A different person?
1097 Words
Clara’s chest rose and fell in quiet, uneven rhythm.
Dorian stood close—so close she could feel the space where his hands could be, the breath he might have given her. But he did nothing.
He simply looked at her.
And then, in a voice lower than before—lower than any she’d heard from him yet—he said:
“Good girl.”
Two words.
That was all.
But they struck like heat behind her ribs.
Her lips parted. Her body didn’t know what to do with them—those words. They slid beneath her skin and bloomed there. Not like praise. Not like kindness. Something different. Something deeper. Something that made her ache.
And then he turned.
He walked toward the door without another word, his footsteps quiet, his back straight.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t dismiss her. Didn’t look over his shoulder.
He simply left.
The door closed behind him.
No lock. No click.
But it didn’t matter.
She stayed where she was.
The warmth from the fire pressed against her spine. Her hands trembled slightly.
She had never been called good before. Not like that. Not in a way that made her want to earn it again. Not in a way that made her knees feel weak and her pulse hot and her thoughts scattered.
She lowered herself slowly back to the rug.
And sat there, alone, in the flicker of firelight.
Waiting. For tommorow.
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The bell didn’t ring. But she knew it was time.
Clara stood by her door again, dressed in cream. The lace sleeves fluttered faintly as she breathed. Her fingers itched to hold something. Anything. But there was nothing here except stillness.
Until the knock.
Not the old woman. This time, it was him.
Dorian opened the door without a word.
He didn’t smile. But his eyes flicked over her once. And that was enough.
“Follow me.”
She obeyed, barefoot and silent.
They passed through unfamiliar corridors, each more narrow than the last. The walls here were darker—almost black. Lit only by flickering oil lamps in iron sconces. She felt them close in, like the house itself was drawing tighter around her with each step.
He stopped at a tall door, unlocked it with a silver key, and opened it without turning.
“Inside.”
She stepped through.
The room was bare.
Not cold, not cruel. Just simple. A black velvet chaise. A wall-mounted candle rack. A long mirror with no dust on its glass. On the table beside the chair: a leather riding crop.
Her breath caught.
Dorian closed the door behind them. Locked it.
He walked past her slowly and sat on the chaise like it was a throne. One leg crossed over the other. He didn’t speak at first. He let the silence build.
“I’m going to ask you to do something,” he said. “And you will say no.”
Clara blinked. “What?”
He raised one eyebrow slightly.
“You’re frightened. I understand. But we’re past fear now, aren’t we?”
She didn’t answer.
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly.
“Take off your dress.”
Clara stood still. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides.
He watched her—no pressure in his voice, no cruelty. Just certainty.
“I can look at your body fully clothed,” he said softly. “But that’s not what I want. I want to see if you can stand there, bare, and still hold yourself up.”
Her heart pounded.
Her hands moved—slowly—to the ribbon at the back of her neck.
She untied it.
The dress slid down her arms, then over her hips, pooling on the floor like cream.
She stood, naked, trembling.
The candlelight painted soft gold over her skin.
Dorian let his eyes move slowly, with precision. He didn’t rush. He didn’t comment. He didn’t praise.
Just watched.
Then he stood.
He walked toward her. Not fast. Each step like it had its own purpose.
He stood directly behind her and let the silence stretch.
Then:
“Kneel.”
She dropped to her knees on the rug.
“You disobeyed me once already today,” he said. “You left your room before the bell was removed.”
Clara’s eyes widened. “I thought—”
“No,” he said. “You assumed. You moved before being told.”
She swallowed.
He stepped to the table. Picked up the riding crop.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“I am not punishing you because I’m angry,” he said. “This isn’t anger.”
He moved behind her again.
“I am showing you what happens when obedience slips.”
Clara’s fingers curled against the rug.
“You’ll count.”
The first strike landed across her thighs. Not hard—but sharp. Surprising. A flash of pain, then a tingle.
“One,” she gasped.
Another, higher. Across her lower back.
“Two.”
Another, gentler, teasing more than hurting.
“Three.”
He moved around her slowly, making her feel the space between them, the air, the heat. Another strike. Another number.
By the seventh, her knees were trembling.
By the tenth, she was flushed and breathless, her thighs twitching, her face hot.
He stopped.
Silence again.
Then his hand came to rest on the top of her head—light, steady.
“I asked for ten,” he said. “And you gave them to me.”
She looked up at him through her lashes.
“You followed the voice. Even when it hurt.”
She said nothing.
He crouched beside her.
“Do you understand the difference now?” he said, voice low. “Between pain that breaks and pain that builds?”
Clara nodded.
“And what did you feel?”
She hesitated.
“I felt… seen.”
He smiled then—just slightly.
“Good girl.”
She inhaled sharply.
He stood again and walked to the door.
“Dress. Return to your room. Say nothing to anyone.”
He opened the door but paused without looking back.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll learn what to do when I make you beg.”
Then he left.
And Clara knelt there, blinking into the flicker of candlelight, feeling the warmth of every strike still humming beneath her skin.
She did not move for a long, long time. She wondered what would happen if this continued. Will she be a different person altogether?
- Writer
