Seventy Times Seven

By Lisabet Sarai

“Please, Sir. I’m so sorry...”

Elena prostrates herself at my feet, pleading for forgiveness—again. I’ve already punished her for her latest infraction, as she expected I would when she showed me the damage. The whip marks that crisscross her back look red and puffy. I’ll have to rub some ointment on them later.

The knowledge that she has disappointed me pains her far more than my lashes, though. I can’t see her face, but I know it’s stained with rueful tears. Poor girl. She’s really hurting. I’ll admit I was angry when I discovered she’d left my favorite flogger outside on the balcony, despite the fact that it’s rainy season. I needed a good half hour to cool down before I could give her the thrashing we both knew she deserved.

Elena’s far from stupid—she has a degree in computer science from USC and makes a good living as a freelance consultant—but sometimes I think she has a congenital common sense deficiency. Plus she’s so eager to please that she forgets everything else but her kinky inspirations. For instance, I vividly recall the day she handcuffed herself to our bed, hoping to surprise me when I got home. She left her phone in the living room, so she didn’t receive my text saying I planned to stop at the club and wouldn’t be back till ten. Even if she had, there wasn’t much she could have done, since I keep the keys to the cuffs. By the time I finally returned, her wrists were a bloody mess and she’d lost control of her bladder, ruining our best satin sheets. Needless to say, I was furious—partly because I understood how risky her behavior had been.

I forgave her, though. I always do. Though I worry sometimes that in her enthusiasm, she’ll do herself some serious damage.

She tries to be a good sub. She’s imaginative, courageous, pliant and willing, completely heedless of her own desires in trying to cater to mine. If she were disobedient, bratty, or demanding, like some of my friend’s submissives, I’d send her packing, but her intentions are perfect. It’s just her implementations that are flawed.

There was the time I phoned her, for example, telling her I wanted her ready to be butt-fucked—as soon as I arrived. After giving herself an enema and inserting the biggest plug she could find, she arranged herself in the entry hall, her ass pointed toward the door. As it happened, I came up in the elevator chatting with Mrs. Schwartz, the elderly lady in the condo across the corridor from ours. I shut the door as quickly as I could when I realized what was just on the other side, but I’m pretty certain our neighbor got at least a peek at Elena’s delightfully plump bottom, with her rear hole distended by three inches of purple silicon. Since then, Madame Schwartz hasn’t even said hello.

Instead of sodomizing Elena that evening (which I knew she wanted), I paddled her until she screamed, then shut her in the closet for half an hour.

But after her punishment, I kissed her, forgave her, and fucked her until she came twice. Because how can I stay mad at someone so sweet and so devoted? Not to mention so lush, ripe and always ready for me?

“Get up, girl,” I order, trying to sound stern. “Go lie on the bed, on your stomach.”

“Are you going to whip me some more, Sir?”

Is that hope I hear in her voice?

“No, you’ve had enough for now. You need some balm on those welts.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She rises to her knees then dares to look me in the eye. I don’t chide her; she needs to see I’m no longer angry. “I’m really, really sorry, Sir. I swear I’ll do better next time.”

“I’m sure you will, Elena.” As sure as I am there will be a next time. “Now get yourself into the bedroom before I change my mind about that beating.”

“Yes, Sir!” Off she scrambles, relieved that I’ve regained my normal imperious manner. As far as Elena’s concerned, the sun is shining once more, when her Master is back to giving her commands.

As for me, I’m willing to put up with the good-natured ribbing my Dom friends give me about Elena. She’s worth the trouble. I’ll try to protect her from the consequences of her own thoughtlessness. Try to rein in my anger when she trips up once again. Punish her. Try to teach her. And forgive her, yet again. Because that’s what it means to love.