Miranda thought she shrieked aloud when she recognized the nasty thing, though she had only gasped to herself. Even so, she stepped back from the door for an instant, afraid she might have been heard. When it seemed safe to look again, she returned to the opened door, remaining an undetected witness as the punishment progressed.
“Eight,” Mario announced.
“Oh gawd no!” the dancer wailed.
“You only get what you you’ve earned.”
“But I can’t take anymore,” she pleaded again, though even as she objected she didn’t remove her hands from the bar. There seemed something inevitable about this rite. They’d been through the ritual before. Even the quality of hers protests seemed part of a ceremony, just as the outcome was also written.
“Your pants Miss Reault,” Mario said.
The dancer shive
