After the law that finally turned the tables, a man who dares raise his hand against a woman no longer faces mere prison bars. No. He faces her.
A sentence of lashes — delivered not by anonymous executioners, but by women: elegant, composed, impeccably uniformed. Prison officers. Wardens. Executors of justice in skirts and high boots.
They stand in line — beautiful, flawless, mercilessly calm — watching as one of them uncoils the long leather whip.
Each crack reminds him exactly why he is here. Each stripe redraws the map of his pride into something smaller, wetter, more obedient.
No man — no matter how tough he thought he was — holds back the sobs for long. No man keeps his begging dignified.
Before their serene gazes and perfect posture, rage turns to shame, lust to surrender, arrogance to genuine, bone-deep respect.
This is not vengeance. This is correction. Delivered by the most beautiful hands in the country.
