It’s nice to hear him say he makes mistakes; I don’t feel that my failings are all my fault. Though I am punished for every aberration—whether his fault or mine—punishment is easy to take. I think my body has come to expect and welcome it. And—if the problem is really his fault—he always give me a s****l finish.
The standard mode of correction is simple. He sits in his leather chair. I stand before him looking down into his harsh, though sometimes perplexed expression. He addresses the difficulty head on, outlining where I’ve failed to comply or meet his standards (This is not like the brothel or Sir’s house where there were few explanations given.). It’s usually simple things, like attending to breakfast dishes before they start to bother him, or in the course of my busy day, forgetting
