Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
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. The thought 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 the punishment, 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 out of sheer stubbornness, not wanting to participate in Selecta’s culture even to that small degree.