Sometimes, I am sent upstairs to wait.
To wait to be punished.
The time ticks away. Slowly.
Indeterminable.
The second hand of the clock creaks forward and that tiny unit of time is suddenly a chasm, a yawning maw of silence.
My thoughts leap to the punishment ahead but curiously are also of nothing in particular.
Because the ticking fills my ears and my head.
I can hear myself breathing.
I can hear the clock ticking.
I can feel my blood thrumming.
And then – I hear the steps on the stairs.
The waiting is over.
Now the punishment will begin.
Beautiful imagery. Waiting is a funny thing, I often find myself zoning in on funny things like what’s happening downstairs
or who’s doing the washing up, all a bit random really!
This is so well written. It captures what I think I want…
A lovely image. I am always curious, though: is the relief of knowing that the wait is over outweighed and overtaken by trepidation at the fact you know that the pain of a spanking is now inevitable and imminent?