The Corner

You wouldn't think that the worst of the butterflies would happen while I'm just standing still, but without fail, those are always the strongest. They're not borne of suspense - I already know exactly what I've got coming to me in the next hour or two - but instead, they're pure anticipation. Adrenaline. I can feel them fluttering through my veins, making every cell in my body hum. And with my nose tucked up against the corner, where two cream-colored walls meet, I have nothing else to focus on.

I wait, just as I have for the last fifteen minutes. The world is quiet and white and still, but inside of me, an ocean crashes its tide against my lungs. This is the worst part - every single time.

When I hear the bedroom door open, it's relief and terror all at once. Finally, the anticipation stops, and the real thing begins.

"Come here," he orders. His voice is measured - not mad, but almost businesslike, and its low velvet pitch rings in my ears. Turning around, I obey and walk to where he sits on the bed. Moving makes the air drift over my bare skin, a cool breeze all the way down. I know I'll be warm again soon.

Standing tall, hands folded behind my back, I let him stare at me.

"Was that enough time for you to think?" he asks. I know that by "think," he means "contemplate my fate."

"Yes, Sir." My response is nearly scripted, but I still mean it.

"Are you ready for your bath?" he continues. I shiver.

"Yes, Sir."

He walks me down the hall to the bathroom with his hand on my shoulder, making sure I don't give in to my urge to turn and run the other way. I know better than that, though - I don't need to make things any worse tonight. I know I earned this, and that it isn't supposed to be for fun.

The lights are low, just the way I like them, and the air is humid and warm. The tub is filled up and topped with bubbles, and I can see ghostly steam drifting up from the heat. This is always hard, too - trying to find the nerve for the next step.

He assists me with a sharp slap on the ass. I yelp, wincing as the sting crescendos and settles deep within me.

"Get in." Now there's some edge in his voice, telling me that he has no patience for my hesitation.

It's hard to be tossed into the hot water, like he sometimes will... But it's even harder to do it myself. Slowly (but still fast enough to avoid another spanking), I climb in, one foot at a time. The bubbles tickle my skin, but the water is hot - at the very brink of uncomfortable. I sit slowly, lowering myself until my stinging cheek touches the enamel bottom, and I turn to face him as he descends to his knees and rolls up the sleeves on his shirt.

The first step is a cupful of hot water, dumped unceremoniously on my head. It sluices through my hair and over my face, and I blow the water away as best I can before trying to wipe my eyes clear with only moderate success.

When I open them again, I see him working that damn bar of soap into a lather, his strong hands building thick suds on the surface. I feel my heart skip a beat.

"Open." He doesn't make me wait, thank gods. I don't think I could bear it if he did.

Again, it's hard to obey when I know this is going to suck... But I do it anyway. I know I earned this. He tucks the soap into my mouth, and the overwhelming taste takes me over again. It's familiar in an awful way, the way the floral fumes invade my entire head, and he's never afraid to push it deep. This is for punishment, and so he scrubs. In and out, back and forth, he twists it and scrapes it across my teeth to leave the creamy bitterness behind long after my bath is over. Every so often, he pauses to wet it down and work up a fresh lather again, but it hardly counts as a break before he's got the soap bar back inside for another punishing round.

This is when I lose track of time. I'm not sure how many rounds he gives me - only that by the time he's done, my lips are just starting to burn. After one more relathering, I open for the last time, and he sticks the bar in.

"Bite," he orders me. I do, holding the acrid taste while I bite back tears.

My eyes follow him as he reaches for the bathbrush.

"Now," he says, "Up on your knees. And get comfy, because we're not stopping until every part of you is scrubbed raw."