Day Eleven.
The collar. The crawling. The degradation.
But this time, Dante added something new.
"Tell me you love me," he commanded.
"No."
The riding crop came out. Three strikes across her back.
"Tell me you love me."
"I don't—"
Five more strikes. She cried out.
"You will say it eventually. Why not make it easier on yourself?"
She gritted her teeth. Stayed silent.
Ten more strikes. Until her back was a mass of welts.
"I—" She choked on the words. "I love you."
"Again. With feeling."
"I love you." The lie tasted like poison.
"Good girl." He kissed her. "See? You can be so sweet when you want to be."
That evening, Atlas found her shaking. The welts on her back were bleeding.
"Jesus," he breathed. Then caught himself. Clinical voice. "I need to treat these. This will hurt."
