Curiosity won over defiance. I sat on the edge of the bed, maintaining distance but listening.
"The Mire Institute studies behavioral modification in adults who've experienced developmental trauma." His voice took on a lecturer's cadence, passionate about his subject. "Every participant who comes to us—whether they know it or not—carries wounds that manifest as self-destructive patterns. Addiction. Inability to maintain relationships. Self-sabotage at moments of potential success."
"I don't have—"
"You took a hundred thousand dollars from strangers for a study you didn't believe was real. You spent three weeks running instead of facing consequences. You hit me rather than accept earned praise." He set the tablet aside. "Tell me that doesn't sound like self-sabotage."
My mouth opened, then closed. The words hit uncomfortably close to home.
"Traditional therapy helps some people. But others—people like you—need something more immediate. More tangible. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget." He stood, moving to retrieve his leather case. "We teach boundaries through experience. Obedience through consequence. Trust through consistent structure."
"That's not therapy, that's conditioning."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He opened the case, revealing items I didn't want to examine too closely. "In three years, we've had an 87% success rate. Participants leave here with better jobs, healthier relationships, the ability to accept care without viewing it as weakness."
"By forcing them to count orgasms?"
"By breaking down walls they've built to survive trauma that no longer serves them." He pulled out the belt, setting it aside with deliberate placement. "Your file suggests early parentification. Absent father, overwhelmed mother. You learned young that needing things meant disappointment, so you developed aggression as armor."
"Stop." The word came out smaller than intended.
"You see kindness as manipulation. Structure as control. Care as something that comes with a price tag." He continued arranging items from his case. "So you reject it all, choosing chaos because at least that's familiar."
"You don't know me."
"I know you spent your windfall on practical things—rent, car repairs, debt payment. Nothing frivolous. Nothing just for joy." He glanced at me. "When did you last do something purely because it felt good, Lilah?"
The question sat between us like a live wire. I couldn't remember. Maybe never.
"This is the real research," he said quietly. "Not the sexual conditioning, though that serves its purpose. Not the punishments, though those teach consequences. It's about showing you—proving to you—that you can let go. That someone else can hold control without destroying you."
"By putting me in a collar?"
"By giving you structure you can rail against safely. Boundaries you can test without devastating consequences. A space where 'no' has already been removed, so you can finally stop fighting battles that exist only in your head."
I stared at him, this man who spoke about breaking people like it was healing. Who maybe believed it was.
"You're insane."
"Perhaps. But I'm also effective." He picked up the belt, running it through his hands. "In a moment, we'll address yesterday's violence. Then we'll begin something new. Something I think will particularly benefit someone with your specific patterns."
"Lucky me."
"Indeed." He moved the chair again, positioning it near the bed. "I've never personally handled a subject before, did you know that? I observe. I design protocols. I analyze results. But direct implementation? That's typically left to my staff."
"So why—"
"Because you hit me." He said it simply, like it explained everything. "In three years, dozens of subjects, and you're the first to break through clinical distance. That makes you my responsibility."
"I didn't ask to be your responsibility."
"No. You asked for money. But what you need is far more valuable." He sat on the chair, belt across his lap. "Now then. Fifty strikes for violence. You'll count, as before. But this time, you'll also thank me for each one."
My stomach dropped. "Thank you?"
"For taking time to correct you. For caring enough to provide consequences. For not simply sedating you and letting my staff handle your conditioning." He patted his thigh once. "Position, please."
"I hate you." The words came out steady, certain.
