On Saturday morning, the house is quiet. Giorgio finishes his breakfast standing by the window. The view overlooks the nondescript street of the working-class neighborhood: comb-like parking spaces, half-withered trees, a still-lit streetlamp. He sips his coffee and glances at his daughter.

Alessia had arrived the night before. She lives on her own now, but sometimes spends the weekend with her father. She's wearing dark blue pajama pants and a burgundy hoodie over them. She holds a package wrapped in stiff paper, perfect edges, and a golden bow. "This is for you."

"Thank you!" Giorgio responds, taking the package and tearing the paper to open it. Inside is a rectangle of dark, shiny leather. A black leather strap, almost as wide as his palm, with a handle made of turned wood. He lifts it, turns it, and lets it snap through the air: the sound is dull, serious.

"This is very well made," he says, weighing it in his hand.

Alessia adjusts herself in her chair. "I thought you might like to use it on me."

"No doubt about that," Giorgio replies with a hint of a smile, "but it will hurt your little bottom quite a bit."

She smiles. "I certainly hope so, given what I paid for it!"

"When do we try it?" Giorgio asks eagerly.

"Even now, if you want. We could do three sessions today. Morning, afternoon, evening. That way, we can celebrate your birthday properly." Alessia pauses, her face flushing red. "If you want, I can stay naked all day."

"Seems like a good idea," he says.

Alessia stands up, collects the scraps of paper from the table, and tosses them into the bin. She slowly pulls her hoodie over her head. Underneath, she wears only a slightly transparent cotton tank top. She hesitates for a half-second, then pulls down her pajama pants to her ankles and steps out of them. She carefully folds everything and places it on the chair. She removes and folds the tank top as well. When she's left in white underwear, she pauses.

Giorgio watches her, expressionless.

Alessia takes a breath, then removes her underwear. She folds them and adds them to the pile of clothes. She places her hands in front of her for just a moment before letting them fall to her sides.

Giorgio nods, satisfied. "Let's go to the bedroom."

Alessia is already in position: bent over the bed, hands planted on the mattress, legs slightly parted.

Giorgio says nothing. He holds the new strap in his right hand, slowly twirling it on his wrist. He stands behind his daughter, observing her entirely. Then he flicks his wrist, and the strap slices through the air with a sharp hiss.

The first strike lands squarely on her buttocks. Her skin quivers, the sound echoing off the walls. Alessia flinches, her fingers briefly clenching into fists, but her breathing remains steady.

Giorgio measures the distance, rotates slightly, and strikes again. The second hit lands half a centimeter lower, on the border between her bottom and thigh. The pain layers, Alessia clenches her jaw but doesn't move.

Three, four, five. Each strike leaves a clear mark, quickly turning red, then purple, before fading slightly just in time to reignite with the next round.

After ten, Giorgio pauses. He places his palm on the struck area, feeling the temperature. Then he lifts his hand and strikes with the strap again. This time, the rhythm is faster, a sequence of snaps, ten strikes in twenty seconds.

Alessia's body barely moves: her back arches, her thigh muscles tense like steel cables. Her skin now has a mixed color of bright red and faded purple.

At twenty, Giorgio changes the target. He aims for the back of her thigh, striking the soft area above the knee. The pain here is sharper. Alessia lets out a brief moan, quickly stifled between her teeth. Her eyes fixate on a midpoint on the wall, her head never turning.

Thirty, forty. Every ten, a pause. After fifty, Alessia's skin is saturated. The slightest touch leaves an imprint. Each strike makes her body jerk forward, but she never escapes the position. Her hands remain glued to the mattress, her arms tensed to bear all the weight.

Sixty. Giorgio's bends his legs, aiming lower. The strikes now target the folds under her buttocks, where the flesh is tenderer. The sound changes, less thud, more hiss. Alessia shudders, her shoulders closing in, but quickly steadies herself.

