He sat on the edge of my bed, then he patted the space in front of him.
I stood, hands at my sides.
He looked up at me, just long enough for me to feel the weight of his attention.
He said, “Take off your jeans.”
My hands shook on the button, but I did it. The zipper was stiff. The denim clung to my legs, my hips, and I had to brace on the bed to pull them down. I kept my eyes on the carpet. My face burned.
I stepped out of them. I stood there in my t-shirt and underwear, socks balled up and half-off from when I’d kicked the shoes in the hall.
He said, “The underwear, too.”
I swallowed. “All of it?”
“Yes, Angela. All of it.”
I hooked my thumbs under the band. The cotton peeled off slow, sticky with sweat and something else. I could feel the wet between my legs, the embarrassing confirmation that I was not just afraid, not just ashamed, but hungry for it. I let the underwear fall. I stood, shirt barely covering anything, the rest of me open and bare.
He said, “Come closer.”
I did.
He took my wrist, gentle, and pulled me between his knees. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of my t-shirt, and with the slowest motion in the world, dragged it up and over my head. My hair went wild, static popping off the ends.
Now I was naked.
He said, “Lie across my lap.”
I did not hesitate. That was the contract—do what you’re told, do not make it into a debate.
He guided me down. My hips landed first, square on his thigh. He arranged me with both hands—one at the small of my back, one at the nape of my neck, pressing my arms forward so that my hands landed on the tight white duvet. My feet touched the floor, toes flexed. I felt my ass go up, bare and so vulnerable I thought I might scream.
His palm rested on my skin. Warm, rough, a heat that soaked straight through.
He didn’t move. He just left it there.
After what felt like a minute, he asked, “How many do you think is fair, Angela?”
I thought about lying. I thought about saying five, or two, or zero. But the part of me that had signed the contract said: ten.
I whispered, “Ten?”
He rubbed a slow circle over my skin. “Good girl. Ten it is. You’ll count them with me.”
His hand left my skin and I braced, but even then I wasn’t ready. The first blow landed with the sound of a gunshot, sharp and perfect and final. The pain was astonishing—not a slow build, not a dull ache, but a slap that ricocheted from my tailbone to my scalp in a single electric arc. I gasped so hard I almost bit my tongue. I felt my body rock forward on his knee, the duvet twisting under my hands.
He let his palm rest on the spot, like a brand, and this was the worst part—he didn’t move, didn’t do a thing to ease it. He just waited. Let the pain bloom, let it radiate out and fill every bit of me with heat. I tried to keep my back straight. I tried not to hide my face in the blanket. But when he lifted his hand for the second strike, I flinched so hard that my toes left the ground.
He paused, just long enough to make me dread it. To make me want it again, even as the skin on my ass burned. I could feel it—my entire body tuned to the anticipation, to the next hit, the promise of it suspended in the silence.
I gripped the duvet so tight my knuckles went numb. My heart pounded in my ears, and underneath it, a different kind of pulse: the slick, desperate throb between my legs. I didn’t want to notice it, but I did. I was soaked, and the air on my skin was cool and humiliating.
“One,” I said.
The second strike landed lower, right where the thigh met the curve of my ass. It was harder. I flinched. The tears came up immediately, pricking the inside of my eyes, but I kept my voice steady.
“Two.”
