The Third Night - Discipline Begins

[RJK79]

By the third night, I no longer entered Her room as a man. I entered as Robby, Her property in progress. The collar had left a faint mark on my neck; the memory of the plug and the burn of the red stilettos haunted me all day. I had learned to crawl without thinking. Now, I was learning to stand and move only when allowed.

When She summoned me that evening, the room was darker. Only a single lamp cast a pool of light in the center, where a long, low bench waited. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. I knelt automatically, my head bowed.

“Stand,” She commanded. My body moved before my mind caught up. The red stilettos pinched my feet. The plug was already inside me, pushed in before I was allowed through the door. Every step made me acutely aware of my body — not as mine, but as Hers.

She circled me, the sound of Her own heels a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Tonight we begin discipline,” She said softly, almost kindly. “Robby, you will learn that every movement is Mine. Every mistake is punished. Every act of obedience is a gift you give to Me.”

She led me to the bench and bent me forward across it. The leather smelled cold and deep. She buckled my wrists to straps so I couldn’t move, then stepped back. I heard the hiss of a cane being lifted. My heart slammed in my chest.

The first strike wasn’t hard — it was precise. A line of fire across my skin. The second landed just below it, the third across both. I gasped, my knees trembling inside the red heels, the plug pressing deeper with every flinch. She struck again, and again, each blow punctuated by Her voice: “Heel.” Strike. “Balance.” Strike. “Silence.” Strike.

By the seventh stroke, my body wasn’t fighting anymore. It was floating. I wasn’t thinking about ***, only about Her words, Her rhythm, Her ownership. I was losing myself in it — and it felt like freedom.

She stopped as suddenly as She’d started. Her hand slid down my back, a cool palm on burning skin. “This is discipline,” She said. “It shapes you. It makes you useful. You are not punished because you are bad. You are punished so you can be Mine.”

She unbuckled me, turned me, and made me kneel. My legs shook, but I stayed upright on the heels, the plug still inside me. She cupped my chin, forcing me to meet Her eyes. “Tomorrow,” She whispered, “you will serve on your feet, not your knees. And you will do it beautifully.”

She left me there in the dark, trembling, marked, and silent — not broken, but remade, another step closer to belonging completely to Her.