AN ARDUOUS APOLOGY
The world was a complicated place, mistakes occurred. But this, his flight of the dead, had been caused by his vanity. When you were always so much more intelligent than those around you, it made you careless. It made you vain.
It was for those mistakes that he must pay. There could be no repeat.
He sent the text to an anonymous mobile phone. The call came three hours later, direct to his desk.
'Nine. Friday. Twenty four.'
When he replaced the handset of the land phone his hand was unsteady enough for him to be aware of it.
Twenty four.
He hated his cowardice, the fear that grew with the waiting, the humiliation, the pain that would last for weeks.
But more than anything he hated the necessity for this.
Twenty four.
It was going to be a long week.
His hands icy, his face set, he entered the large, poorly lit room. Every step echoed on the cement floor as he crossed the vast space. He set the crook handle of his umbrella over the hook placed in the wall and removed his overcoat, then his jacket and vest, using the hangers provided for the purpose. Cuff-links removed, he unfastened his tie, shrugged out of his suspenders, and unbuttoned and removed his shirt. He immediately felt the chill of the air.
He suspected that he would soon be glad of it.
From the second hook on the wall he removed the rattan cane; over three feet in length, and thick as his finger, it came from Singapore, and was identical to those used in judicial floggings. He told himself it was the cold that made him shiver.
The next step was always difficult and he took a moment to center himself.
His pace slow and steady, he walked over to the only piece of furniture, a sturdy horse with a padded top of scuffed leather. He set the cane on the surface, where he would see it while he prepared himself to make what would be an arduous apology.
He had no friends, old or otherwise.
For a moment his fingers refused to obey him before he unfastened the catch and buttons of his suit trousers and felt his trousers sink to his ankles.
The humiliation was acute. A faint betraying flush on his pale face he pulled down his white boxers to bare himself. The boxers slipped to mid thigh,
then his knees, before landing on top of his trousers. Cold air eddied across his pale cheeks, scarred from an earlier encounter with this cane four years ago.
He removed the cane from the top of the horse and propped it against one of the sturdy wooden legs, together with an envelope containing the sum agreed.
After another steadying breath he slowly offered himself up, leaning forward until he was bent along the length of the horse, leaving his unprotected ass presented at the perfect angle to receive a severe caning. He slipped his hands into the leather grips at sides, taking a firm grasp of them, before pressing the left cheek of his face to the leather.
He waited for what seemed a very long time, the flexing of his legs and ass cheeks betraying his fear.
There was the sound of the door closing, followed by the slow, steady tread of steps. They paused at his side, out of his line of vision. The cane was placed down the line of his spine, the last few inches pushing along the exposed crack of his ass, a simple gesture which made him flush with humiliation. He heard the sound of a timer being set for one minute intervals before it was placed in his line of vision.
He would receive one stroke from the cane every sixty seconds. Time to absorb the pain. Time to heighten his dread of the arrival of the next stroke.
His breathing accelerated, muscles tensing, fearing what lay ahead of him. The next twenty four minutes would test him to his limit, and beyond.
The cane was removed from his back, flexed, then swished through the air.
He flinched in reflex.
Feet grated on the cement as the correct distance and angle were established. The tip of the cane touched his inner thighs and he obediently parted his legs more, increasing the amount of ass flesh to be punished.
Vulnerable and exposed, he waited as final minute adjustments to position were made. The cane touched the center if his ass once, twice. The only gentle touch he would know.
He swallowed hard, feeling sick, although he hadn't eaten all day.
The first whistle of displaced air, followed by the crack of rattan sinking into his unprotected flesh still managed to take him by surprise. He jolted, as if branded, sucking in his breath. But the moment of impact was almost the easiest part. The pain which followed tested him.
Later it would find him wanting.
He tried to control his breathing as the pain intensified, listening to the sounds of the seconds clicking away, trying to brace himself for what was to come.
Fifty eight, fifty nine. Sixty.
The second stroke, even harder, was barely a half inch below the first. This time it was beyond him to remain still. His hands tightened their grip over the leather handles as he listened to the seconds counting down, his breathing ragged in the silence.
He survived the third, fourth, fifth and sixth stroke, each seeming more testing than the one before. His breathing was louder, more irregular, his body moving involuntarily under the savage bite of the cane.
He made a cut-off sound as the seventh stroke sliced into the tender base of his cheeks, where they met the top of his thighs, ass pumping in a crude approximation of sex in an attempt to relieve the agony.
By the eleventh stroke his eyes and nose were watering, mouth open as he tried to suck in air. He was sweating freely by now.
The twelth made him shudder.
The pause as his flogger changed position so that both side of his ass should receive equal attention.
The thirteenth stroke was slightly diagonal, cutting across the welts which already marked him from the top of his crack to the tops of his thighs. It drew blood and a shuddering sound of agony that he tried to stifle against the leather.
Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
By now the involuntary movements of his lower body were harder to control,
stilling only just in time for the next stroke. His abilitiy to endure in silence was a distant memory, muffled animal sounds escaping him as each successive stroke overlaid those that had gone before.
Breathing ragged, his hands cramped because of the strength of his grip as he struggled to accept his penance.
Fifty six seconds, seven... He could feel blood trickling down the side of his flank, where the tip of the cane was doing the most damage.
He just managed to stop himself from begging for mercy. There was none to be found here.
He deserved none.
Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty One. Twenty Two.
The twenty third stroke wrenched a cry of agony from him before he whooped for air, his body flailing.
He would carry scars from this, body and soul.
Consumed by pain, he lost awareness of the passing of time and the last stroke caught him unprepared as it bit into bloody flesh, the sound he made echoing off the walls.
By the time he was in any state to notice, he was alone again.
It took almost ten minutes before he was capable of moving at all, his legs threatening to give way. It took him even longer to dress himself, the brush of clothing over raw flesh making him shudder with pain. His hands were shaking too much to be capable of fastening his cuff-links through the cuffs of his shirt and he tucked them into a pocket.
While a ferocious heat grew in the lower half of his body, he was shivering. Shock, he knew. He would have to work through it.
The pain made it difficult to walk with any degree of normality but eventually he managed a gait that would not attract undue attention. Only then did he allow himself to leave, with only the flecks of blood on the cement around the base of the horse to show what had taken place here.