#inspections

He is already standing when he tells you, calmly, to go wait for him in the bathroom. There is no escort. No theatrics. Just instruction and expectation.

You go immediately.

The bathroom light is bright and honest, illuminating more than the softer glow of the bedroom ever would. The counter is clear. The mirror spotless. The stool waiting in front of the counter is not low and tucked away, but tall enough that when you climb onto it, you are elevated into the full frame of the mirror. It does not diminish you. It presents you.

“Take your position,” he says as he walks in, shutting the door behind him before rolling up his sleeves.

You climb up carefully, aware of the height, aware of how exposed you will be. Your knees settle onto the flat surface of the stool, spaced apart for balance and access both. The elevation forces your hips higher than if you were kneeling on the floor, and you lean forward, as trained, placing your palms flat against the cool countertop.

Your fingers spread automatically. Your arms straighten, but don't lock. Shoulders align over wrists and you feel your spine lengthen as you settle into the long, sloping line that he prefers. Not arched in performance. Not slouched in shame. Neutral. Controlled. Responsive.

In the mirror, you are fully framed. There is nowhere for your eyes to drift without meeting yourself.

You adjust your spine into neutral alignment, lengthening through the crown of your head. The height makes you feel displayed rather than diminished. You are not folded at someone’s feet. You are elevated. Presented.

A pet on display.

You hear his footsteps approach behind you, steady and unhurried. He does not touch you immediately. In the reflection, you see him take in the full picture first. Your posture. The set of your mouth. The careful stillness in your shoulders.

“You’re holding your breath,” he observes quietly.

You hadn’t realized you were.

“Fix it.”

You inhale slowly through your nose and let it out in a controlled stream, allowing your ribcage to expand and settle. Your breathing evens out.

“Better,” he says.

His gaze lingers on your body. “Nervous is fine. Anticipation sharpens you. But don’t let it make you brittle.”

There is no accusation in it. Just calibration.

“Yes Sir,” you answer softly.

His eyes lift to meet yours in the mirror, sharp and assessing. “That was your last unprompted sound,” he says evenly. “If you forget, I’ll solve it for you.”

The implication settles immediately.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The image is simple and efficient: a gag retrieved from the drawer, fitted without fuss, not as punishment but as a corrective tool. You know he would do it calmly. Methodically. And then continue his work without distraction.

Your lips press together in quiet understanding.

Silence settles properly this time.

His hands come to your hips first, steadying you on the stool. He shifts you slightly, just enough that you feel the adjustment more than see it.

“A touch to the right,” he says, voice even. “I want symmetry.”

The correction isn’t sharp. It’s thoughtful, almost aesthetic, like aligning a frame until it hangs perfectly level.

You adjust carefully, redistributing your weight until both knees and both hands bear you evenly.

He studies the reflection again.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s clean.”

His palm glides lightly along your spine, mapping the line of it, feeling for unnecessary tension.

When you instinctively stiffen further under his touch, trying to perfect the posture, his tone shifts just slightly.

“Don’t brace against me,” he says, not displeased, just precise. “I need you responsive, not rigid.”

You ease the excess tension, allowing your muscles to remain engaged but supple, steady without locking.

“Good,” he says quietly.

And the word feels earned.

You came prepared, as expected. Plugged. Clean. Ready. He does not need to ask.

He removes the first plug with deliberate slowness, watching your face in the mirror rather than the motion of his hands. The sensation draws a quiet tension through your body, but your expression remains composed. Your fingers press more firmly into the countertop, knuckles whitening slightly.

He notices.

“Ease your hands,” he says calmly. “The counter isn’t going anywhere.”

You consciously relax your grip, flattening your palms again.

The second plug follows, larger, more demanding. The stretch is sharper, more invasive, and for a moment your shoulders threaten to rise.

“Shoulders,” he reminds you.

You lower them and take in a grounding breath.

“Good.”

He sets the plugs aside and steps closer, his body aligned directly behind yours. Because of the stool’s height, your faces are nearly level in the mirror. He does not have to bend to read you. You are the one elevated into his field of vision.

