6. "I Would’ve Spanked You If I Were Your Teacher."

Lyla practically sprinted out of the hotel, her heart pounding in her chest. The curious glances people cast her way made her feel utterly ashamed, as if everyone could somehow see right through her, knowing exactly what had just taken place in that room.

It wasn’t until she reached her dorm and slammed the door behind her with a resounding ''bang'' that she finally lifted her head and allowed herself to catch her breath. Her lungs ached from running, and her breaths came out in short, sharp gasps. She stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of her own ragged breathing echo in the silence. It was Friday night, and her roommates were out, leaving the dorm quiet.

It took several minutes before her breathing steadied and the haze of panic lifted. Only then did she notice the sticky discomfort of sweat clinging to her back. Her shirt was soaked through.

She headed for the bathroom, desperate for a shower. As she peeled off her clothes, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and froze. There, on her pale skin, was a thin, faint pink line across her lower back and hips—a mark from earlier that evening.

The Shadow Master hadn’t hit her hard, but seeing the welt brought back the memory of the sting, the shock of that first strike, and the strange sensation that had accompanied it. She reached behind her, tracing the mark with her fingertips. The skin was slightly swollen, warm to the touch. As her fingers brushed over the welt, a faint, electric tingle shot through her body, making her shiver involuntarily.

What surprised her most wasn’t the discomfort, but the fact that she didn’t dislike it. In fact, there was something oddly satisfying about the feeling, something that tugged at a long-buried memory.

Suddenly, she was six years old again.

That morning, while her mother was in the kitchen, Lyla had sneaked into her parents' bedroom. Like any little girl curious about her mother’s makeup, she had wanted to put on lipstick, to pretend she was a princess. But she had twisted the entire tube of lipstick out, and as soon as it touched her lips, it snapped in half.

Panic had flooded her young mind. In a rush, she flushed the broken lipstick down the toilet and carefully replaced the cap on the empty tube, pretending nothing had happened. Her mother hadn’t noticed. She had called Lyla down for breakfast, taken her to school, and gone to work as usual.

But all day, Lyla had been consumed by guilt. She knew her mother was thrifty and rarely used the lipstick, even though it was a cheap one from the supermarket. The weight of her guilt made her squirm in her seat at school and avoid her mother’s eyes when she returned home.

The next morning, her mother discovered the clogged toilet. Using a plunger, she fished out the broken lipstick. Furious, she had called Lyla’s name in a voice that shook the walls.

That was the day Lyla experienced her first s/panking. Her mother, red-faced and angry, pulled her over her lap and delivered several swift smacks to her butt. Lyla didn’t remember the pain itself anymore. What she remembered was crying, the way she had sobbed and screamed, as though all the guilt and anxiety from the previous day had been released with each tear.

By the time the s/panking was over, the guilt had evaporated. The shame of breaking the lipstick had vanished, replaced by a strange sense of calm. The punishment had lifted the emotional weight from her shoulders.

Now, standing in the bathroom with the faint welt on her skin, she realized how similar the experience had been. The physical punishment, though painful, had brought with it a strange sense of release. It was a phenomenon she understood well as a psychology student—how physical pain could sometimes release emotional tension, a concept that had been used in religious practices for centuries.

Despite knowing this intellectually, Lyla had always harbored a bias against BD/SM. She had never considered how it might fit into the psychological framework she had studied. But after tonight’s encounter with the Shadow Master, her perspective was shifting. Ideas for her essay fluttered at the edges of her mind, like a puzzle piece falling into place.

The Shadow Master!

The name echoed in her thoughts. She glanced up, meeting her own reflection in the mirror. Her fingers were still resting on the welt, and the sight of herself touching it made her blush with embarrassment. Her mind flashed to the Shadow Master's profile picture, the image of a hand strikingly similar to the one now grazing her skin.

“Oh, God,” Lyla groaned, covering her face with her hands. She didn’t know if she should hold on to this night as something significant or try to forget it altogether.

One thing she knew for sure: there would be no more encounters with the Shadow Master. She had made up her mind. Whatever had happened tonight, it was over. She would not go down this road again.

After her shower, Lyla felt utterly exhausted. She decided to skip her usual study routine and go straight to bed. It was the best night of sleep she’d had since starting her PhD—dreamless, with no worries about her dissertation or the looming meeting with her advisor.

When she woke up the next day, it was nearly noon. It was Saturday, but PhD students didn’t get weekends off. Lyla hadn’t checked her email since the previous afternoon, and when she opened her inbox, it was filled with forwarded messages from her advisor. They were undergraduate papers, sent to her for grading as part of her teaching assistant duties.

Surprisingly, the pile of work didn’t bother her. The long, restful sleep had left her in a good mood. She quickly washed up, made herself a simple breakfast, and packed her laptop, heading to the library to get some work done.

The campus was quiet on Saturdays, and the library nearly empty. Lyla found a seat by the window, opened the first student paper, and began reviewing it.

She hadn’t been working long when a voice behind her broke the silence.

“So many grammar mistakes. If I were your teacher, I would’ve s/panked you already.”

Lyla’s heart jumped, and she spun around in her chair, only to meet the mocking gaze of the Shadow Master.