Page 9 of His to Correct

As I gazed at my reflection, I felt a spark of my old determination reignite. Yes, I had been humiliated. Yes, I had been forced to confront uncomfortable truths about myself. But that didn’t mean I had to abandon my principles. I would keep fighting—and I wouldn’t give up this apartment—but, no, that wasn’t the point. The point was…

Anyway, I wasn’t going to quit. Decision made. Time to go back to bed.

Instead, though, I kept looking at myself in the bathroom mirror for a long time, struggling with my thoughts and feelings. The bright overhead light cast shadows across my face, accentuating the dark circles under my eyes and the worry lines etched across my forehead. I studied my reflection intently, searching for answers in the depths of my own gaze.

My long, dark hair fell in tangled waves around my shoulders, a complete contrast to the crisp, polished image I had presented at the start of the orientation just… what… twelve hours ago? Fourteen? I shook my head at the irrelevance of it, realizing somewhere in my mind that I was trying to avoid another idea or another memory. The oversized blue t-shirt I wore to sleep in hung loosely on my frame.

My eyes flickered downward, catching sight of my bare legs. With a hot blush I remembered how I hadn’t even been able to put on comfy cotton panties to sleep in, the way I always did. Thethought sent a fresh wave of shame and anger coursing through me. Such a small thing, denied to me by the cruel paddle.

Finally, as if I were unable to resist any longer an impulse I hadn’t even admitted to having, I turned around and looked at my reflection over my shoulder. My left hand trembled a little as I grasped the hem of my t-shirt and slowly raised it, revealing the aftermath of my punishment. The sight that greeted me in the glass made my breath catch in my throat.

My once-smooth olive skin had become a canvas of angry red welts and deep purple bruises. The unmistakable marks left by the paddle crisscrossed my backside in a pattern that spoke of methodical, calculated punishment. I winced as I remembered the sharp crack of each stroke, the way the pain had built with every swat.

Not thinking about it, I traced the outline of a particularly vivid bruise with my fingertips, hissing softly at the tenderness I found there. The contrast between my unmarked skin and the abused flesh looked jarring, a physical representation of how quickly my world had changed.

My eyes watered at the pain as I continued to examine the damage, explore it with my touch. It hurt, but I couldn’t stop, as if I needed to find something, learn something. I bit my lip, and kept walking my fingertips over the welts.

Yes… no… yes…

Yes: even as I felt the sting of soreness and humiliation, try as I might, I couldn’t deny the spark of a very different kind of feeling.

I remembered, my cheeks heating at the unbidden mental image, the way my body had betrayed me during thepunishment, the unwelcome heat that had gathered below my belly. Then, much worse, the memory of what I had done in the bathroom stall afterward flooded back. To my dismay, that recollection set off a larger problem: unable to stop myself, I squeezed my thighs together.

I shook my head, trying to dispel the conflicting emotions and sensations. I had just decided that I would change things, rather than succumbing to them. As I continued to gaze at my shamefully marked flesh, though, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had gotten in over my head. The bruises seemed to tell of a world I didn’t fully understand, one where business and pain—and business and pleasure—blurred in ways I had never imagined.

I turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of my punished flesh any longer. As I did, my eyes fell on the small tube of arnica cream sitting on the bathroom counter. I had bought it earlier that day, after the orientation, on the advice of Anne, a fellow recruit I’d met at lunch.

“Trust me,” Anne had said with a knowing look, “you’ll want to pick up some arnica at the pharmacy before you go home. It helps with the bruising and soreness.”

At the time, I had resented the other woman’s suggestion—I had taken it as an attempt to make herself feel superior. Which it might have been, of course, but that didn’t change what the stuff could do. Looking at the tube now, though, I remembered the expression in Anne’s eyes and reevaluated. Perhaps rather than arrogance, I had really seen in her face a mix of sympathy and resignation.

Staring at the unopened tube, I felt the inner conflict rise again. Using the cream felt like giving in, like accepting that this represented my new reality. I had refused to apply it earlier outof sheer stubbornness, not wanting to participate in Selecta’s culture even to that small degree.

But as I stood there, the throbbing pain in my backside a constant reminder of my humiliation, I couldn’t help but remember Anne’s words about her time at New Modesty college.

“The first few weeks were hell,” she had confided in a hushed tone. “I thought I’d never get used to it. But slowly, day by day, it became… normal. The discipline, the structure… it started to make a weird kind of sense.”

I had been enraged at the time, unable to imagine ever accepting such a system—barely able to keep chewing my sandwich, with the pain in my paddled ass and the humiliation of everyone in the room remembering what had befallen me over the chair. I reached for the tube with trembling fingers, wondering if despite my resolution to challenge the system I was taking the first step down that same path.

Trying not to think too deeply about what I was doing, I squeezed a dollop of the cool cream onto my fingertips. The medicinal scent filled my nostrils as I hesitated, my hand hovering just above my tender flesh.

Taking a deep breath, I began to apply the cream, wincing at the initial contact. As I gently massaged it into my bruised skin, I couldn’t help but let out a small sigh of relief. The cooling sensation was immediate, soothing the angry welts left by the paddle.

My fingers moved in small circles, carefully covering every inch of my punished bottom. As I worked, I found myself remembering more of what Anne had told me about her experiences at New Modesty college.

“The first time I was paddled,” she had said, her eyes distant with the memory, “I thought I’d die from the shame of it. But by the third or fourth time… there was something almost cathartic about it. Like all the stress and pressure just melted away with each stroke.”

I shook my head, trying to dispel the memory. That wasn’t me. That was insane. I wasn’t going to find anything ‘cathartic’ about being beaten like a disobedient schoolgirl.

And yet… as my fingers continued their gentle ministrations, I felt the involuntary heat begin to build between my thighs. I tried to focus solely on the medical nature of what I was doing—just applying a soothing balm to injured flesh. But as my hands moved over the tender curves of my bottom, I couldn’t help but remember again the feeling of being bent over the chair, exposed and vulnerable. This time the memory sent a jolt of electricity straight to my pussy.

My breath caught in my throat as I felt myself growing slick with arousal. This was wrong. So wrong. I was supposed to be outraged, disgusted by what had happened to me. Instead, my traitorous body was yet again responding with unmistakable desire. I had told myself after giving in, in the bathroom at work, that it wouldn’t happen again. Not twelve hours later, here I was, needing more.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the ache between my legs. But closing my eyes only made it worse, allowing vivid images to dance across my mind’s eye—the stern set of Sharon’s mouth as she wielded the paddle, the feeling of cool air on my bared flesh, the excruciating anticipation before each stroke fell.

A soft whimper escaped my lips as I felt my inner muscles clench with desire. My fingers, still slick with arnica cream, driftedlower almost of their own accord. I jerked my hand away as if burned when I realized where it was headed.

No.This isn’t me.I don’t want… this.

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