The Training of Seda, Day One

Seda thought her Upper Floor visits made her safe. Those days died the second they dragged her to the basement. Hands on her wrists, cold stairs under bare feet. She lands on concrete and feels the first strike across her shoulders. The sound cracks against brick. They bind her arms above her head, leather biting skin. Every breath pulls tighter. A thick gag cuts off the questions she tries to spit out. The first cane lands across her thighs. She jerks, then jerks again when the next strike follows. They circle, never letting her settle, never letting pain fade before the next blow. One Master yanks her hair, forcing her eyes up while the other works a plug between her cheeks. Slow, relentless pressure. She fights it with clenched muscles until the thickest part pops inside and stays. Sweat beads on her stomach. The plug shifts every time the cane lands again, turning each mark into something deeper. She learns fast that mercy is not on the table and that her body belongs to the men holding the tools.