The name hit me like a slap, sudden and bright. Sarah. I hadn't said it in years. Hadn't dared. The memories were supposed to be buried, packed down beneath the present, invisible. But Zoï was there, holding me steady with her eyes, waiting. Somehow, she knew.

“How?” My voice was thin, too fragile. “How do you know that name?”

Zoï’s hands, cool against my cheeks, reminded me where I was. "I don't know her. But I feel her inside you. Like a ghost. Or a wound that never healed."

I pulled away, turning back to the glass cabinet. The Senior cane sat inside, polished rattan glowing under the light. Thirty-two inches. I pressed my palm to the glass, needing the chill.

“She was younger than me. Sixteen the first time I disciplined her. I was eighteen. Head girl.”

The words almost stuck, but they leaked out anyway, slow and careful.

“Sarah was intelligent. Always top marks. Quiet, stayed to herself. She came from a family where expectations were high and always slightly out of reach.”

I could see her perfectly. Tall for sixteen, always holding herself straight. Dark hair in a perfect plait. Uniform crisp, not a wrinkle. But her eyes, so dark, always searching, always watching.

“She started coming to me in October. Late assignment. History essay, three days overdue.”

My breath left a faint cloud on the glass.

“Protocol was strict. Academic infractions meant discipline from the head girl. Six with the paddle for a first offense. Cane for repeats.”

I closed my eyes. The memory sharpened, real and close.

My office, a small room, just an old storage room by the dorms, but it was mine. Wooden desk. Two chairs. Locked cabinet for the implements. Curtains always drawn, shutting out the courtyard.

“She knocked three times. Precise. I told her to come in.”

Sarah stood in the doorway, chin high, eyes straight ahead. But her hands were clasped behind her back. That was the first sign.

“I explained the infraction. She didn’t argue. Didn’t make excuses. She just accepted it.”

I opened the cabinet and took out the paddle. Heavy oak, twelve inches long, four wide, the school crest branded into the surface.

“I told her to bend over the desk. Hands flat. Legs straight.”

There was a ritual to it. Structure. It wasn’t about being cruel, it was about rules, about putting things right.

Sarah moved without hesitation. Bent at the waist, skirt rising to show the backs of her thighs, her white regulation knickers. I adjusted the pleats, pulled them higher. Exposing what needed to be corrected.

“Six strokes. I told her to count.”

The first landed square across both cheeks, solid and controlled. The crack echoed in the small room.

“One.” Her voice didn’t waver, but I felt the shift, the resonance of surrender. The first real pulse of power hit me. It was heavier than I’d expected. Not sharp, but dense. It landed in my body before it landed in my mind: the clench, tight and involuntary, low in my belly. Not what I expected.

The second stroke caught her lower, perfectly placed at the tender junction of ass and thigh.

“Two.” This time the strain was obvious; her voice thinner, stretched by the pain.

I kept the rhythm steady. Not rushed or careless. Every stroke intentional, as if I were laying down lines of heat one by one. By six, her breath came fast, shallow, each inhale lifting her shoulders.

“Six.”

She straightened, turning to face me with deliberate care, as if every movement was measured. Color streaked her cheeks, a flush not just from exertion, but from something deeper. Her eyes, bright and open, fixed on me.

“Thank you, Headgirl.” She said it formally, correctly, but her voice trembled at the edges.

I dismissed her. Watched the way she walked to the door, posture stiff, every step careful, as though the rawness of her skin dictated her movement.

After she left, I locked the door behind her. Sat at my desk. My hands shook. My nipples pressed sharp and aching against my bra. Wetness, thick and undeniable, pooled between my legs.

I touched myself through my knickers, pressing my palm to my clit. The orgasm came fast, silent, desperate, leaving me breathless.

“That first time, I thought it was just me,” I told Zoï now, the memory vivid. “My reaction. My problem.”

But Sarah came back. Two weeks later, another minor infraction: missed curfew by fifteen minutes. The rules were clear. Four strokes of the cane.

I had her bend over again. This time, I lowered her knickers. Protocol for caning. Bare skin only.

My tone dropped, the recollection so sharp I could almost smell the wood oil, the weight of the cane familiar in my hand.

Her ass, pale and perfect, was exposed. When she positioned herself, legs slightly parted, I noticed it, the unmistakable swollen and parted lips. She was aroused, even before we started.

