Hanna stood up from her wingback chair, her movements fluid and commanding. As the founder of the book club and a leader in the community, she projected an image of unbreakable strength. But as she moved toward the cabinet to bring out a fresh bottle of sherry, she moved with a slight, deliberate gingerliness that made the other three women lean in.

​"I didn't wait for David to diagnose me this week," Hanna began, her voice low and rich with a dark sort of satisfaction. "In fact, I decided that my performance as a wife had been... lacking. I had been too focused on the club, too independent. I felt I needed to be brought back to center."

​

​Hanna described the previous night with a clinical, almost reverent detail. Unlike the others, who met their husbands’ needles with pure terror, Hanna lived in a state of dual consciousness: a primal fear of the pain and an obsessive craving for the steel.

​"I went into David’s home infirmary before he even came home," Hanna told them, her eyes flashing. "I started the sterilization syringes myself. I took the largest glass syringes we own—the ones with the heavy chrome plungers—and the three-inch steel needles. I watched them boil, the steam rising, knowing exactly what they were for."

​"You prepared them yourself?" Rose whispered, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and awe.

​"I did," Hanna said. "When David walked in, the smell of antiseptic was already heavy in the air. I was standing there, head bowed. I told him, 'David, I have been prideful this week. I haven't been the submissive wife you deserve. I require a correction. A deep one.'"

​David, a senior surgeon known for his cold, uncompromising discipline, hadn't hesitated. He had looked at the syringe filled tray she prepared, then at her.

​"If you want a correction, Hanna," he had said, his voice like grinding stones, "you will get one. But once we begin, your begging will mean nothing. I will give you six injections of a heavy volume sterile water mix and vitamin concentrate. It will be the most painful session you’ve ever endured."

​"Please," