Chapter 1: Niespodziewane lanie w salonie
The front door slammed behind me hard enough to rattle the frame in the hall. I dropped my backpack; it hit the floor with a thud, scattering a math book and a crumpled chip bag across the waxed wood.
Zosia was already in the living room, standing in a patch of weak autumn light, scrolling her phone. Her hair was different. She’d cut it, sharp around her jawline, a stark blonde against the dark wool of her sweater.
“Nice haircut,” I said, kicking my shoes off. “Makes you look like a dairy cow from the back.”
I didn’t even see her move. One second she was by the window, the next her fingers were a vise around the back of my neck, cold and absolute. My smart-ass retort died in my throat, replaced by a choked gasp. She didn’t speak.She never explains.
She marched me forward, my socks slipping on the polished floor. The living room was dark, always dark, smelling of lemon wax and the old, warm dust of the massive rug that swallowed all sound. That leather couch, her throne, waited.
With a brutal, efficient yank, she undid the button of my jeans, dragged the zipper down, and shoved everything—jeans, underwear—down to my ankles in one motion. The air in the room was cool against my suddenly bare skin. I stumbled, tangled in the fabric around my feet, and then her hand planted between my shoulder blades and pushed. I went down hard, my cheek pressed into the cold, smooth leather of the couch cushion. My hips were tilted up, exposed. Completely helpless.I braced.
The first smack came before I could even suck in a proper breath. A flat, hard crack of her palm against my right cheek. It wasn’t a warning tap. It was the real thing, full force, the kind that blooms instant, stinging heat.I yelped.
The next one landed on the left, a perfect mirror.A twin sting. Then another on the right, lower, where the sit-spot meets the thigh. She wasn’t counting. She never counts. This was just the opening volley, her hand finding its rhythm—crack, crack, crack—a steady, painful metronome against my skin.
“You—ah!—you bitch!” I spat into the leather, the words muffled.
Her only response was to shift her aim, focusing a rapid series of blows on the same tender spot at the crest of my bottom. The pain wasn’t just surface anymore; it was sinking in, deep and throbbing, building with each impact. My fists clenched in the cushion. My legs kicked involuntarily, but the denim around my ankles held them together, a frustrating prisoner.
The slaps came faster, a firestorm raining down. The initial sharp sting had melted into a continuous, deepening burn. I hated her. I hated the smug silence she was spanking me in. I hated the heat flooding my face, the tears that were already pooling in my eyes against my will.
“Stop,” I whimpered. It was a pathetic sound.
She didn’t stop. If anything, the spanks grew harder, more deliberate, each one a punctuation mark to my humiliation. The sound in the quiet room was obscene: the sharp clap of skin on skin, my ragged breathing, the soft creak of the couch as I squirmed.The tears broke. A hot track streaked down into my hairline. Then a sob ripped out of me, harsh and ugly. I couldn’t hold it back. The pain was too much, the position too vulnerable, her control too total.
As soon as the first real sob escaped, the pace changed. The relentless barrage eased. Now she took her time, selecting targets: the sensitive undercurve, the already-scorched center of each cheek, the tops of my thighs. Each new smack was a fresh shock on the oversensitized skin, making me jerk and cry out louder.
I was fully crying now, my body shaking, my nose running. The release was terrible and complete. I hated it.I craved it. I wanted it to never end and to stop immediately.
Finally, her hand rested, a heavy, hot weight on my ruined backside. The burning was incredible, a living blanket of pain. I heard her shift behind me. A drawer in the side table opened and closed. My heart, already hammering, seized. Not the hairbrush. Please, not the brush.
But it wasn’t the brush. It was her belt. I heard the slick slide of leather through belt loops, the soft snap as she folded it in her hand.
I froze, every muscle tense. The crying hitched in my throat.
The first lick of the belt was a different universe of pain. It wasn’t the broad, blunt shock of her hand. It was a thin, focused line of pure, white-hot agony that cut straight through the numb burn and sparked something deep in my nerves. I screamed, a short, sharp sound that echoed in the dark room.
She gave me ten. She never counts aloud, but I counted them in my head, each one a searing stripe across my thighs and bottom. By the fifth, I was begging, babbling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Zosia, please,” into the couch, but the words meant nothing. They were just sounds made by a body in pain.
When it was over, there was only the sound of my ragged weeping and the heavy, satisfied sound of her breathing. The belt landed on the couch beside my head with a soft thud.
“Get up,” she said, her voice calm, almost bored. “Stand here. Next to me.”
Wobbly, I pushed myself up. The movement made the fire on my backside roar. I clumsily dragged my jeans and underwear up over the brutalized skin, each brush of the fabric a fresh torture. I stood beside the couch, facing her where she had settled back into the corner, one leg tucked under her. She looked up at me, a small, serene smile on her lips.
“Cry properly,” she instructed, her eyes drinking in my blotchy, tear-streaked face, the way my shoulders shook. “I want to hear it.”
So I did. I stood there, my hands clenched at my sides, and let the sobs roll through me, loud and unchecked. The pain in my ass was a deep, pulsing ache, a constant reminder. The sound of my own distress seemed to soften the edges of her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening, a look of profound peace settling over her features.
After a long time, when my cries had quieted to hitched shudders, she opened her eyes. They were clear and cold.
“Go to your room. I’ll call you for dinner.” She picked up her phone again, dismissing me. “And if the crying stops before you get there, I’ll start over.”
I turned, every step sending a jolt through my sore body, and walked as fast as I could toward the hall, forcing the tears to keep flowing, the sobs to keep coming. The day was wasted for me. For her, it was just beginning.