My own body answered, a mirrored response of recognition.

The cane sliced through the air, the sound crisp. The first mark landed across the center of her ass, leaving a neat, rising stripe. She gasped, her back arching, breath catching.

“One.”

Three more strokes, each deliberate, raising welts across her skin. By the fourth, she trembled, thighs pressed together, chasing relief.

She stood, her face flushed, breath ragged. For a moment, she met my gaze. There was something electric in that glance. Unspoken, but absolutely clear.

After that, she came to me every two weeks. On schedule.

Always minor rule violations. Late work, curfews, uniform slips, tiny acts of defiance. Never serious, never sloppy. She excelled in every subject. For three years, she’d been flawless. Then suddenly, she was always in trouble.

I watched her closely during those sessions. Saw the signs. Her nipples would bead under her blouse before we even began. Her breathing would change the moment I took the cane from the cabinet. She’d bite her lip when told to bend over.

The effect on me deepened. I craved the power, the way it felt to arrange her posture, to lift her skirt, slide her knickers down, expose her. The authority to mark her, to hear her gasp, to make her count.

Soon, I anticipated our meetings. Just the thought of her outside my door would make my pussy throb.

After a few more sessions, I knew. She wanted this. Needed it. The pain, the rules, the surrender.

And I needed it too, the control, the connection.

One session stays with me. December. A real infraction this time: smoking behind the dormitory. It warranted twelve strokes. The most yet.

She bent over my desk. I positioned her carefully, legs spread wide, ass lifted. Nothing was hidden. Her pussy was swollen, flushed, the glistening wetness impossible to miss.

The first stroke landed. She cried out, the sound raw, tinged with pleasure.

I felt my own wetness surge, my clit pulsing. I wanted to touch her, to run my fingers through her arousal, to feel her heat. Instead, I delivered each stroke, building the intensity. Her ass became a canvas: red, marked, beautiful.

By the twelfth, she sobbed. Not from pain, from need. When she stood, she met my gaze directly.

“Thank you, Headgirl.” This time, the words were laden. Heavy with meaning, with hunger.

That’s when I knew for certain. We both wanted the same thing.

I opened my eyes and faced Zoï. Her expression was calm, open. No hint of judgment.

“I was eighteen. She was sixteen. And I wanted her. I wanted to make her come while I caned her. I wanted her mouth on me, the cane pressed between us.”

The confession hung there, exposed, like a wound and a wish all at once.

My nipples ached. My pussy throbbed. The memories weren’t abstract, they lived in my skin, in the trembling of my hands.

“What did you do?” Zoï’s voice was soft, inviting.

“Everything,” I said. “We did everything.”

I summoned her to my room three days later. Not for punishment. Just to talk." She'd arrived precisely at eight. Knocked twice. Waited for permission to enter. She stood there, uniform immaculate, plait perfect, but her eyes told the truth: wide, hungry, intent. There was no more guessing.

“Come in. Lock the door.”

She obeyed. The click of the lock echoed with finality.

I leaned back against my desk, arms crossed, letting my gaze linger on her.

“You’ve been breaking rules on purpose.” Not a question.

Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes dropped, but a smile curled at the edge of her lips.

“Yes, Headgirl.”

“Why?”

She looked up. The smile widened. “You know why.”

The air changed, charged and alive.

“Say it.”

“I need the discipline. The pain. The way you make me feel.” Her voice dropped. “The way you make me wet.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

“You’re sixteen.”

“I know what I want.” She stepped closer. “And I know you want it, too.”

"Why not simply ask?"

She laughed, brief and honest. "Would you have said yes?"

She was right. I wouldn't have, not without the official excuse, the rules, the structure.

"This charade isn't needed." I tried to sound firm. "If you want discipline, I can provide it. You don't have to break rules."

Surprise flickered in her eyes, then hope, then hunger. "You would do that?"

"Weekly. My office. Saturday evenings, after dinner. The prefects' meeting is our cover."

“Yes.” Barely a whisper. “Please, yes.”

“This is about more than pain. It’s trust. Control. Surrender.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” I pushed away from the desk, closing the space between us. “Because this changes everything. You need to be sure. I'll push you to the edge."

