She’s sorry. She is always sorry.

“It’s going to be alright,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says in that small girlish voice she has sometimes, “It is just that…”

She doesn’t know. She never knows.

“No just that’s, ifs, buts or only,” you say in your best warning voice, “Are we clear?”

“Yes,” she whispers. She has a cute lisp.

“Yes what?” you say.

“Yes Sir.” She looks up to meet your eyes. She is cute.

“I didn’t mean…” Is she being awkward? You try again. “Yes Sir what?”

She makes a little shrug; a cute little movement that says nothing. Has she forgotten or is she playing games again?

“It’s going to be alright, I said,” you say, “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” baby voice now, “Yes Sir, but…”

With that ‘but’ a problem is plucked from thin air. It is so infuriating.

“Enough.” It is not a yell, but she flinches. It sounds like a yell to her. “I have only just spanked you; surely I don’t have to spank you again?”

“No,” she says with a start, her eyes are wide and she pulls away.

“Okay,” you say, “Let’s just… I don’t know, watch TV, okay?”

She nods. She is so cute.

Is it five minutes later, six? Too soon anyway; she pulls away. There is something about the set of her back, the tilt of her head.

“What is it now?” You sound cross, crosser than you meant to sound.

“You never… oh I hate you,” she wails. She gets up and actually stamps her foot. She is half doubled over, her face contorted as if in the grip of some great calamity.

Twenty years ago you would have been horrified; you might have even cried a little, disturbed by the wall of emotion thrown at you. Now you say, “What is it now?” You sound angry and you mean to sound angry. You aren’t.

“I’m scared,” she says. She sounds more angry than scared.

“Of what exactly,” you sound furious now; your anger is becoming a little real.

She shrugs uncertain again, “Scared,” one word spoken with the baby voice.

You grab her and she yields, but then she frantically resists as she is put her across your knee. Twenty years ago you would have taken this as a withdrawal of consent, now you see her struggles as a dance, mere mock resistance.

Across your knee her bottom is balloon tight in her pyjamas. You slap it twice and she squeals angrily.

“I don’t want this,” she says.

“Well right now I don’t care what you want. I am furious. What is your problem?”

“I…” She is uncertain again.

“Shut up,” you growl. “Don’t bother; you haven’t made sense all morning. I have had enough, do you hear me?”

“Yes.” Baby voice has returned. “Yes Sir.”

You slap her bottom three times and she wriggles. It is not like that time she screamed “fuck you” and threw something. That had been harder to sort out. But even that had been made right. You have to know when to take a step back, when to side step and when to attack full on. This is actually going to be easy.

You yank her pyjamas down, her bottom is now bare. You can see red on pink from the last few slaps laid onto the earlier spanking. “I didn’t spank you long enough or hard enough before did I?”

“No.” Her voice is small and expectant.

The spanking is hard and it hurts your hand. You are undeterred. It takes a while but this time you will quite literally get to the bottom of it. This time she is red to the point of an angry stain.

“Am I getting through to you?” You sound angry like before, this is no time for soft words. She doesn’t want softness.

“Yes.” Her tone is of surrender.

You resume the spanking, you both need this and then 10 minutes pass.

“Are we done here,” you ask.

“Yes Sir,” she says. “Am I forgiven?”

“I’ll think about that, now go to that corner.”

She gets up and runs across the room; scampers even. She doesn’t pull up her pyjamas, she knows better.

“Stay there until I tell you to move,” you tell her firmly.

“Yes Sir,” she whispers.

Maybe 30 minutes later she says your name.

“Yes?” You ask.

“I’m sorry.” She is always sorry.