The Black-Market Trade – I Begged for a Different Punishment and Got Burned

 Month two, day sixty-two.

The ledger slapped onto the kitchen counter like a death sentence. Nine hundred and eighty points stared back—Chart A four-eighty, Chart B five hundred. My stomach flipped; I felt the numbers crawl under my skin.

Master’s voice cut flat: “One hundred eighty bare strokes. Eighteen hours knee-chain. Full accessories locked overnight. Door bolted till morning.”

Picture it.

One-eighty strokes on bare ass—welts rising like bread, sitting impossible for weeks.

Eighteen hours knee-chain—tiles biting kneecaps, back locked in a scream, legs numb, toes swollen.

Blind-seal, ear-plugs, tongue-gate, nipple-clips—dark, muffled, pinned in place while the body thrashes silent.

I folded.

“Please… Master… it can’t. Change it. Anything else.”

Wrong.

His eyes narrowed.

“Violation. Attempted negotiation. Add one hundred Chart B.”

Ledger updated: one thousand eighty.

Another stroke. Another hour. Another eternity.

I bit my tongue—tasted iron—stilled the plea. Silence swallowed the room. Chain clinked as my shoulders sagged against it. Ten heartbeats. Twenty. The metal warmed from my skin.

Then his voice, calm:

“Black-market rate.

Take this instead: twenty-four hours super-plus tampon, one hundred bare strokes, eight hours full accessories.

Debt wiped.

No chain.

But one more word from you—another violation, another hundred.”

I stared at the swap sheet he slid across the floor. Hands trembled; I scrawled a wobbly ACCEPTED. He unclipped the chain. I dropped—forehead cold tile, relief flooding like ice water.

The cane sang.

One stroke. Two.

By ninety my skin split. By one hundred I was floating—tears blurred the counter edge, copper filled my mouth.

Accessories next.

Blind-seal slapped over eyes—world gone.

Ear-plugs jammed—heartbeat drummed inside skull.

Tongue-gate wedged—drool pooled on chin.

Clips snapped on—throb blooming like poison flowers.

Eight hours. No way to track. Every twitch reminded: still there. Still his.

Finally the tampon.

Super-plus size—thicker, longer, already swelling.

He pressed—cold, slick, invasive.

I clenched on instinct. The burn crept in: warmth, then fire, then white-hot itch.

Hour one: stomach knotted.

Hour five: sweat soaked the pinafore.

Hour ten: silent tears streamed—couldn’t wipe them.

Hour fifteen: thighs quivered, every breath a fight to hold.

Hour twenty-two: mind blurred—begged release I had no right to.

Hour twenty-four: I was glass—any push and I’d shatter.

Debt wiped.

Body wrecked.

He unplugged it. I stayed kneeling—too broken to move. He walked out. Door shut.

Tomorrow the ledger resets.

A slouch: five points.

A late pour: ten.

A misword: fifteen.

Every point another stroke.

Another hour.

Another negotiation I’m forbidden to start.

I traded impossible for impossible.

And learned the rate:

Begging is free.

Agreeing costs everything.