I stared blankly at the document Eric placed before me.
The words did not register.
The letters blended together forming a sea of alphabet gibberish, my mind refusing to accept the computer generated declaration.
"Well?" he asked for the third time.
Asked is being too polite. It was more like a demand.
I'm not one ever short of speech, yet my tongue seemed caught on the lump in my throat.
Toll Road evasion.
When was I there? Who misses a toll booth? Why can't I remember even seeing one?
The nape of my neck pulls tightly against his hand, which is suddenly leading me down the hall and into the kitchen. My clothes are removed and am I to sit, naked, on a stool as I watch my husband carve fresh ginger. We do not speak while the soft-shoe strum of potato peeler against root sends flecks of outer skin to the counter, exposing a potent oily underbelly.
The whipping would be plenty to jog my memory and teach his lesson but tonight Eric's point will be made with a stinging reminder not to fight his discipline by clenching cheeks between rounds with the black leather weave of his belt.
Mental stamina, tits against painted wall, hands on head, bottom bared and plug in place.
Swish, whack. Swish, whack. Swish, whack.
The belt soars through the air and crashes down on my wanton flesh. The ginger slowly seeping from the inside out suddenly intensifies each time I squeeze against the strike of thick leather.
After, I'll make a call to fight the ticket with flaming buns and red streaked cheeks exposed until I succeed in arguing my case to a bored receptionist longing for her next smoke break.
I wonder, if she could feel the heat off my ass, if the fine would be waived any faster.