The silence in the dojo is the only punishment that fits the crime. I can still see the spray of his blood on the tatami. Every bruise I press into my own skin, every strike of the shinai against my thighs, is a prayer. An offering. I deserve to feel the ache deep in my cunt, to have my ass marked and sore. I want him to see my suffering and know my devotion is absolute. The most sacred ritual would be to kneel and clean his blade with my tongue, to taste the steel that I failed to protect. My body is his to break, a worthless vessel that exists only for his will.