing. Maybe she made the rest of it up too.Doubts attacked me like a buzzing cloud of wasps swarming inside my skull.I stood, peering into the mirror. It was still me. Still the same me, but at the same time it was a different me. It was the new me – the post-epiphany me! I peered into the mirror trying to see past my loose clothing to find the me that Mum had seen. Trying to see the me that Mum had painted.Vaguely I became aware of Mum standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. “Not like that! You won’t understand until you see it all.”I was still stunned from the epiphany exploding in my brain. That’s my excuse. Why else would I have allowed my mother to reach around and undo the buttons on my top and slide it off me? Why else.
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