Page 71 of Suite 7

A breath. “Yes, Sir.”

I position myself beside her with full range of motion.

“Begin.”

The first strike lands with a sharp crack and she gasps.

“Count.”

“One, Sir.”

I build gradually — each strike a fraction harder than the last, steady escalation, no plateau to rest on.

By five her voice is still steady. She’s organizing it. Finding the system in it.

By fifteen there’s strain. The impacts are accumulating and her voice carries the weight of them now, slightly rough at the edges, her skin warming and deepening to pink.

“Fifteen, Sir.”

I increase the force. The paddle cracks sharply.

“Sixteen, Sir.” Her voice breaks on the number.

I stop.

“Ask for another.”

She freezes. “What?”

“Ask. For. Another. You don’t just endure this. You request the consequence you earned.”

I watch it move through her, the instinct to argue, the jaw tightening, and then the moment it shifts: the part of her that knows exactly why I’m asking this.

Her throat works.

“Please, Sir.” Barely above a whisper. “Another.”

“Good girl.”

The next strike lands harder than any before it.

“Seventeen, Sir.” Her voice cracks fully. Tears now — I can hear them in her breath. “Please, Sir. Another.”

I watch her carefully: the grip on the bench, the tremor in her legs, the pitch of her voice. No flinching away. No collapse in her shoulders. No withdrawal. The count is steady. The position holds. She’s in it — not enduring it from a distance, but present in it.

“Eighteen, Sir.” Sobbing now. “Please, Sir. Another.”

I deliver the final strike.

She cries out, her body jerking forward, but she holds position.

“Good.” I set the paddle down immediately. “You’re done. You took your punishment well. Stand up.”

She does, unsteadily, and I stay close enough to catch her if she needs it. She finds her footing. Her face is tear-streaked, eyes red.

“Color.”

“Green, Sir.”