Readers,
Here is one of the wonderfully imaginative entries for the ‘Story of US’ Writing Contest. Every single entry tickles me endlessly, and I do hope that you enjoy them as well.
– Dana
*****
Visiting Dana
Calling.
With a diffident and hesitant explanation, I tell you that I need punishment.
Arranging.
A time to suit your busy schedule.
Planning.
A schedule which would get me in the right place, at the right time.
Searching.
The streets in your neighbourhood, which are long and confusingly named.
Standing.
On your porch, feeling guilty, shameful and excited, all at the same time.
Apologising.
For being late.
Worrying.
At the sight of your special room and the instruments on the table.
Stripping.
At your request when you leave the room.
Placing.
Myself in the corner, as instructed.
Waiting.
Eyes down, hands crossed behind my back.
Listening.
To the fast beat of my heart and to the sounds of your studio.
Hearing.
Your soft footfall and the swish in the still air.
Turning.
At your request, and going to centre stage.
Hearing.
The awful sounding sentence for my misdeeds and lateness.
Bending.
Feet apart, legs straight, toes pointed inwards.
Feeling.
The cool thin rattan tap, tap, tapping my bottom.
Stretching.
Back arched, cheeks higher, thighs taut.
Receiving.
The first stroke landing on bare cool skin.
Resolving.
To remain in place for the next harsh stroke and the next and the next.
Counting.
Trying to remember the strokes but without success.
Rising.
Only to be told to resume the position and take the extra strokes.
Cursing.
Not a good idea.
Blessing
The end of the tariff and my punishment.
Dressing.
And looking admiringly in the mirror, at the 40 red lines, so evenly spaced apart.
Leaving.
And thanking you. Strange. What drives me to thank you for a thrashing?
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