Her eyes are drawn to the pasta, so I simply push it closer to her and hand her the fork.
She takes it, her movements sluggish. She twirls a small amount of pasta onto the fork and brings it to her lips. She takes a small, tentative bite, chews slowly, then swallows. She repeats the process.
I watch her, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in my chest. She's like a wild animal I've tamed, a skittish creature I'm slowly coaxing out of its shell.
I pick up the burger and take a bite. The food is good, but I'm not really tasting it. I'm watching her.
I pour her a glass of coconut water and put it next to her plate. "Drink."
She does, without argument.
We eat in silence. The only sounds are the clinking of silverware, the soft scrape of her fork against the plate. She's eating slowly, methodically, but she's eating. That's all that matters.
When she's finished about a quarter of the pasta, she puts her fork down.
"More," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She's hesitant to pick up her fork, so I pick up the fruit and cheese plate, put half of the club sandwich on it, then put it in her lap.
She sighs, a small, weary sound. "I can't eat all this."
"Eat what you can."
She picks up half of the sandwich, a look of resignation on her face. She takes a bite, her movements slow and deliberate. She's not hungry, but she's obeying. That's what matters.
I finish my burger and fries, then lean back against the couch, watching her. She eats slowly; her gaze fixed on the food in her lap.
"Tell me what's on your mind," I say.
She swallows the bite in her mouth. "What do you mean?"
"This isn't just recovery for your body. It's for your mind too," I say. "You went through something very intense; you need to talk about it."
"Intense." She lets out a chuckle without humor. "You mean the part where you called me a liar, then hit me?"
"Spanked you," I correct. "And you deserved it. I told you there would be consequences if you lied and disobeyed me. I followed through."
I pick up the bottle of coconut water and hand it to her. She automatically drinks it. I bite back a smile of satisfaction at her obedience.
"I don't even know what's real anymore," she whispers. "Everything is so confusing. My body doesn't feel like my own."
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "It's not," I say bluntly. "Not anymore. For tonight, it belongs to me. And your body's responses were real, Erica. Very real."
A flush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks. "I didn't mean..."
"I know what you meant. But the confusion is a normal part of it. Let me be clear so you can have some peace of mind. What you experienced tonight, what you're feeling right now, is normal. The shame, the pleasure, the confusion. All of it."
She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. She's looking for the catch, for the hidden trap. But there isn't one. This is a truth I can give her.
"The pleasure is a direct result of the surrender," I say. "The more you give up control, the more intense the pleasure. The shame is a learned response, a societal construct that tells you what you experienced was wrong. It wasn't. It was a natural expression of your own desires."
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not a bad person for liking it. You're not weak for wanting it. You're just a woman who's figured out what she needs."
"No," she says and sets the glass down deliberately. "That's not what I need. I don't know what the hell happened, but this isn't normal. This isn't what—"
She struggles with her next words.
I watch her and wait.
