Evaluative.
I gasped not from pain, but from awareness.
The second landed harder.
Then the third.
“Count.”
“Three,” I breathed.
The fourth followed before I could recover.
By five, the sting bloomed hot.
By seven, my thighs trembled.
“Ten,” I cried, throat raw.
He paused.His hand rested briefly on my lower back.
Not comfort.
Confirmation.
“You asked for this,” he said.“Stay with it.”
“I am.”
The next strikes came sharper.Cleaner.
No rage.
No indulgence.
Just precision.
By fifteen, tears blurred my vision.
By nineteen, my voice broke.
The final strike landed, measured, and final.
“Twenty.”
I collapsed to my knees, breath ragged, body shaking.
Creed knelt beside me.
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t speak.
He let the moment exist.
Then he lifted me and carried me to the bed, laying me down with care.
“I want you to lie here,” he said calmly, “and think about your choices—and what trust requires.”