Then he begins the assessment.

Light pressure first. A baseline. You feel your body respond instinctively, the subtle tightening that wants to occur.

He pauses.

“Let it open,” he instructs quietly.

You breathe into the sensation and consciously override the reflex.

He increases the pressure gradually, methodically, each increment held long enough for him to study your reaction. The height of the stool makes the posture more demanding; your thighs tremble faintly under the sustained tension, and your core works to keep you balanced.

In the mirror, you watch your own composure.

The pressure edges toward your threshold, bright and controlled. Your breath stutters once before you smooth it.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No Sir” you answer when permitted. “I can take it.”

He studies your pupils, your jawline, the pulse at your neck.

He pushes slightly further, testing that boundary. Your fingers spread wide against the counter. Your knees press into the stool’s surface. You do not shift your hips back. You do not collapse forward.

“Stay with it,” he says.

And you do.

Seconds stretch long enough to feel deliberate. Your muscles tremble, then steady. The initial flare of pain settles into something contained, something you can bear without fracturing.

“Good control,” he murmurs.

He changes angle, testing responsiveness from a different direction, observing how quickly you adapt. This is not frantic. It is incremental. Analytical. He is mapping the edges of what he owns, measuring progress against last week’s data stored in his mind.

When he withdraws slightly, the absence of pressure feels almost disorienting. He watches your recovery time carefully, noting how quickly your breathing returns to baseline.

Then, without warning but not without intention, his hand lands sharply against your bare bottom.

The sound cracks clean in the tiled room, amplified by the hard surfaces. The sting blooms instantly, bright and spreading, a different category of sensation than the controlled stretch before it.

Your body jolts.

“Still,” he says calmly.

You fight the instinct to recoil, to clench, to gasp. Your fingers press harder into the counter but you do not move your hips. The burn lingers, radiating outward in hot waves.

Another strike follows, measured in strength, not wild. He watches your face in the mirror as it lands. The flush deepens across your cheeks. Your pupils flare. Your jaw tightens, but you do not make a sound.

A third, slightly slower this time, testing recovery between impacts. Not punishment. Not anger. Just data.

The sting settles into a steady heat, layering over the ache he already created. Your breathing threatens to break rhythm, but you pull it back under control, smoothing each inhale, each exhale.

He rests his palm briefly against the marked skin afterward, not soothing, not apologizing. Just feeling the warmth, the responsiveness beneath it.

When he withdraws his hand again, the room feels charged but not chaotic.

“Look at my pet,” he instructs.

And you do. Your cheeks are flushed, and although your eyes just glisten with the hint of tears, they are clear. Determined.

“You’re proud,” he observes.

He has not phrased it as a question.

“Speak.”

“Yes Sir,” you admit. “I worked for it.”

His hand comes to the back of your neck, firm and grounding, thumb resting at your pulse.

“That’s what inspection is for,” he says quietly. “Not to catch you failing. To measure growth.”

He replaces the plugs with the same deliberate care, watching your expression as your body accepts them again. The sensation is easier now, your muscles more responsive, less startled by the intrusion. You manage it smoothly.

When he steps back, folding his arms, you remain in position until told otherwise.

“You may relax. You've done well.”

Only then do your shoulders lower slightly. Your breath deepens. You do not collapse. You descend from display to person gradually, carefully.

In the mirror, your reflection looks different than it did when you first climbed onto the stool. Less anxious. More grounded. Elevated, yes, but not exposed in a way that feels unsafe.

You were placed on a pedestal to be evaluated, not to be admired.

And you held your position.

“Go write your reflection,” he says.

Because this, too, becomes data. Becomes structure. Becomes the quieting of the noise in your head.

You climb down from the stool carefully, feeling the lingering ache, the subtle fullness, the awareness of your body as something trained and measured rather than chaotic.

As you leave the bathroom, you understand something steady and solid:

You are not displayed to be consumed.