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Then

In her socks, Sarah paced the wooden floor around the edge of the lounge room in the basement apartment. Socks or bare feet were true freedom. Only she could see her old sneakers tucked in the far corner. Squashed, with well-worn heels, they were the blackest kind of white, but they'd kept her safe.

Her new navy sneakers packed bounce under her feet. She only wore them to go upstairs. Learning to remove them had taken a while because for two years, she'd only taken her sneakers off for a rare shower and then kept them close.

Her new freedoms would make no sense to a less streetwise girl. But she still took nothing for granted. She believed this life might last. George did everything he said he would. Stopping her pacing for a moment, she realized he'd never set foot in the basement apartment, only ever knocking and sitting back on the steps. She appreciated his respect for her space. Only once or twice, had she dared to think of it as her space.

She'd slept well and woken with a clear head. Either go upstairs at 11am, take her strapping and suffer with dignity, or don't. She'd oscillated ever since she'd blown up over the chess game yesterday. It all came down to facts. Whatever they both felt, she'd behaved like a brat. That was a fact. She took firm steps along the side of the room towards the front. She didn't want her bottom to hurt, but it deserved to. Circling past the door, she stepped down the other side. She didn't want him to make her lower her jeans, but he would, if she went.

Pausing outside the kitchen, she separated desires and facts. On the streets, facts ruled. She was hungry, or she wasn't. Find food or starve. Queue for somewhere to sleep or find boxes to keep her warm. Her brattishness was a fact. Her wish to keep her jeans up was desire. On the street, there were no desires. Facts ruled.

Her desire to keep her jeans up failed in the face of fact. She'd behaved without respect and deserved punishment for it. Her loss of privacy was part of her punishment and not optional. She glanced at her iPhone. It was 10:50am. She put on her navy sneakers. It wasn't the air cushion in the sole which provided the bounce in her step, but the certainty in her mind.

Using her key, she let herself in, opened the second door on the right and entered the study. She stood in front of the desk where he'd pointed out yesterday and stared at the closed cupboard, picturing its contents. She must show him she respected his decision to punish her.

"I'm glad to see you here," he said, entering the study and closing the door.

She looked up, finding his firm face a comfort.

"Do we understand each other?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I'm sorry."

"You're a good girl. My life has grown more fascinating with you around. Relax and let me take charge of you for a few minutes. I can't imagine the courage it must have required to take total command of yourself. By comparison, this is nothing. It's just punishment. A few minutes of acute pain to correct your unacceptable behavior."

She met his gaze. "Thank you. I deserve it."

He opened the cupboard and extracted the strap he'd shown her yesterday. In his grip, the supple brown leather looked thicker than it had.

"You lost yesterday's chess game by a closer margin that you realize. I even had to change my strategy at the last minute. Of all the times to lose your cool, that wasn't it. But you did, and your visceral reaction in sweeping your pieces all over the table was immature."

She hung her head in shame. Nobody had ever scolded her or taken charge of her. His commanding attitude relaxed her.

"Your intelligence drew me towards you, and your manners. This is an unusual lapse and we don't want a repeat so I'm going to strap you hard."

His firm voice poured strength into her spine.

"Drop your jeans," he commanded.

The expected command flowed from his reprimand, and she reached for the button on her jeans to comply. Pushing the tight denim down her thighs, her jeans were at her knees before she realized she'd done the very thing which had troubled her all last night.

She stood and held her hands behind her back, exposed in her white panties. The shame of being stripped flooded her with righteousness. She was being disciplined, and she'd obeyed.

"I won't tolerate disrespect while I'm punishing you. If you move out of place or disobey me, the stroke won't count and I'll add an extra one as well. You'll suffer the least if you take it well."

She kept her hands behind her back and nodded.

"Bend over," he ordered.

Turning to face the desk, she stepped up to it, bent right over and gripped the far edge tight, pressing her breasts into the wooden surface. Embarrassed and defenseless, shame shuddered down her body as her thin cotton panties stretched taut. At least they were white. It was a stupid thought. But her respectful panties pleased her, not that she had any other style or color.

"Good girl," he said. "I won't go easy on you. This has to hurt."

She didn't want him to. She'd taken the tough steps he'd demanded, now she needed her full punishment.

"Remember what I said about staying still. I mean this to be painful."

The leather lay across her panties as he measured his position beside her, then disappeared.

Air rushed behind her, and a thunderclap ricocheted off the plastered walls as her bottom burst into flame. She'd wondered in the night what it would feel like. Ruthless sting burned into the middle of her bottom. She panted through the excruciating pain as it permeated her skin, turning cool flesh into a band of flaming heat.

Pain wrapped around her cheeks as the next fiery impact blasted heat lower down her backside, burning double where the strokes overlapped. Over the desk, she held tight, her exposed bottom scorched by his strap and his gaze. Retribution slammed into her sensitive skin. A second stroke right on top made her gasp as pain pounded her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said, turning her head to be sure he heard.

"These last two strokes must still hurt the worst," he warned.

She appreciated his tough tone, and ruthless determination to deliver her punishment. Strength poured down her legs as she pushed out her strapped bottom.

The leather slammed across her panties with full force and she yelled. He'd strapped her without mercy. The vicious stroke had been perfect. The agony in her rear blasted belief into her brain. She could trust him.

"It's okay to yell, as long as you stay still," he said.

She held her position, keeping her legs straight and her burning butt out.

He blasted the heavy strap into her bottom, low where her panties narrowed and her legs began.

The crack reached her ears as fire exploded across her soft skin. She squeezed the desk in desperation as pain surged through her bottom and legs. With minimal protection from her panties, her skin stung like fury. She clamped her mouth closed and twisted her head, trying to accommodate the soaring heat and hurt.

