The First Punishment Her New Master Let Her Choose
“You’ve contradicted me three times today,” Adrián said without raising his voice. “And you took far too long to finish your food.”
Lucía kept her gaze on the floor, her knees firm against the cold wooden floor of the study.
“I’m sorry, Master. Even after softening it, I find it difficult to swallow.”
“I’ll take that into account. But first, the three offenses have to be corrected.”
He slowly circled the empty space, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a methodical man, restrained in his movements, and that unsettled her more than any shout. Her previous owner, Marcos, had been pure fury. Adrián was calculation, and calculation did not grow tired.
“I’m going to do something your previous master never did,” he continued. “You’re going to choose. Three punishments. You decide on two of them; I’ll decide the third based on how you behave during the first two. One of the ones you choose will involve blows. The other won’t.”
Lucía barely raised her eyes.
“And what if I choose something too gentle, Master?”
“Then I’ll multiply it by whatever seems appropriate to me.” He paused. “That’s why it’s in your interest to be honest with yourself. If you choose something harsher than what I had in mind, I’ll give you what you chose. If you choose something soft, you’ll know that you yourself prolonged the night.”
That was the cruel part. Not the pain: the decision.
“May I ask something?” she said.
“Once.”
“Does the equipment here include a stiff-bristled brush? And one of those machines that moves by itself?”
Adrián watched her for a moment, as though recalculating something.
“I have both. The machine, yes. The brush too.”
“Then the first punishment, if it pleases you, will be one hundred strokes with the brush on my buttocks.”
“Noted. And the other?”
“Twenty minutes tied to the machine, at whatever speed you choose.”
“Accepted,” he replied, and for the first time something resembling a smile crossed his face. “And that second one will determine the third. I was going to give you fifty strokes of the cane on the soles of your feet. But since you asked for one hundred with the brush, the third will also be one hundred.”
Lucía closed her eyes for a second. She had calculated wrong. She knew it.
“Where those one hundred land, you’ll decide without realizing it,” Adrián added. “Before the machine, you’ll drink three large glasses of water. I’ll place a container beneath your body. Depending on how well you hold out during those twenty minutes, depending on how much your body betrays you, I’ll know where the final one hundred go. If you stay dry, they’ll go to your feet. If not, they’ll move higher.”
“Yes, Master,” she murmured, and drank what he handed her, glass after glass, until her stomach felt heavy and taut.
***
The study was arranged with almost clinical neatness. Everything in its place, every strap coiled, every buckle gleaming. To Lucía, the coldness of that order said more about Adrián than any word could have: this man did not improvise.
“We’ll start with the machine,” he said. “It’s what requires the most preparation. Lie on your back on the table.”
She obeyed. She felt the cold of the tabletop against her back while he adjusted the attachment to the articulated arm, checked its range, measured with a marker, and took private amusement in his own meticulousness.
“We don’t want surprises,” he remarked ironically, securing every screw. “Everything under control.”
“Yes, Master,” Lucía replied, and thought that control was precisely what had brought her there. At the auction, you did not choose the buyer. You chose to keep breathing, to keep serving, and to trust that the hand touching you knew how far to go.
He had her get on all fours in front of the apparatus. He fastened two padded straps around her thighs, clipped them to the structure with carabiners, and tightened them until she could no longer move away even an inch. He placed the container between her legs.
“You won’t be able to get away. That’s the idea.”
He set it for twenty minutes. Speed five. He activated the movement and left the study without looking back, closing the door gently, like someone leaving a room in silence.
Lucía began screaming at the four-minute mark. The movement was dry, insistent, mechanical, a pressure that did not merely brush against her but tore every reaction from her body. The apparatus thrust and withdrew without tiring, again and again, and sweat began to form beneath her hair, at the nape of her neck, between her breasts, at the base of her belly. The wood beneath her hands became a lifeline. She breathed in ragged gasps, her mouth open, the air escaping in moans she could not contain. Her cunt throbbed with a mixture of heat and need, as if the punishment were seeking something deeper than pain: involuntary wetness, the surrender of a body that no longer obeyed her mind.
At ten minutes, she felt her body beginning to give way, the pressure of the water she had drunk becoming unbearable, every second stretching out like an hour. She clenched her teeth. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. With Marcos, she had learned the only defense available to her: show nothing. Visible pain only fed the person causing it. Silent pain, on the other hand, disconcerted him.
But the machine recognized neither pride nor shame. It rubbed her with brutal precision, forcing her legs farther apart, making her arch her back and tense her abdomen while her belly filled with a hot, humiliating urgency. Moisture slid along the insides of her thighs; she did not know whether it was sweat, arousal, or her body betraying her. She only knew that the rubbing was driving her mad, that every mechanical thrust pulled a new sound from her throat, more broken, lower, more animal than the last. She bit her forearm to keep from screaming Adrián’s name.
She was crying, but tried not to let the tears escape her eyes. She counted breaths. She told herself that every minute that passed was one minute less. Endure. That’s all. Endure.
When the machine stopped, the silence buzzed in her ears. Adrián entered, checked the container without touching her yet, and made a mental note of something.
“Good,” he said. “You lasted longer than I expected. But not long enough to save yourself completely.” He released her from the straps with the same calmness with which he had fastened them. “Turn over. Face down. It’s time for what you asked for yourself.”
***
Lucía rolled onto the table and remained lying there, her forehead resting on her arms, her buttocks exposed to the harsh light of the spotlight. She heard Adrián move to one side, the snap of the brush as he closed his hand around it, the rustle of his clothing as he raised his arm.
“Like one of the old-fashioned punishments,” he said. “Count every one and thank me. If you lose count, we start again at one.”
