The second strike came before I'd fully recovered from the first. This time he'd adjusted—more electricity, more precisely targeted. The current didn't just explode outward. It followed the lightning scars tracing across my skin, racing along those newly-formed conductive pathways, amplifying as it went.
I cried out. Louder this time. My legs kicked involuntarily but his thigh trapped them, holding me in place.
"Count."
"Two." I was gasping now. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
Through the bond, I felt his focus. His careful calibration. He was monitoring my responses through our connection—tracking how the electricity affected me, where the intensity peaked, how close he could push without causing actual harm. This wasn't random punishment. This was precision. Engineering applied to discipline.
The third strike carried even more power. I felt it race through my body, felt it hit the places where cult conditioning had carved deep grooves into my neural pathways. The shock stuttered there. Burned. Like the electricity was finding resistance and overcoming it through sheer force.
"Three!" The word came out as a sob. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
My bottom was on fire. But it wasn't burn-damage fire. It was electrical fire. Current flowing where it shouldn't, nerves firing in patterns they'd never experienced, my entire lower body lit up with sensation so intense I couldn't process it as anything except overwhelming.
The fourth strike fell. This time I felt it differently. Felt how the current traveled up my spine, branching out along the carved intelligence—the spell fragments I'd etched into my own back. The scars glowed. I couldn't see them but I felt them illuminate, felt the electricity race along those patterns and rewrite something fundamental.
"Four." I was definitely crying now. Tears streaming down my face, dripping onto the carpet below. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
But the tears weren't from pain. They were from intensity. From sensation so overwhelming my body didn't know how else to respond. From electricity burning through conditioning that had taken six years to build.
The fifth strike held its charge fractionally longer. The current pulsed through me in waves, each one cresting and receding like breathing. I felt it reach the places where the cult had taught me to suppress joy, to see pleasure as weakness, to believe my body existed only for their purposes.
I felt those teachings burn away like paper in flame.
"Five!" I sobbed. My hands clawed at the floor. My legs trembled against his thigh. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
Through the bond, his satisfaction wrapped around me. Not satisfaction in causing pain—satisfaction that the discipline was working. That I was learning. That the electricity was doing exactly what he'd intended, rewriting neural pathways while I was too overwhelmed to fight it.
The sixth strike came harder. Faster. He wasn't giving me time to recover now. Just layering sensation on top of sensation until I couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
"Six." My voice cracked completely. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
The spanking was breaking something open inside me. Years of control learned in the cult. Years of suppressing emotion, of maintaining clinical detachment, of seeing everything—including myself—as just components in a larger system. That control was shattering. Each strike said: you can be wild and I'll contain you. You can push and I'll push back. You can test and I'll prove myself real.
The seventh strike targeted a slightly different angle. The electricity branched in new patterns, finding nerve clusters I didn't know existed. My whole body spasmed. The sensation was too much. Beyond overwhelming. Beyond anything I had context for.
"Seven!" I couldn't catch my breath between sobs now. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
But some part of me—the part that was still analytical even while falling apart—recognized what was happening. This wasn't just punishment. This was deliberate neural reprogramming. Each electrically-charged strike was burning away cult conditioning and replacing it with something else. With trust. With certainty that his rules existed to protect rather than control.
The eighth strike pushed me somewhere else entirely. Some place beyond conscious thought. The world narrowed. Reducedto just his hand. The electricity. The rhythm. The mantra I kept repeating because he'd told me to and following his instructions was the only solid thing in the chaos.
"Eight." My voice sounded distant. Dreamy. Like it was coming from somewhere else. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
I was floating. That's what this was. Subspace. The place where pain and submission and endorphins combined to create an altered state. Where everything fell away except the present moment and the person holding you.
Through the bond, I felt his recognition. Felt him monitoring my descent into this floaty place. Felt his protectiveness intensify as he watched me surrender completely.
The ninth strike was almost gentle. Not in force—the electricity was just as powerful. But in intent. Like he was testing how deep I'd gone. How much I could still process.
"Nine." The word came out as a whisper. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
I believed it now. Fully. Completely. His rules did keep me safe. Safe from my own destructive impulses. Safe from cult conditioning that would have me earning care instead of accepting it. Safe from the chaos of power I didn't know how to control yet.
The tenth strike came.
And didn't stop.