Her head nodded as her gaze held mine. The look in her eyes was my answer. Submission. I touched her cheek and she leaned into my hand, a soft sound escaping. She turned to leave.

“Wait."

I leaned back against the desk, watching. "Tell me. What do you do after, when you leave here?"

Sarah's hands clenched at her sides. Color crept up her neck.

"Tell me. Everything." My tone was gentle, yet firm.

Sarah's eyes dropped to the floor. "I go back to my room."

"And?"

A pause. Sarah's fingers twisted in the hem of her skirt. "My roommate is always at choir practice on Saturdays."

I waited letting silence grow.

"I lock the door." Sarah's voice had gone soft, almost dreamlike. "I take off my uniform slowly. In front of the mirror. I turn around and look at the marks."

I could feel heat pooling low in my belly. My hands gripped the edge of the desk.

"Continue."

"They're so red at first. Raised. I can see the exact pattern of the cane." Sarah's breathing had changed, became shallower. "I touch them. Gently. They're hot under my fingers, like they're still burning."

My mouth went dry. I could picture it perfectly, Sarah's pale skin marked with my handiwork, those careful fingers tracing each stripe.

"Then I lie on my bed." Sarah's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "On my stomach at first. The sheets feel rough against the welts. It makes them throb."

"And then?"

Sarah looked up, meeting my eyes directly. No shame, only that dark hunger. "I touch myself. I can't help it. The pain mixes with... with everything else. I think about you watching me bend over your desk. About the sound the cane makes. About how wet I am before you even start."

My breath caught, arousal creating a persistent ache between my legs.

"I imagine you know," Sarah continued softly. "That you can see how much I want it. How much I need it. Sometimes I come just from pressing against the bed, the friction against the marks."

She looked at me with those eyes, so deep and willing. "Is that what you wanted to know, Head Girl?"

“Yes." I paused, voice lowering. "Now, show me.”

The words escaped before I could stop them. The office suddenly felt too small, the air too thick.

Sarah's eyes widened. "Here? Now?"

"You heard me." My voice was firm, commanding in a way that had nothing to do with school discipline and everything to do with the heat building between us. “On the desk.” I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the ache there.

Sarah smiled as she perched on the edge of the desk. Her skirt rode up as her knees fell apart. Her fingers hooked into the elastic of her knickers, tugging them aside with a snap. The scent of her arousal filled the space between us. Her middle finger disappeared between flushed lips, emerged glistening. Her breath quickened as she worked small circles, her gaze never leaving mine. Her hips rose slightly off the desk, chasing the pressure of her own touch. Her free hand gripped the edge of the desk hard.

“I think about you doing this to me.” Her fingers moved faster, circling her clit, as she began to pant. “I imagine you standing over me with the cane, controlling me.” It was obvious she was close.

I grabbed her hand. "Stop." As she froze, I picked up the cane, cool and rigid in my palm, and pressed the polished tip against her swollen, glistening pussy. Her eyes were wide and pleading. Her lips parted, trembling slightly, her face a portrait of exquisite desperation. I held her there at the edge, watching her chest rise and fall in quick, shallow breaths as I made subtle movements with the cane, rolling it against her slick flesh, the smooth wood growing damp with her need.

“Please.”

I tapped the cane against her pussy. “Not yet. Not until Saturday.”

Sarah shivered, her eyes tearing, but her mouth was smiling. "Yes, Headgirl.”

That’s when I knew. Certain. She was mine. She’d do anything I said.

“Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, Headgirl.”

She left. I locked the door and pressed my forehead to the wood, heart pounding, pussy throbbing. What was I doing?

Exactly what I wanted. What I needed.

The week crawled by. Each day a slow climb toward what was waiting. Finally, Saturday night settled over the building. Eight o’clock on the dot. Three soft, measured knocks. I opened the door for her, let her in, then turned the lock behind us, shutting out the rest of the world.

Even the air felt different. The charge was immediate, electric. No forms to fill, no performance. Just us, and that hungry ache pulsing between us.

"Remove your blazer." The ritual survived, anchoring us.

She shrugged out of it, folding it with care, her eyes steady and unwavering on mine. This time, no hesitation. She knew her place, and wanted it.

"Approach the desk."