The first stroke drew a gasp from her that she managed to stifle in time.
“One. Thank you for correcting me, Master.”
The second. The third. Adrián worked methodically, varying the rhythm so she could not anticipate it, sometimes delivering two in succession and at other times waiting until Lucía’s back relaxed before striking again. The wood of the brush bit into her flesh with a clean cruelty, and each impact made her already tense, already hot, already reddened buttocks bounce beneath her skin. He reached fifty on one cheek, switched sides, and distributed the other fifty over the other. By the time he finished, her voice was hoarse from thanking him so many times and her skin burned as though she had been left in the sun. Her sex was soaked, sensitive, almost aching from the sheer contrast with the punishment, and every time the imaginary cane of pain came down on her ass, a tremor traveled through her belly and lodged in her thighs.
“Well counted,” he conceded. “You didn’t lose track once. I’ll give you that.”
Lucía did not answer. She couldn’t. She only breathed, long and shakily, gripping the edge of the table.
“I’m going to have dinner,” Adrián announced, putting the brush away. “You are not to move. When I come back, we’ll finish what’s left.”
And he left her there, exposed and burning, counting the minutes as she had counted the strokes before.
***
When he returned, his sleeves were rolled up and he held a thin bamboo cane, the kind used as a walking stick.
“The container showed almost three liters,” he informed her. “Almost. That means the final one hundred go neither to your feet nor to your belly.” He moved closer until he was beside her. “They’re going to your breasts. Sit on the table and put your hands behind your neck.”
Lucía obeyed. Her breasts were large and heavy, and she knew that part of her body was among the most sensitive. Marcos had never dared go that far. She felt a chill in her stomach that had nothing to do with the water.
Adrián watched her with clinical attention, as though measuring a precision instrument. He moved her hair away from her shoulders, exposing her nipples, already hardened by the air, and drew the tip of the cane along them first, a barely perceptible stroke that made her hold her breath.
“Fifty from above, fifty from below,” he said, gauging the position. “Start counting from one again.”
The cane whistled and fell. Lucía’s entire body jerked backward. The stroke did not land only on flesh; it traveled through her chest like a jolt, closing her throat. Her breasts trembled indecently, round and heavy, and at the next impact a moan escaped before she could stop it. Adrián did not let her retreat into a comfortable position: each time he changed the angle, striking a little lower, then a little higher, making the pain spread across her breasts, her side, and the exact center where the skin grew thinnest. Her nipples burned as though they had been pinched with fire, and despite everything, she kept counting.
“One. Thank you, Master, for correcting me.”
Adrián took his time. He struck, waited, and watched her face for a crack. But Lucía gave him none. Not a grimace, not one sob too many. Only the number, the formula, her broken breathing between them. And far from calming him, that inflamed him. He wanted to see something. He wanted her to yield, to acknowledge with her body what she refused to acknowledge with her voice. The cane left marks that appeared one by one across the pale skin of her breasts, red lines swelling with every contact. Lucía felt the pain make her crotch even wetter, a filthy, shameful reflex that made her squeeze her thighs together. Her arms trembled from keeping her hands behind her neck, but she did not lower them even an inch.
“I don’t know whether you’re very strong or very stubborn,” he murmured between strokes.
“Both, Master,” she replied, and for an instant she thought she saw something resembling respect in his face.
They reached fifty. He changed the angle and positioned himself lower, and the final fifty fell in a slow, deliberate progression, making her breast move with every impact, her breathing fracture, her whole body enter a rhythm of pain and obedience. Her nipples were no longer merely sensitive: they were tiny, burning islands, and every brush of air made her shudder. By then Lucía was trembling from head to toe, but she kept counting, kept thanking him, kept refusing to break in the way he expected.
“One hundred,” she said at last. “Thank you, Master, for correcting me.”
Adrián lowered the cane. He stood looking at her for a long while, his chest rising and falling almost in time with hers.
***
“Hands behind your back,” he ordered, recovering the serene voice he had used before.
Lucía crossed her wrists behind her waist. He fitted padded leather clamps over them, adjusting them carefully and checking with one finger that the pressure was firm but not unrelenting. Then he loosened her hair slightly, as though he wanted the final gesture to serve as a warning too.
“These stay on for a while,” he explained. “They’re not meant to cause you new pain. They’re meant to make sure you don’t forget the night the moment you walk through that door.”
“I won’t forget it, Master,” she said, and it was true.
Adrián circled her one last time, assessing her from head to toe, like a craftsman reviewing his finished work.
“Your previous master had you poorly trained,” he said. “He punished in anger. That’s easy. The difficult thing is to punish with purpose, to make you choose, to force you to look directly at what you are.” He bent down until he was level with her eyes. “And what you are, Lucía, is someone who doesn’t break. Which means I’ll have to learn how to take you farther. Slowly. Methodically.”
She held his gaze. Her whole body hurt, but inside she felt something strangely close to calm: the certainty that she had endured, that for once she had found an owner who understood the difference between punishing and destroying.
“Don’t move until I come back to release you,” Adrián said, and switched off the main light, leaving only the dim light in the corner. “You behaved better than three offenses deserved. Next time, try not to contradict me. Not out of fear. Because you already know that here, every decision you make has consequences.”
“Yes, Master,” Lucía replied in the half-light.
And as he walked away, she understood that what marked her most about that first night was not the blows, nor the machine, nor the burning that still ran across her skin. It was having chosen. Having held in her hands, for one moment, the exact shape of her own punishment. That was the true strap, the one no one could see, the one a patient master knew how to tighten without even touching it.
