Chapter 1: Niespodziewana wizyta
The front door clicked shut, the sound too final, like the lock on a cage. Wiktoria dropped her backpack on the floor with a thud and shrugged out of her jacket, letting it puddle on the scuffed wood. The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge.
“I’m home,” she muttered, not expecting a reply.She padded into the living room.And there she was. Zosia, curled on the sofa like a cat, a book open in her lap.She didn’t look up.
“Pick up your jacket,” Zosia said, her voice flat, a statement not a request.
“It’s fine there.” Wiktoria headed for the kitchen, her stomach growling.
“Now.”
The word hung in the air, soft and dangerous.Wiktoria stopped, her back tense. She turned slowly.“What’s your problem?I just walked in. Christ.”
Zosia finally lifted her gaze. Her eyes, a cool hazel, scanned Wiktoria from her messy dark hair to her scuffed school shoes.There was no anger in them.That was worse. It was just… assessment.Boredom.“My problem is your attitude. It’s filthy. This whole apartment feels filthy when you come in with that scowl.”
“Fuck off, Zosia.It’s been a long day. I don’t need this.” Wiktoria’s heart had begun a hard, rhythmic knock against her ribs. She saw it then, looped casually over the arm of the sofa: the belt. Solid black leather, worn soft in some places, stiff and brutal in others.Her mouth went dry.
Zosia saw her looking.A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She marked her page and closed the book, setting it aside with deliberate care. She stood, stretching, and the sinewy strength in her arms was clear under her thin t-shirt. She picked up the belt, letting it hang from her hand.The buckle kissed the floor.
“Come here, Wiktoria.”
“No.”
“You can come here, or I can come get you. The outcome is the same, but the second option adds five.Your choice.”
Wiktoria’s bravado was a brittle shell. It cracked.Her feet, of their own treasonous accord, took a step forward.Then another. She stopped in the middle of the living room rug, her fists clenched at her sides. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.Okay? Just… not today.”
Zosia walked a slow circle around her.“You didn’t do anything specific.That’s the beauty of it. I’m in a bad mood.You exist. That’s enough.” She stopped behind Wiktoria.“Jeans and underwear.Off. Now.”
A hot flush of shame swept over Wiktoria’s skin.“No way.You’re insane. Oskar will—”
The crack of the belt against the back of her thighs was like a gunshot in the quiet room. A line of pure, stunning fire seared through the denim.She yelped, jumping forward.
“He isn’t here.I am.And I won’t ask again. Thirty seconds, or it’s forty strokes instead of thirty.”
The math was cold and efficient. Wiktoria’s fingers trembled as she fumbled with the button of her jeans, the zipper. She pushed them down over her hips, along with her cotton briefs, letting them tangle around her ankles.The air in the apartment was cool on her bare skin. She stared at the pattern on the rug, wishing she could vanish into its faded threads.“Kneel on the rug. Arms out in front of you, palms flat.”
The position was humiliating, submissive. Wiktoria lowered herself, the rough weave of the rug scratching her knees. She stretched her arms out, her forehead nearly touching the floor. From here, she could see under the sofa, a realm of dust bunnies and lost hair ties.Her entire body was trembling.
Zosia moved to her side.There was a shift of weight, the soft creak of floorboards. “Count them.Loud and clear. If I miss a number, we start over.”
Wiktoria nodded, a tear already soaking into the rug.
The first stroke landed with a sickening thwack.The pain was immediate, a deep, burning ache that radiated outwards.
“One,” Wiktoria gasped.The second came quickly, just below the first, a parallel line of agony. Her breath hitched.“Two.”
Zosia worked with a terrible, methodical precision. Each stroke was measured, deliberate, leaving a separate, blazing imprint. The belt wasn’t just leather; it was a scalpel, slicing through her defiance, her pride, everything. By the tenth, Wiktoria was crying openly, her body jerking with each impact. She could feel the heat building in her skin, a topography of pain.“Ten! Please, Zosia, please…”
“We’re only a third of the way. Posture.”
The next ten were worse.The pain layered upon itself, no longer distinct lines but a continent of fire. Her skin felt tight, swollen.Her pleas dissolved into ragged sobs, her count muffled against the rug. She lost count at twenty-two, her mind a white buzz of hurt.
A sharp tap of the belt on her upper thigh. “What number?”
“I… I don’t…”
“We start from twenty.You know the rules.”
“No!Twenty-two! It was twenty-two!”
“Prove it.”
Another sob, wrenched from her chest. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything…”
The belt cracked down, not on her bottom but on the sensitive underside of her thigh.She shrieked, her legs buckling.
“Twenty-three,” Zosia corrected, her voice calm.“Now continue.And keep your position. Or we add more.”
The final seven strokes were a blur. Wiktoria chanted the numbers like a prayer, each one a victory and a surrender. When Zosia finally said, “Thirty,” the word didn’t register at first. The silence that followed was punctured only by Wiktoria’s harsh, gulping breaths and stifled cries.
She stayed kneeling, her body locked in the posture of punishment. The pain was alive, a pulsing, throbbing entity.She felt a hand, surprisingly gentle, on her damp hair. Zosia smoothed it back from her forehead.“See?All done. That wasn’t so long, was it?”
Wiktoria flinched at the touch.Zosia knelt beside her, her face close. Her eyes were bright, almost tender. She studied the vivid, criss-crossing welts rising on Wiktoria’s skin, the darkening shades of red and purple. She reached out and traced one with a single finger, making Wiktoria jump.“Beautiful marks. They’ll last for days.A good reminder.”
She stood, brushing off her knees. “You can get up.Get some ice.Make dinner. I want it ready by seven.” She coiled the belt with practiced hands, the leather whispering against itself. She walked back to the sofa, picked up her book, and settled back into her corner as if nothing had happened.
Wiktoria pushed herself up slowly, every movement a fresh protest. She pulled up her underwear and jeans, hissing as the rough fabric made contact.She didn’t look at Zosia. She shuffled to the kitchen, each step a careful negotiation, and opened the freezer. The cold air poured out over her hot face, mixing with the tears.
From the living room, Zosia’s voice floated, soft and conversational.“We’ll do this again soon. Just to keep you honest.”