I went to the cabinet and reached for Senior, the cane that fit my palm, weighty and right. I tapped the cane against my hand. She shivered, anticipation traveling down her spine.

"Raise your skirt."

She obeyed, pulling it up high, exposing plain white cotton. Her knickers already marked by a dark stain, her body ahead of her words.

"Lower your knickers."

She eased them down, leaving them bunched at her knees. Her ass was a clean canvas, pale, with the faint pink traces of our last session still lingering. My marks, faded, but not gone.

“This time, undress. Everything”

For a moment, surprise flickered in her eyes. This was new. She had never been fully bare before.

“All of it. I want you exposed.”

Her hands shook as she removed the rest of her clothes. Her body was flawless: small breasts, pink nipples tight, a flat belly, slim hips. A dark thatch between her thighs, and already, the obvious shine of wetness.

“Bend over the desk. Hands flat. Legs spread.”

She moved into position, presenting herself, her ass high, her pussy open and gleaming.

I picked up the cane, stepping behind her. I tapped her ass, a warning.

“Twelve strokes. You’ll count. But this time, it’s my way.”

“Yes, Headgirl.”

The first stroke landed. She gasped.

“One.”

But I didn’t move straight to the next. I set the cane aside and ran my hand over her ass, feeling the heat rise beneath my palm. She shivered.

My fingers slid lower, between her cheeks, down to her pussy. She was drenched. I circled her clit, just once, and she moaned, hips pushing back.

I picked up the cane. The second stroke landed, lower.

“Two.”

Again, I paused. This time, I grabbed her breast, rolling the nipple hard between my fingers. She cried out, pain and pleasure tangled perfectly.

My other hand slid between her legs. Two fingers inside her, tight and hot. She clenched around me.

“You’re going to come for me tonight,” I whispered. “But not until I say.”

“Yes, Headgirl.”

I stroked her, slow, deep, then pulled out. Brought my fingers to my mouth. Her taste was sharp, clean, addictive.

The third stroke. Higher up.

“Three.”

This time, no pause, the fourth stroke came in quick succession.

“Four.”

She was panting now, back arched, legs shaking.

I set the cane down and moved to her side. My hand found her again, two fingers with my thumb circling her clit, building the tension.

She climbed toward release, pussy tightening, breath ragged. I could feel the tremor running through her.

I stopped. She whimpered, desperate.

“Not yet.”

The fifth, sixth, and seventh strokes followed, each one precisely placed. Her ass striped with red, beautiful and raw.

Between every stroke, I touched her: breasts, nipples, pussy, clit. Always bringing her close, always pulling her back.

By the tenth, she was sobbing, begging. “Please, Headgirl. Please let me come.”

“Two more.”

The eleventh stroke. She screamed.

I found her pussy, my fingers stretching her, thumb working her clit, hard and relentless.

The twelfth landed, a finishing stroke across every previous mark.

“Twelve. Come. Now.”

I didn’t let up. My thumb pressed hard, fingers curled, driving her up and over. She came violently, her whole body shaking, pussy clenching, thighs trembling. She buried her face in her arm to muffle the sound.

I kept going, drawing it out, letting every aftershock ripple through her.

Finally, she sagged against the desk, boneless.

I withdrew my fingers. She whimpered, already missing the contact.

“On your knees.”

She slid off the desk and knelt before me, face flushed, eyes glazed, perfectly surrendered.

I lifted my skirt, pulled my knickers aside. I was soaked, throbbing, every nerve alive.

“Lick me.”

She leaned in, mouth finding my clit, tongue moving with skill. She licked, sucked, relentless.

I took up the cane again, tapping it lightly against her back, matching the rhythm of her tongue.

She moaned against me and the vibration pushed me higher. I grabbed her hair, holding her tight.

The cane tapped her ass, the welts I’d drawn out of her. She gasped, sucking harder.

My orgasm built fast, the power and the pressure and her mouth all fusing into a single, unstoppable wave.

“Don’t...stop.”

She didn’t pause, didn’t let up for even a second. Her tongue moved faster, greedy and relentless, and her hands tightened on my thighs, holding me open, holding me still.

When I came, it wasn’t graceful or pretty. I convulsed, silent, my whole body shaking, my pussy spasming, thighs trembling so violently the cane slipped from my grip and crashed to the floor. The sound echoed, sharp and jarring in the quiet, but she didn’t stop. She just kept licking, her tongue suddenly softer, slower, coaxing me down inch by inch, never letting me drift too far.

