She is holding a long, thick leather strap now, looping it through her fingers, letting it flex and stretch before she snaps it through the air.

The first strike lands—a deep, resonant thwack across duckie’s upper back.

He doesn’t hesitate.

“One, thank you, Madam.”

Another. And another.

She is building a rhythm, each strike landing in the same general space, layering the impact.

duckie’s muscles flex beneath every hit, but he doesn’t falter.

“Twenty-five, thank you, Madam.”

The strap is heavier than a whip, broader than a cane—it’s meant to cover surface area, to bruise deep.

She keeps going, all the way to fifty.

The last stroke lands.

“Fifty for Madam, thank you, Madam.”

He is breathing hard, but his voice is still strong.