She has almost been getting used to it. At first, and for a long time, these sessions terrified her, made her squirm with shame. But lately, she has been baring her bottom and bending over his desk, not with fear, but with resignation. Even a hint of boredom. Even the slightest shadow of contempt.
This is not okay with him. He needs her to feel afraid. To feel helpless. To feel that all her moorings have been cut, and that she is in his hands. He needs her to feel that the only sure things in her world are him, and his hands, and his desk that is supporting her, and his implements that he chooses to use on her.
He knows that what he is about to do is dangerous. Immoral, of course, but also risky: risky not just to his reputation and livelihood, that’s a given, but risky also to his mental stability. He knows he is crossing a bad line, into a bad place. He knows he will never be able to think of himself the same way again. He will never again be able to think of himself as a fair and concerned authority, if somewhat harsh and unconventional. After this, he will have to call himself what he is.
But he needs this, and he is going to do it anyway.