you kneel, trembling—pathetic, weak, exactly as you should be. your flesh is bare, vulnerable, waiting for the first cruel stroke. When the cane lands, sharp and unforgiving, you gasp—pathetic. The second strike makes you flinch—pathetic. By the tenth, you’re whimpering, shaking, reduced to nothing but a bruised, broken toy for my amusement.

Every stroke is measured, merciless. Welts bloom across your skin, proof of your suffering, proof of my control. You beg? I laugh. You squirm? I strike harder. You exist only to take the pain I decide to give. And I’m far from finished.

You wanted this. You begged for this. Now suffer for me.

Want it harsher? More humiliating? Let me know and I’ll make it hurt.