The word precedes her, echoing in from the hallway a beat before she appears in the doorway and leans against the frame to observe his quick compliance. He holds himself obediently in that prisoner-stance: arms up, fingers interlaced, hands clasped behind his head. Open to inspection. They have others, of course- prostrate on his knees and cheek pressed to the floorboards is a favorite- but for that she’ll say “Down.” and she doesn’t want him there, yet.
Soon, maybe, gauging by the swish-thwap of something slicing through the air to land sharply on her open palm. It’s a trick as tantalizing as it is cliché- not that either of them mind the latter. She’s found that his body responds with equal gusto to her more inventive techniques as to her stereotypical pornographic imitations. And perhaps it’s cliché for good reason, because for all the cartoonish panache, it does its job well. The sound fills him at once with equal parts dread and longing.
Swish-thwap, over and over again, regular as a metronome. It’s not the familiar soft raindrop patter of his flogger’s fronds, or the heavy wooden plunk of the paddle, but something else. She wants him to look. She wouldn’t be doing it otherwise. When he hazards a glance down to confirm his deduction and then flicks his gaze back up to meet her eyes, they’re searching his face, trying to gauge the knit in his brow that refuses to smooth and the clench in his jaw that won’t relax. They can’t, because he can’t stop imagining the sting.
“I thought we might try something … new.” She offers in the sudden silence that thickens absent those methodical strokes of the cane into her hand. He continues to hold himself still in the position, acquiescence to the question she hasn’t asked aloud, until finally, she decides it’s good enough. She pulls herself off the door frame and closes the distance between them.