Seventy-one. Giorgio places the strap on the back of the chair. He runs his open hand over Alessia's buttocks, squeezing them firmly, almost measuring the effect of the leather. The lines are clear, parallel, the skin raised, red, and almost hot to the touch.

"Good," he says, without emphasis.

Then he touches her shoulder. "Now lie down."

Alessia lets herself fall onto the bed, face down, but Giorgio turns her over. He takes her by the hips, flipping her so she lies on her back. Her skin sticks to the bedspread, her buttocks still radiating heat.

He sits beside her, placing one hand on her stomach, then slowly moves it between her legs. He spreads them with his left hand, his right hand slipping between her labia, beginning to rub. He does so without rushing, with spiral movements that start wide and narrow, becoming more precise. Alessia clenches her thighs, then relaxes. Her hips rise and fall, occasionally biting her lip to keep from making a sound.

Giorgio alternates pressure and pause. His fingers get wetter, moving more easily. Occasionally, he glances at her face, then resumes.

Alessia tenses all at once. Her breath catches, her torso lifts slightly off the bed, her hands claw at the bedspread. The orgasm is brief. A shiver runs down her stomach, then releases.

He doesn't stop immediately. He continues to stimulate for a few more seconds, then withdraws.

He lets a minute pass. Alessia's face is damp, her eyes swollen but not crying. Her breasts rise and fall irregularly, her mouth open as if gasping for air.

Giorgio stands up, opens the bedside drawer, and pulls out a small, light-colored wooden paddle with a long handle and an oval head. He shows it to her.

"Fifteen," he says.

Alessia gets into position. She lifts her hips, legs bent, feet firmly planted. Giorgio positions himself between her knees, paddle ready.

The first strike is full, directed at her vulva. The sound is muffled by the flesh, but Alessia's face says it all. Her eyes close, her hands grip the edges of the bed.

Second, third, fourth. Each time, the area becomes darker, more swollen. Giorgio alternates the strikes: one on the labia majora, one above the clitoris, one lower towards the perineum. After five strikes, the skin visibly pulses.

At ten, Alessia's voice trembles. Each strike makes her jolt, her thigh muscles contracting in waves. But she never moves from the position.

Fifteen. Giorgio places the paddle on the bed, runs his fingers over the struck area, feeling it hot and wet. He gives a quick caress, then pulls away.

Alessia knows what comes next and positions herself on all fours on the bed, presenting her bottom. Giorgio opens the second bedside drawer. He takes out a transparent bottle of lubricant and pours it onto two fingers, then spreads it between Alessia's buttocks. Her skin is still warm from the spanking, the sensation mixing.

He undresses from the waist down, his clothing sliding to the foot of the bed. Then he positions himself behind her, pressing his glans against her already moist anus. He pushes gently, rotating his hips to ease entry.

The muscle resists, but Giorgio insists. The tip enters, then stops, allowing the body to adapt. Alessia moans, her voice broken, but remains still. When he pushes harder, her anus suddenly opens. Her reaction is a low scream, immediately followed by a tremor running down her legs.

Giorgio moves slowly. He penetrates her with small, never violent thrusts. His left hand remains on her hip, his right gripping her shoulder to maintain position. Occasionally, he pauses, then resumes.

Alessia clutches the mattress, her face hidden in the bedspread. Her back arches, then relaxes with each thrust.

After some minutes, Giorgio accelerates. The rhythm becomes more pronounced, the thrusts deeper. Her body now vibrates with each push. Then, without warning, he comes inside her. His breath stops, his fingers dig into her flesh, then everything releases.

He remains still for a few seconds, his breath heavy. Then he withdraws, collects his clothes, and composes himself. Alessia remains on all fours on the bed, her legs bent, her skin still pulsating.

He approaches, tucking a lock of hair behind her neck. Then, without a word, he exits the room.

Alessia is left alone. Her body still shaking, her skin swollen and taut, her mind absent.

It's time to take a shower and prepare something for lunch.