Submission Begins

“So Lucia it is. A good choice,” said George in a calm, cold voice. He had changed. It was no longer the man, the guard, the priest speaking. It was the voice of an executioner carrying out a sentence.

Carol sensed it subconsciously right away. Her skin reacted faster than her mind—goose bumps formed on her arms, a shimmering uneasiness deep in her stomach.

He sat up straight, stretched his back, placed his hands on his thighs—his posture seemed relaxed. He seemed at peace with himself. He had himself and everything around him under control.

“Kneel down. Face me. Hands flat on your thighs. Back straight. Head bowed. Then stay still. Don't move.”

She obeyed slowly and deliberately. The mat creaked softly under her knees. Her muscles trembled slightly. Her palms felt ice cold on her legs.

“And from this moment on,” he continued, “you will remain silent. You will not speak until I give you permission to do so.”

Carol nodded, then made her first mistake. “Yes, Father,” she whispered. He did not correct her—but he noted it silently on the tally of her sins.

Silence settled over the tent like dust in sunlight. Time slowed down. The soft sounds of the forest outside now seemed far away—the chirping of insects, the rustling of the wind in the trees, the occasional splash of the lake. Everything faded away. All she could hear was her breathing.

And his.

She felt a heat rising in her body.

He said nothing. Did nothing. He just watched her. Long minutes passed. She kept her head down. Couldn't see what he was doing. But she could feel his gaze like invisible fingers brushing her skin without ever really touching her. He was so close. Only an arm's length away. And yet he might just as well have been sitting on the other side of the world.

The muscles in her thighs began to cramp. Her lower back protested against the unfamiliar position. It wasn't pain yet—just the first signs of it. She moved slightly to ease the tension. The second mistake. Another entry on the tally.

She tried to meditate. Not to think. Not to worry about how he would punish her. But it was impossible not to think.

He had said he wouldn't hit her.

But maybe that was what she wanted him to do?

The thought was sharp. Embarrassing. And as soon as it appeared, another followed: Maybe that was the punishment. She imagined what he was doing. But the action did not follow the imagination.

The pain began to creep into her limbs. Dull, throbbing. She shifted her weight imperceptibly.

“Ts.”

Just a short click of his tongue. But it hit her like a whip. Carol froze again. Her cheeks burned. She swallowed dryly and remained motionless.

And then she understood what the real punishment was—it didn't hit her body, but her mind.

She wanted to speak.

She wanted to move.

She wanted to... do something.

But he said nothing. Didn't give her permission.

Time passed. Sluggishly. Every single minute fell on her shoulders like a weight, pressing her down.

And she realized: she had given up. She had surrendered complete control to him. She belonged to him. And with that realization, another feeling grew. Excitement. Desire. The warmth between her thighs had turned to heat, slippery, wet, and pulsing. She was suddenly acutely aware of how needy she had become.

After a gentle touch.

After a single word of praise.

But he gave her only denial. Surveillance. Distant presence.

She wanted to scream—not from pain, but from the unbearable feeling of not being seen, not being touched, not being desired by him.

And then, finally. Finally— “Look at me.”

She lifted her head.

“What do you feel?”

The permission to speak caught her off guard. Her mouth moved before her brain could form a sentence. Before she could think about what he might want to hear.

“Heat. Desire. Shame.”

“Good.” His tone was calm, emotionless. Casually, he reached into the side pocket of his shorts and pulled something out.