What the World Doesn't Now

In the Private Chambers

"Step out," he commanded. He had just parked the car in their basement, then had opened her door and released her seatbelt. She was even less capable of stepping out gracefully now than she was at the party venue, restricted by her wrists and ankled hobbled together and devoid of her eyesight. But here he did not offer her any help. She shifted in her seat as fast as she could so that her feet dangled at the door. She drew as deep as a breath as her corset allowed and flung herself forward. She fell on all four and almost lost balance. Her forehead would have hit the ground, but she felt his hand cupping it, preventing the accident. "Careful!" he whispered. Such a caring expression from the man who had disabled her so and then left her to help herself out of the car would sound incongruous to an outsider. But she was now used to her husband's warped sense of love, relationships and everything concerned with her. He didn't want her face even slightly bruised. Because the world couldn't know.

"I don't have your collar and leash here," he announced, "Move forward and listen to my commands to turn."

She quickly nodded and started crawling forward. The way her limbs were hobbled together, crawling was all she could do. Although normally that act would have been reserved for when they were inside their chambers, right now there was no other option. She knew that he would have made sure, nobody was there in the basement.

"Turn left."

"Stop. Don't turn; just shift right. Yes... yes... That's it. Stop.... Move forward... Stop."

The change of the feel on her arms and knees from the rough concrete to cold, metal floor told her that they were in the lift. He directed her out of the lift into their chambers with similar commands. Since she was blindfolded, and already crawling with hobbled compulsion, she could not have unlocked her sandals herself. She waited as he did that for her. Then he put a four-inches wide leather collar on her neck and attached a leash to it. Now she had to interpret the tugs and pressure on her leash to follow him. He led her to the master bedroom and then through the trapdoor and metal stairs down to their secret bedroom. The stairs were particularly tough to negotiate crawling and restrained as she was. But she managed it. After a while a yank on her leash commanded her to stop. He unhooked the hobble chains between her wrists and ankles, then commanded her to kneel.

She straightened her upper body and let her arms fall by her side.He then put some liquid in her eyes and took the blinding lenses out. She blinked to adjust to the sight just regained, then fixed her eyes to the floor.

He removed her gag, then asked in a perfectly matter-of-fact voice , "How many men did you shake hands with today, my love?"

"Seven, Sir," she spoke, barely audible.

"And women?"

"Five, Sir," her voice would not stop quivering.

"Five for each man, and two for each woman," he gave his verdict quickly, "Spread your palm."

Her hands trembled as she offered him her offending left hand, palm turned upwards, with the lace glove still on. It wasn't going to offer her any protection though and would be tattered with the first few strokes. It had happened so many times, but she couldn't get used to the pain. He swished the rattan cane in the air once, causing her to gasp in anticipation.

"How many would that be total?" he asked.

"Forty five, Sir."

"Count. And cry!"

He liked to hear her howl. And then he would comfort her.

"Swish!"

"One! Aaaah!"

"Swish!"

"Aaaah! Two."

By the third stroke she was sobbing hard, because he repeatedly hurt her at the same place and continued there for next seven strokes too. By when she was howling, but she remembered to count.

Then he shifted the target and the next ten strokes came at a different place on her palm. She was only making a guttural sound now, not left with enough energy to cry loudly. Whatever remaining will power she had, she had to focus it on ensuring that she kept kneeling and didn't withdraw her hand or let it fall away.

With the next five strokes, she lost even that and fell forward. She begged pathetically. "Please Sir... Please have mercy. I can't take it any more. I am sorry, I am really sorry."

Given that she was being punished for shaking hands with people, you would think that she had done so in defiance to him. But that was not the case. As the wife of a modern business tycoon, she couldn't refuse to shake hands with people she met, especially at public events, standing by his side. That would be doing him and his reputation a disservice. But since it meant other people touching his wife, even if through the gloves she compulsorily wore, she had to take punishment for it.

She found her hair yanked forcing her to lift her head. He made a pigtail with two parts of her hair and one part the length of rope hanging from the roof of the room. This forced her head up and her kneeling position was restored. Next she found a hard arm-binder going around her left hand making it impossible to fold it at the elbow. It was also too heavy to allow her to pull her arm away.

"That, my love," he declared, "has brought you enough rest and also a lot of help in holding yourself together."

Then he proceeded with the remaining strokes. Joe remembered to count them, her voice growing feeble. She barely managed not to pass out by the time he had finished punishing her.

He released the arm-binder first, then loosened her hair and gathered her in his arms as she collapsed.

"There, there," he murmured soothingly, "You did well. It's over..." He kept comforting her while she sobbed into his chest. "I am so proud of you. The party went very well."

After she had stopped shaking and sobbing, he wrapped a blanket around her and let her curl up on the floor. He returned after a while.

"Come my love. It's time to tuck you in."

She moved slowly, putting the blanket aside and then getting on all four. She remembered to put her weight on her forearms and not on her palms, and waited to be led on. He tugged at her leash, and she followed. Within a few seconds, she had reached that corner of the room, where a huge comfortable bed was made. And next to it was her destination. An iron cage. The door was open. She crawled right it. The cage was not high enough for her to stand. Which was not a problem, because she wasn't allowed to stand anyway. It wasn't long enough for her to stretch out while lying either. She would either have to haunch on all fours, or lay down curled up. But before that, her dinner was awaiting at the other end of the cage. Her foggy mind barely registered high fiber cereal soaked in milk. She went to it purely because of her muscle memory. She hunched in front of it and dipped her mouth in the bowl. She wasn't allowed the use of cutlery or even hands in their private chambers. After she had slurped everything in, he opened the door near the bowl and took it away. Then he pushed in another bowl filled water. She drank more eagerly than she had eaten.

After taking away the bowl, he petted her through the door, until she fell asleep, curled up on her side. Then he closed and locked the door and stared at her for a long while. Her face was stained with tears and ruined makeup. She was hobbled at her ankles and thighs although those restraints were still hidden under her party dress. Her hand were manacled too and she was curled up in the cage like an obedient pet, sleeping on the iron floor, like it was a spring mattress. He smiled and then climbed on his bed, for a good night's sleep.