Five minutes of standing like this while he circles me slowly like a predator.
While the camera records every second.
While I watch myself in the mirror holding this humiliating, exposing pose.
My arms start to ache at the two-minute mark.
The muscles in my shoulders burn from the strain of holding them back after three minutes.
By four minutes, I'm trembling slightly from the effort.
My thighs are shaking.
My calves are cramping.
But I don't move.
Don't lower my arms.
Don't break position even slightly.
Because he didn't give me permission to move. And I've learned—God, I've learned so well—that moving without permission brings disappointment instead of praise.
And I crave the praise more than I fear the discomfort.
That realization should horrify me. Does horrify me.
But it doesn't change the fact that it's true.
"Good girl," he says finally, after what feels like an eternity. "You can lower your arms now."
Relief floods through me as I drop my arms to my sides, rolling my shoulders to ease the burn.
"You did so well. Held the position for the entire five minutes without complaint or movement. I'm very proud of you."
The words make something glow warm and golden in my chest even as I hate myself for feeling it.
Even as I recognize it as conditioning, as training, as exactly what he's designed me to feel.
Still feels good.
Still makes me want more of his approval.
"Now," he says, moving to sit on the leather couch. "Come here."
I cross to him with steps that don't hesitate.
Stand in front of him.
Wait for the next command like a good, well-trained acquisition.
"On your knees. Between my legs."
My stomach drops.
I know what this means, knowexactlywhat he's going to make me do.
Know that the camera is recording everything that's about to happen.