When I could finally breathe again, I realized my hand was still tangled in her hair. I let go. She eased back on her heels, looked up at me, her smile wide and satisfied.

"Thank you, Head Girl." Her words were quiet, stripped of all pretense.

I stroked her hair, a touch almost too gentle. “In here, call me Emma.”

She looked up, smiling, and in that moment, everything changed. It ran deeper than rules, deeper than discipline, deeper than the cane and its marks. It felt dangerous, and necessary, and utterly real.

I pulled her upright, kissed her hard, tasting myself on her lips, and she just melted, all softness and obedience, pliant in my arms, utterly mine.

“Saturday nights,” I murmured into her mouth, the words thick with promise. “Every week. You’re mine now.”

“Yes, Emma.”

It settled into a ritual. Every Saturday at eight, never a minute late, Sarah would knock at my door, and I would open it. By December, we’d shed the pretense of discipline and slipped into something denser, darker, more essential than breathing. It was addictive. Every session edged a little further, always testing, always searching for the place where need became necessity.

One night in January, she didn’t wait for instructions. She knelt as soon as she entered, eyes already dark with hunger.

“I need you to do whatever you want, Emma. Whatever you need. I’m yours. Completely.”

The words hit me hard. My pussy clenched so much it hurt. This wasn’t obedience; it was surrender, the kind that left nothing behind.

“Stand up. Undress.”

She did, and I took my time, circling her, letting ideas take shape. I went to the cabinet and pulled out the leather paddle I’d bought in London during Christmas, a deliberate choice, heavier than wood, the leather thick and worn, promising something new.

“Bend over the desk.”

She folded herself over, hands flat, waiting. I didn’t bother with a warmup. The first strike landed hard and deep, the sound different from the cane, a solid, heavy thud instead of a snap.

She gasped, her back arching. The pain was broader, spreading deeper. By the tenth stroke her ass glowed red, feverish under my hand.

But the real change was between her legs. Her pussy was swollen, glistening, desperate. Every blow made her twitch, made her moan, made her wetter.

I set the paddle aside and pushed three fingers inside her. She was so tight, so wet it almost defied belief. Pain had sharpened everything.

“You like this.”

“Oh, God, yes, Emma.” She could barely form the words. “Harder than the cane. Goes deeper.”

My fingers pumped, fast and rough, while picking up the paddle with my other hand and delivering another strike to her ass. She came instantly, violently, her body clamping around my hand.

I didn’t stop. I kept going, fingers thrusting, paddle slapping, until she shattered again, a second orgasm riding the edge of the first.

When she finally slumped forward onto the desk, limp and gasping, I pulled my fingers out and brought them to her lips.

“Clean them.”

She sucked, tongue working eagerly, never breaking eye contact.

Everything shifted. The cane stayed, it was always right, but I brought in more: the paddle, leather, heavy and drilled; the strap, broad and biting; the riding crop, intense and precise.

Each had its own music. The paddle thudded deep, heat blooming and lingering. The strap curled around her, found every edge. The crop pinpointed, sharp and stinging.

Her body learned, too. The paddle made her moan, deep and low. The strap pulled sharper sounds from her. The crop made her twitch, focus, give up control.

"Which do you like best?" I asked her, once.

"Whatever you choose." Not just the tools, but me. My desire.

We explored her whole body. Not just her ass, but thighs, calves, back, shoulders, even her breasts. Not just squeezing or teasing them, but something more intense.

The first time, she stood, hands at her sides, bare and exposed. I took out a small leather slapper, soft-looking, but the bite was real.

First strike, top of her right breast. She cried out, instinctively bringing her arms up to shield herself.

“Hands behind your neck.”

She obeyed, locking her fingers, pushing her chest forward, offering herself. I went methodically: top, side, under. Not the nipples. Not yet. Drawing out the anticipation.

Her breasts flushed pink, nipples so hard they looked painful. She was panting, barely able to stand.

Between each strike, I paused to cup her breasts, feeling the heat, squeezing so she arched for more.

“Please,” she whispered. “I need…my nipples.”

“Not with this.”

