“You thought,” he repeats quietly.
I nod, tears already blurring my vision. “I only wanted to understand. I swear it. I didn’t take anything. I just needed to see it again.”
His jaw tightens. The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive. Something flashes behind his irises, as if the candlelight’s eerie glow flickers there.
“Turn around.”
My body obeys before my mind can catch up.
“Hands on the desk.”
I do as I’m told, fingers spreading against the cool wood as he guides me forward until I’m bent slightly at the waist. He picks up the candle and moves it to the far side of the desk, then pulls up my gown and lays it over my shoulders so it’s draped safely in front of me. Cool air greets my backside, and gooseflesh ripples across my skin. I hunch down and dig my fingers into the wood.
My breath comes shallow and uneven. My chest tightens.
I hear him cross the room, and my gut twists into a tight knot because I know what he’s grabbing from the corner.
“How many lashes do you think it will take for this lesson to stay with you?” he asks, his voice low and measured. “How many before you remember never to cross this threshold again without an invitation?”
My throat tightens. “I don’t know.”
“How many?”
“Twenty.”
“No, I think not. Thirty feels more appropriate,” he says calmly. “You need to learn that your constant disobedience has consequences.”
He steps closer, close enough that I feel his body heat, and his breath falls against my spine.
“Count.”
The first strike steals the breath from my lungs.
Pain detonates across my back, sharp and blinding. My body jerks forward as fire races along my nerves, my fingers digging into the edge of the desk.
“One,” I gasp.
The second lands lower, across my thighs, and a sob tears free before I can stop it.
“Two.”
“Ahh. Thr-ee-ee.”
I groan on the next lash. “Four.”
Each blow comes harder than the last. My muscles seize with every impact, skin burning, spine screaming. The room narrows to pain and the sound of the cane cutting through the air.
He does not slow or gentle his hits.
Tears begin to drip onto the desk. My voice fractures. Between numbers, I beg—whispered apologies, broken promises, half-formed prayers.
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Please.” I gasp and try again. “Please,” I sob. “Please forgive me.”
By twenty-five, I’m shaking uncontrollably and sweating profusely, with my forehead pressed to the desk, as tears streak down my cheeks. My body feels split open, every nerve exposed, every thought reduced to survival only. My knees buckle, and I sink a little closer to the floor.
“Stand up,” he growls harshly.
I take a couple of deep breaths and gather my strength to pull myself up. He waits only a moment before delivering another punishing strip to the crease between my butt and thighs.