"Stand up," he directed.

She shifted back, leaned her hands on the desk and stood beside it.

"Don't touch your bottom. Face me," he said.

Unembarrassed by her state of undress, she placed her hands behind her back, turned, looked him in the eye and said, "Thank you."

He smiled. "That was my next instruction. You're a good girl. You took your strapping with huge maturity and thanked me without being told. I'm impressed. Pull up your jeans."

Reaching down, she wasn't as desperate to pull them up as she'd imagined. As she buttoned them, the trapped heat in her behind soared and delivered a whole extra punishment.

"It was awful," she said. "But that's kind of the point, isn't it?"

"Yes. Your bottom will hurt today, and remain uncomfortable for a day or so."

"As I should be," she said.

He smiled. "Lunch on the patio?"

The green cushions on the patio chairs looked even better than the salad, cold ham and turkey he'd laid out for them. She eased her strapped bottom down onto her cushion and looked up to see him coming out with a bowl of fries. Perfect proof he'd forgiven her. She realized with a shock, she'd forgiven herself.

Taking the bowl, she dropped two fries onto her tongue and burst into a wide smile.

"It's good to see you smiling," he said, taking his seat. "How bad does it hurt?"

"Enough to matter," she said, picking more fries from the bowl. "I won't be a brat again in a hurry. Despite being so sore, I feel good about myself."

"I can tell. That's the effect you deserve. I'm so glad you turned up. Your obedience is a credit to you."

"Thank you," she smiled. Inside, she was brimming with pleasure at his solid compliment. "I'm sat across from you and only thirty minutes ago you beat me with a heavy leather strap. I should be angry or upset. Instead, I respect you for doing it and feel tons better for it."

"It's good that you understand. I felt you would."

"Next time," she said. "I won't need time to think about it."

He smiled. "Good."

"There will be a next time. Not too soon, I hope. It's cleansing. I feel forgiven."

"You are."

"Yes. But the difference is I believe it."

She looked around his garden. She enjoyed sitting outdoors not exposed to the elements or the judgement of passers by.

"What happens if I don't think I deserve it?" she asked.

"We can't live in a democracy. Trust me to know when it's right and accept I might get it wrong sometimes. I will always aim to be fair, but I won't brook debate. If I send you to the study, you must obey me."

She loved his confidence and appreciated his aura of command. "Okay," she said.

He smiled and finished the remaining turkey.

After lunch, she returned to her apartment, eager to see her sore bottom. Leaving her sneakers by the door, she padded into the bathroom and shoved down her jeans. Angry red skin branded her in a wide band below her panties and onto the tops of her thighs. Antagonized by sitting at lunch, the sore flesh stung like hell.

Reaching up to her waist, she lowered her panties, exposing her strapped bottom to the mirror. Marked by bright red marks, her whole bottom was ablaze with a fiery sting. Where the strokes had overlapped, thin patches were darker. She touched them with awe. This was not some uncommitted punishment. He'd given her a proper strapping. He'd thrashed her. Turning to face the mirror, she flooded with respect for him.

Kicking off her jeans and panties, she ripped off her jumper and blouse, dropped them and flung her bra on the floor. Lying naked on her bed, her trapped bottom burned. The fire forced her finger to her clit, and she teased herself, replaying her obedience.

She deserved to feel this good. She'd taken her strapping. Gorgeous heat pulsed pride against her finger. She hadn't failed him, or herself. She hadn't even hesitated to drop her jeans on his command. He'd made her expose her panties and face him. Humiliation drowned her in pleasure as she marveled at her courage.

His hard scolding pulsed through her finger as she enjoyed her telling-off, maximizing her disgrace with harder and harder words. Bending before him, her bottom presented in crisp white panties, deluged her sex. She thrust her hips hard against her hand and spilled orgasms all over the bed in a lush layer of pleasure.

Replaying each harsh stroke, she eased her spare hand under her and aggravated the sting in her fiery bottom. Her self-respect soared, and she rubbed her clit with fury. Pleasure in her painful suffering suffused her body with a cascade of glorious bliss. She rode each surge, twisting her hips through every wave as her punished bottom burned into the bed.

Relaxed and sore in her underwear, she went to the kitchen and took her notepad from the drawer below the cutlery. She'd ordered it alongside her food, imagining notes about philosophy, but in most part, they'd been about chess strategy. Never had she imagined she'd make momentous notes. But her sore bottom had decided for her.

She'd chosen to be homeless. It had been the best of all her worst options. She'd made her escape knowing she'd do whatever it took to survive, certain most of those things would be wrong. Food throw out by others was fair game. So was the philosophy book which had transformed her life. And not how the author had imagined. But outside the food store, she'd walked past people packing their cars, swiped their milk and kept walking. She'd taken fruit cake from the convenience store anytime she could. She'd never stolen from another homeless person, she'd never stooped that low.

Plastic bottles left on seats and in bins were hers. The refunds had let her buy bread. The day following a shower, when she hadn't looked dreadful, she'd slipped a black jumper off the shelf in a store and walked out. Stolen. She wrote the word on the top of her pad. There was no hiding from it.

With a heavy heart, she listed every occasion she could remember. It was surprising how many days merged into one. She couldn't remember the incident, but she could remember two whole gallons of milk. It was dark when her painful trip down memory lane expired and four sides of paper were chock full with her crimes.

Unable to beg forgiveness now from those she'd stolen from, she still needed to forgive herself. It was all she could dream about. Thanks to George, she had a good idea how to get it.