I set the slapper aside and picked up the riding crop. Thin, precise, merciless.

The first tap to her right nipple made her scream, body jerking, but her pussy clenched, thighs trembling. I could see it, the hunger.

Left nipple. Same reaction. Scream, clench, surrender. I brought my lips to each nipple, sucking and nibbling to intensify the sensations

I tapped each nipple ten times, not hard but with focus. And my mouth or fingers followed each strike. By the end, tears streamed down her face, but between her legs her arousal was impossible to miss. She was throbbing, desperate.

“You’ll come just from this.”

“Yesssssss, Emma.”

My mouth sucked on one nipple as my other hand pinched the other and twisted. Hard. She came apart, crying out as the combined pain and pleasure sent her over the edge. Her whole body was shaking, her pussy throbbing.

After that, I wanted more. Every week, I pushed a little further. Her clit and pussy were next. I’d have her lie on the desk, legs open wide, nothing hidden. The riding crop would tap against her pussy lips, feather-light at first, then with growing force. She never tried to close her legs.

I had her spread her lips, exposing everything. When the crop landed directly on her clit, she screamed, arching off the desk, but her pussy was always soaked.

I learned that alternating pain and pleasure drove her wild. I’d tap her clit, then immediately rub it with my fingers, or my tongue, back and forth, until she lost all sense of time. One night I made her come five times in a row, just alternating between the two.

During one session, Sarah was on her hands and knees as I traced the crop along her pussy and ass. She reached back, spreading her cheeks wide. An invitation. Offering.

Lightly, I tapped against her anus drawing out low moans as her cheeks clenched and relaxed. I slipped one finger into her pussy, coating it with her juices and pressed against her anus. She tensed.

“Breathe. Relax.”

Gradually, her body yielded. I worked my finger in and out, slow and steady. Then I picked up a small leather paddle, just a few inches wide, and started striking her ass. The angle sent vibrations through her, and she moaned, pushing back against my finger.

My other fingers reached under to her clit, rubbing in circles. Between the paddling, fingering, and pressure on her clit, she came so hard she nearly slid off the desk.

Afterwards, she curled up in my lap, trembling and crying, not from pain, but from the way I’d taken her apart and put her back together.

Our sessions deepened, each one burning hotter, closer, until I knew the map of her body better than my own. I learned her triggers, the places where pressure tipped from pleasure to pain, and back again. I could take her apart, layer by layer, and build her higher with every word, every touch, every measured strike.

Sarah changed, too. She opened to me, let herself fall further every week. When I gave her an order, she obeyed without question. When I offered more, she took it. She trusted me in a way I’d never been trusted by anyone, not before, not since.

Afterwards, sometimes, we’d just hold each other in the hush, her head on my shoulder, my hand stroking her hair. Not talking. Not needing to. Just the quiet and the closeness, the warmth lingering between us.

I loved her, though I never said it. This felt like love that didn’t have to be spoken. The feeling was there, woven through every surrender, every time she knelt for me, every secret look. She loved me back. I felt it. I breathed it in.

We made our own world: Saturday nights, the privacy of my room, the hush of the corridor outside. Our bodies invented a language. Pain became proof. Submission, a gift. Discipline, the way we touched. Intimacy in every ritual. It was perfect. It was everything.

It ended abruptly, a Tuesday in April. I was in class when the headmistress called for me. Her face was composed, but something had shifted. She told me, calm and professional, that Sarah’s parents had withdrawn her from school. Effective immediately. She was gone.

No warning. No note. No explanation that reached me.

I just stood there, silent, the words echoing. Gone. Just gone.

“Did she…” I tried, but couldn’t finish.

“She left no message, Emma.” Her faced softened in a way I’d never seen before. “I’m sorry.” She must have known. There was little that happened at Hawthorne that the Headmistress didn’t know about.

“When she enrolled, her parents didn’t say specifically, but I sensed they worked for the Foreign Service. Moved a lot. We were paid by government cheque.” She pushed a piece of paper across the desk. “Her school records. From all over the world. She wasn’t in one school longer than a year. I’ve seen it before.”

I could hear her, but couldn’t understand what she was saying. I was in shock. Numb.

