"Thank you," slipped out before I could stop it.
"You're welcome." He stood, rolling his sleeves down with the same precision he'd used on my hair. "Now then. We have other matters to discuss."
The warmth in my chest curdled.
"Yesterday's session revealed several behavioral patterns that need addressing." He picked up his tablet, swiping through what I assumed were notes about my humiliation. "The spitting, obviously. The excessive profanity. The attempted deception with the vitamins. And according to the morning logs, you've used," he checked the screen, "forty-seven variations of 'fuck' in the past twenty-four hours."
"Fuck off" would make it forty-eight.
"However," he continued, setting the tablet aside, "you also demonstrated remarkable resilience. Counted when instructed, eventually. Maintained consciousness through intense stimulation. Followed this morning's routine without significant resistance." He studied me with those storm-grey eyes. "You're a fascinating contradiction, Lilah West."
"I'm not fascinating. I'm trapped."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He returned to sit beside me, this time angling to face me directly. "Now, typicallyI'd use implements for correction. The infractions from yesterday certainly warrant it. But given your progress this morning, I'm willing to compromise."
"Compromise?" The word tasted suspicious.
"A hand spanking instead of the belt. Provided you position yourself appropriately and count without being reminded."
The blood drained from my face. "You're joking."
"I rarely joke about punishment protocols." He patted his thigh once, the gesture somehow more threatening than any explicit threat. "Over my lap, Lilah. Let's address yesterday's behaviors so we can move forward."
"No." I stood, backing away until I hit the vanity. "No fucking way. You're not—I won't—"
"Won't you?" He remained seated, perfectly calm. "Consider your options. Comply now, accept a measured punishment for specific infractions, and we continue building on this morning's progress. Or refuse, escalate the situation, and discover what happens when good girls become very bad girls indeed."
"This is insane. You can't just—"
"Section 31-C explicitly covers corporal punishment as a behavioral modification tool. Would you like me to pull up the exact wording you agreed to?"
My hands curled into fists. "Stop quoting that fucking contract at me."
"Forty-eight." He made a mental note. "That's another five strikes."
"Strikes?"
"One for each profanity. Basic behavioral arithmetic." He patted his thigh again. "Come here, Lilah. The longer you delay, the more difficult this becomes."
Every instinct screamed to run. But where? The door he'd entered through had no visible handle. The bathroom locked from the outside. The walls were solid and soundproof. I was trapped in this pink nightmare with a man who discussed spanking me like it was a legitimate scientific method.
"If I do this," my voice shook, "if I let you—will it be over? The punishment for yesterday?"
"Complete your punishment properly, and yes. Yesterday's infractions will be fully addressed."
I looked at him—really looked. Tried to find some hint of sadism, some tell that he enjoyed this beyond professional interest. But his expression remained clinical, patient. Like a doctor discussing necessary treatment.
Maybe that made it worse.
My feet moved without conscious permission, carrying me back to the bed. Each step felt like walking through quicksand. By the time I stood beside him, my whole body trembled.
"How?" The word came out small.
"Across my lap. Face down. Dress raised to your waist." He said it so matter-of-factly. "You may hold onto the bedding if you need to."
My face burned. "This is humiliating."
"That's rather the point. Punishment should be memorable." He waited, hands resting on his thighs. "Take your time. But choose."
