He makes me start over, like I thought he would, but at least he doesn’t add any more. My ass is throbbing already, but the thought that I’ve probably disappointed him hurts more. He gives me a minute to feel wretched before he begins again, harder than before, though that shouldn’t be possible. The blow gets me up on my toes and hissing, and I’ve barely forced myself to say the number and come back down when I feel his hand on my back and his voice in my ear. A scrap of praise that just leaves me wanting more. I can do this, for him. I will do this.

Another blow, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it doesn’t feel as hard. I don’t forget to count this one properly, and then he lets me have another. The sting is sort of piling up, becoming too much, and then bleeding out, feeling like the moment after you touch a coal, only stretched out for minutes. Each new stroke spreads it a bit more, but he’s going slowly enough that I can find some rhythm in the haze of pain. A strike, a count, a little pause to let me feel it completely and just start absorbing it, and then another strike. Toward the end, only the noise jars me, and the blows just lap up on one another like waves hitting the beach. I know he must be working his way from the top of my ass nearly to my knees, because all of that’s on fire, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where each one hits each time.

I tense for the next one, but the rhythm’s broken. No noise, no spike on top of it all, just the base of heated soreness that he’s built up. I try to remember the last number out of my mouth. Was it twenty? Must have been. I lick my lips and say thank you, adding a ‘sir’ for good measure. I stay down, though, waiting to see what he wants of me next.