The walk back to my room was automatic, my body moving while my mind spun. I closed the office door behind me, locked it. Sat at my desk, the same desk where Sarah had bent for me, again and again, where she’d given in and I’d taken care of her, both of us safe in the ritual.

The cane hung in its usual place in the cabinet. I took it out, holding it tight, feeling the smooth weight in my shaking hand.

I didn’t cry, not then. I just sat, gripping the cane, waiting for Saturday.

Saturday came. Eight o’clock. I sat at my desk, waiting, watching the clock. Nine-fifteen. Nine-thirty. Ten. Still waiting.

She wasn’t coming. She would never come again.

Something in me snapped. I bent over the desk, sobbing, the sound wrung out of me in waves. My whole body seized with it, not just desire, but a deeper ache, a hollowing loss more fundamental than sex or even love.

She’d been mine. I’d been hers. Now there was nothing.

The next few months passed in a fog. I did my work, punished students when needed, but it was rote. Empty. The spark was gone.

I graduated in June. Left Hawthorne. Didn’t look back.

University was a different world: no rules, no structure. No one to push against me, no one I could really hold or shape. I tried, found girls who liked the idea, but it was just that, a game, a scene, a thrill. Not what I’d had with Sarah, not the trust, the surrender, the realness. Nothing came close.

Eventually, I stopped looking. I buried that part of myself under work, routine, adult life. I convinced myself it was a phase, something that belonged to adolescence and boarding school. Not the real world.

I met David in final year. A Yank. He was steady, gentle, a man who wanted a wife, a partner, a mother for his children. It felt right, pragmatic. Grown-up.

We married when I was twenty-one.

Sex with him was fine. He cared; he asked what I liked. I told him the things he’d expect: positions, timing, little preferences, nothing that risked the truth. I never told him I wanted to be held down, restrained, hurt, used. He would have been horrified.

So I played the part. Moaned, climaxed when I was supposed to, let him believe I was fulfilled. He seemed happy. I let him stay happy.

I was twenty-two when Mia was born. Motherhood swallowed me whole. Diapers, feeding, exhaustion. No room for anything except her needs, and that was a relief. I didn’t have to think about myself, or what I needed.

That was good. Safe.

Years blurred past. David was a Marine. Died in the Middle East. Suddenly I was a widow, a single mother, scrambling to keep a roof over our heads. Every day was survival, work, bills, Mia’s school.

Desire became a memory from another life. I barely remembered the girl who’d disciplined students at Hawthorne, who’d marked Sarah’s body and loved every moment. That Emma was gone, I thought. Buried, never to return.

But I was wrong.

Standing in Lena’s warehouse, the flood of memory drowning me, I felt her rise, the girl who needed to submit and to control, to hurt, to claim. The one who got wet just from the sound of a cane slicing air.

She hadn’t died. She’d just waited.

I blinked and came back to myself. The present, the room, Zoï standing in front of me, her gaze steady and patient.

My whole body was on edge, nerves raw and tingling. My nipples were strained, aching for touch. Between my legs, I was soaked through, the heat and wetness impossible to ignore.

My breathing came frantic and shallow. My hands trembled. My heart thudded at the base of my throat, echoed in the throb between my thighs.

Just telling the story out loud, remembering Sarah, the rituals, the surrender and the power, I was more aroused than I had been in decades. My pussy throbbed, desperate; I wanted to be filled, or to fill someone else. To be held down. To hold someone down, to take, to own.

I clenched my legs together for relief. It barely helped. The need was bigger than that. After twenty years of silence, my body screamed, for Sarah, for what I’d lost, for the thing I’d spent a lifetime denying. For what I needed to find again.

Zoï stepped closer, wrapped her hand around mine, and squeezed. Her touch was gentle. Grounding. “Sarah can’t return, Emma.”

The words hurt, but they were true. I had cried so much there were no more tears.

She continued, "And there has been no one since."

I could only nod, it was too much to accept.

Her silver eyes were so kind and deep as she said, "Until now."

The world narrowed to just us, this possibility, this chance to claim what I’d nearly lost.

I wasn’t just Emma the bartender, or the widow, or the mother. I was Emma who felt both power and surrender, the beautiful tension between them. I always had been.

Sarah was gone, but she’d left something burning in me.

"Yes," I whispered, to Zoï, to myself, to the part of me that had always been waiting. "Until now."