3. The Cane England’s wrists are knobbly and thin but they are strong and deft just like the clever thin fingers that wrap around the leather bound handle of the rattan cane. The whipping noise is warning enough and it makes him tense. The whistle means it’s going to be a hard blow, not the silent sweep that leaves a sting and a low burn. No the whistle means that there’s going to be impact and then the pain flaring up within seconds as blood rushes to the site of the new welt.
He wonders if England likes having to pick up the cane once in a while and if there’s an irony here for a country that now doesn’t allow this to happen. He would bring it up later but it makes England’s lips tighten in a not entirely pleasant (not even for perverseness) way.
The cane has to be savored just as England has to deliberate. It’s a biting pain and he tenses in the beginning and at the middle, as sometimes it swings, whistling but never impacts. Then the silent sweep upwards, hitting him just below the ass, on top of the back of his leg. He doesn’t scream at that particular blow (he swears he doesn’t). But the pain shoots upwards and downwards and he has to brace himself again on the chair he’s against.
In the end, he never does bring up laws and historical repression afterwards when they’re eating butter tarts and England has just consented to firing up the percolator that is a fascinating remnant from the 70s. Over the slightly muddy but somewhat passable coffee that has gritty, toothachingly sweet sugar crystal bits left in the bottom of the mug, they usually talk about gardening instead (and those rather lovely fringed striped tulips near the front lawn that perhaps Canada could have a sample of?).
4. The Belt The feeling of the leather of his own belt sliding against his hip, sliding from the belt loops, makes America shiver. That’s the beginning of it. England could very well get a belt but this is somehow even better. You make your own punishment, England used to say and emphasizes it.
The belt is not one of the really nice ones he had gotten from Italy. It’s soft from use, one of the holes nearly torn through, the edges cracking a little. It’s thick and brown and the buckle is tarnishing silver.
And England always takes the time to make it into a loop, pinching it shut at just the right space but swinging it and hitting a hand just to get used to it. The heavy sound of the leather meeting skin makes America shudder.
“Well, lad?”
It’s maybe more humiliating, that idle remark that’s weighed with a lot. A way out, a way to just head out the door and not speak of this again. It’s kindness that’s cruelty and maybe England doesn’t quite notice that. Or maybe England does – a long time has a way of helping you develop special ways of cruelty.
“Yes,” he breathes.
And the leather comes slapping down. It’s a lick – it hits and flees, flowing away. It starts out for the noise first, to make the skin start blushing, then it’s harder and the pain is sharper, deeper. And somehow, England knows when it’s almost too much, when it’s going to hurt so bad that he can’t stand it all but when the burn fades, the belt is there again, lashing at reddened skin.
There’s no tea but a glass of water. There’s checking for bleeding, there’s maybe a hesitant hand on the back. England hands back the old worn belt and then, almost kindly, tells him to take off the button up because a button is getting loose and really, shouldn’t you keep an eye on these things?
Grief from neighbors [1b/1]
England’s wrists are knobbly and thin but they are strong and deft just like the clever thin fingers that wrap around the leather bound handle of the rattan cane. The whipping noise is warning enough and it makes him tense. The whistle means it’s going to be a hard blow, not the silent sweep that leaves a sting and a low burn. No the whistle means that there’s going to be impact and then the pain flaring up within seconds as blood rushes to the site of the new welt.
He wonders if England likes having to pick up the cane once in a while and if there’s an irony here for a country that now doesn’t allow this to happen. He would bring it up later but it makes England’s lips tighten in a not entirely pleasant (not even for perverseness) way.
The cane has to be savored just as England has to deliberate. It’s a biting pain and he tenses in the beginning and at the middle, as sometimes it swings, whistling but never impacts. Then the silent sweep upwards, hitting him just below the ass, on top of the back of his leg. He doesn’t scream at that particular blow (he swears he doesn’t). But the pain shoots upwards and downwards and he has to brace himself again on the chair he’s against.
In the end, he never does bring up laws and historical repression afterwards when they’re eating butter tarts and England has just consented to firing up the percolator that is a fascinating remnant from the 70s. Over the slightly muddy but somewhat passable coffee that has gritty, toothachingly sweet sugar crystal bits left in the bottom of the mug, they usually talk about gardening instead (and those rather lovely fringed striped tulips near the front lawn that perhaps Canada could have a sample of?).
4. The Belt
The feeling of the leather of his own belt sliding against his hip, sliding from the belt loops, makes America shiver. That’s the beginning of it. England could very well get a belt but this is somehow even better. You make your own punishment, England used to say and emphasizes it.
The belt is not one of the really nice ones he had gotten from Italy. It’s soft from use, one of the holes nearly torn through, the edges cracking a little. It’s thick and brown and the buckle is tarnishing silver.
And England always takes the time to make it into a loop, pinching it shut at just the right space but swinging it and hitting a hand just to get used to it. The heavy sound of the leather meeting skin makes America shudder.
“Well, lad?”
It’s maybe more humiliating, that idle remark that’s weighed with a lot. A way out, a way to just head out the door and not speak of this again. It’s kindness that’s cruelty and maybe England doesn’t quite notice that. Or maybe England does – a long time has a way of helping you develop special ways of cruelty.
“Yes,” he breathes.
And the leather comes slapping down. It’s a lick – it hits and flees, flowing away. It starts out for the noise first, to make the skin start blushing, then it’s harder and the pain is sharper, deeper. And somehow, England knows when it’s almost too much, when it’s going to hurt so bad that he can’t stand it all but when the burn fades, the belt is there again, lashing at reddened skin.
There’s no tea but a glass of water. There’s checking for bleeding, there’s maybe a hesitant hand on the back. England hands back the old worn belt and then, almost kindly, tells him to take off the button up because a button is getting loose and really, shouldn’t you keep an eye on these things?