in English
Indulgence
That was the name of the small room beneath the staircase. Originally meant to be a storage closet, its position and decent sound insulation had quickly promoted it to an “adult playroom.” A low doorway that prevented anyone from entering upright led into a dim space lit only by a single weak bulb near the entrance—more a sentinel light than illumination. On one side, leftover renovation materials still justified its claim as a closet. On the other stood an old sofa with high padded armrests and an equally worn bedside table. No window. Bare wooden walls and ceiling. Only an oval rug on the floor, soft and oddly playful.
Conversations not meant for other ears were handled here. People left this room reconciled with life. The low door had long ago been nicknamed “the Gates of Supreme Indulgence.”
He sat on the armrest of the sofa and pulled her closer.
“Have anything more interesting to confess than ancient cathedrals in Barcelona?”
His look resembled that of a stern but fair pastor preaching from one of those very pulpits.
“Proceed, Your Reverence,” she said with mock formality.
He placed his hands on her hips and turned her sharply so her back faced him. Gathering the silk of her nightgown in his fingers, he fixed it at her waist.
“Lower your panties. Go stand in the corner.”
She obeyed.
With a deliberately guilty posture, head bowed, she pulled her underwear down below her cheeks and shuffled toward the corner. She knew this game. Light domination had always been pleasurable for both of them.
He wants his slice of pie after all.
Once in place, she gave her hips a playful sway.
“Are you going to spank me, Your Reverence?”
She covered her face with her hands but peeked through her fingers as he prepared the sofa with a clean sheet and a pillow.
“No.”
The sheet covered one armrest. That meant her position would be there. Bent over it, not across his lap. Different.
“Fuck me?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He stood.
“I’m going to take you, my girl. But first, I’m going to skin your ass.”
She turned her head sharply.
“You’re going to whip me?”
“Precisely.”
“For what?”
“Wrong question. Not for what. Why.”