Page 70 of Suite 7

“Tell me.”

“Because I broke the rule. Because I touched myself when you asked me not to.”

“Yes. And?”

She swallows. “Because I told you about it.”

“Good.” I step closer, still not touching. “Both matter. You failed. But you were honest. Tonight you face the consequence you earned. The honesty? That gets its own reward. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The room is ready. You have eight minutes.”

I check my watch.

“Go to the room. Strip. Fold your clothes on the chair. Kneel on the rug. Hands behind your back, eyes down. Wait for me. If you’re not in position when I arrive, we start with additional punishment. Understood?”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Then go. Your eight minutes started thirty seconds ago.”

She moves.

Her steps quick down the hallway, gone through the open doorway. Then I pour another finger of scotch and take my time with it. Seven minutes and thirty seconds after I sent her, I walk to the room.

She’s in position.

Kneeling on the rug, naked, hands clasped behind her back with her head bowed. Her clothes are folded neatly on the chair — dress, bra, underwear, stacked with a precision that tells me she was paying attention.

The sight of her steadies me. I circle her slowly, observing the curve of her spine, the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor she’s holding against.

“Eyes up.”

She raises her head. Guilt and fear. And underneath both, the look of someone who is still here, who came back, who chose this.

“Color.”

“Green, Sir.”

“You’re going to be punished.” I let that land before I continue. “Not because I’m angry. Because you made a choice that broke trust, and you need to feel the weight of that — not just understand it.” I move to the side table, pick up the paddle, and let her see it.

Her breath catches. Her eyes go to it and stay there.

“Nineteen strikes. You’ll count each one out loud. The count keeps you present — keeps you here, with me, through all of it. If you lose count, we start over. If you break position, we start over. Understand?”

She swallows. Her hands tighten against her thighs, and then, deliberately, she releases them. Chin lifting just slightly.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Stand. Go to the bench.”

She does, unsteadily. I watch her approach the bench, hesitate for a moment, then bend over it.

“Hands on the far side. Hold the edge.”

She grips the leather, knuckles already white.

“I’m not restraining you. You hold position yourself. That’s part of the punishment — choosing to stay even when it hurts.”