"I know." He waited with that infinite patience. "That's allowed. Hatred is just another emotion to process. Now come here, or I'll add to the count."
This time, I didn't hesitate as long. What was the point? He'd get his way eventually, through patience or force or that terrible reasonableness that made resistance feel childish.
I positioned myself across his lap, the chair putting us at a different angle than yesterday's bed. More vulnerable. More precarious. The dress rose easily—definitely designed for this—and cool air hit already-sensitized skin.
"Hands on the floor for balance," he instructed. "Fifty strikes. Count and thank me for each, or we begin again. Understood?"
"Yes." The word tasted like bile.
"Yes, what?"
I closed my eyes. "Yes, I understand."
The first strike came without warning, leather across tender flesh still bruised from yesterday. Pain exploded through me, sharp and clarifying.
"One," I gasped. Then, hating myself: "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For—for correcting me."
"Better." The second strike landed precisely, overlapping the first.
"Two. Thank you for correcting me."
By ten, tears streamed down my face. By twenty, I sobbed openly. The belt was different from his hand—less personal but more intense, each strike a line of fire that built into an inferno.
"Twenty-five," I choked out. "Thank you for—for correcting me."
"You're doing so well." His free hand rubbed my back, that same gentle comfort that shouldn't work but did. "Halfway there. Tell me why you hit me."
"Because I—twenty-six, thank you for correcting me—because I hated feeling weak."
"And?"
"Twenty-seven, thank you—fuck—thank you for correcting me. Because you made me feel good and I didn't want to."
"Excellent honesty." The strikes continued, methodical and devastating. "What else?"
"Twenty-eight—" I lost the words in a sob, had to start over. "Twenty-eight, thank you for correcting me. Because you were right about me and I couldn't stand it."
"About what specifically?"
"Thirty, thank you for correcting me. About—about self-sabotage. About armor. About—thirty-one, thank you for correcting me—about everything."
The admission broke something in me. The strikes continued but I barely felt them now, too lost in the realization that he'd seen through twenty-three years of carefully constructed walls in three days.
"Forty," I whispered. "Thank you for correcting me."
"Ten more. You're almost done."
Those last ten took forever. Each strike precise, measured, designed to leave marks thatwould last. But I counted. Thanked him. Submitted to this insane protocol because the alternative was starting over, and I couldn't survive another fifty.
"Fifty." The words came out broken. "Thank you for correcting me."
"All done." The belt disappeared, and his hand returned to my back, soothing. "You did beautifully. Took your punishment so well."
I should have moved. Rolled off his lap, created distance. Instead I lay there crying, overwhelmed by pain and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to relief.
