Chapter 23: Morning Inspection
The morning light was a liar. It streamed through the bay window, clean and bright, painting cheerful patterns on the hardwood floor. It didn’t match the heavy silence in the living room, or the tight ball of dread sitting in Katja’ stomach.
Derek stood before them, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. He looked relaxed, almost bored, as his eyes traveled down the line. Fiona, Petra, Sabine, her. They were a mismatched set, lined up like soldiers awaiting review.
“Alright,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Let’s see how we all started the day.”
He moved to the end of the line, to Fiona. She was staring at her feet, her long blonde hair a curtain hiding her face. She flinched when he stopped in front of her.
“Fiona. Look at me.” Her head lifted slowly. Her delicate features were pinched with anxiety. “You had your protection on last night, right?”
She gave a tiny, miserable nod.
“Let’s check.” His fingers didn’t wait for permission. They hooked into the waistband of her soft cotton shorts and tugged, just enough to peek inside. The rustle of thick, plastic-backed material was unmistakable in the quiet room. A soft, hot shame seemed to radiate from Fiona’s small frame. Derek let the elastic snap back. “Dry. Good girl.”
He moved to Petra next. She met his gaze, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a nervous stillness. She chewed her lip.
“Petra. Hands out of your pockets.” She complied, letting her arms hang stiffly at her sides. His fingers repeated the same quick, invasive check at the waistband of her leggings, confirming the presence of simple cotton panties beneath. “Fine.”
Sabine was next. She stood straighter, her chin tilted up in a show of defiance that didn’t reach her eyes. She wore a short, pleated skirt.
“Sabine.” Derek didn’t touch her waist. Instead, his hand went to the hem of her skirt. He lifted it, just an inch, just enough to see the plain white briefs underneath. It was a small, deliberate act of dominance, and a hot flush crawled up Sabine’s neck and into her cheeks. He held it for a second too long before letting it fall. “Okay.”
Then he was in front of Katja. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs. She could feel the others' eyes on her, could feel the memory of the last twenty-four hours burning in the still-tender skin of her backside. She stared at the collar of his t-shirt, unable to meet his gaze.
“Katja.” His voice was softer, almost intimate. He didn’t check her waistband. His hand, warm from the coffee mug, came to rest on the seat of her soft pajama bottoms. He didn’t pat. He pressed. The heel of his palm ground into the muscles still sore from the hairbrush, from his hand. A sharp, bright spark of pain made her suck in a breath. Her eyes watered instantly.
“Still a little tender,” he observed, his tone conversational. He held the pressure for a long moment, making her absorb the full, humiliating sensation. “That’s good. It’s supposed to be.”
He finally removed his hand and took a step back, surveying his line-up. Fiona looked ready to cry. Petra was studying a crack in the floorboards. Sabine’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. Katja fought to keep her breathing even, the throbbing in her rear a relentless reminder of her place.
“Right,” Derek said, taking another sip of coffee. “This is working. But we’re going to formalize it. From now on, this is our new morning ritual. You’ll line up. I’ll check. We’ll make sure everyone is starting the day on the right foot. Dressed appropriately for the day they’ve earned.”
He let the words hang there, letting them understand this wasn’t a one-time thing. This was their new normal.
“And since we’re establishing routines,” he continued, his gaze settling on Katja again. “There’s the matter of last night’s attitude. The tears were a start, but I think we need something more… constructive.”
He pointed to the empty space of floor in the center of the living room, right in the middle of the patch of sunlight. “Katja. Come here.”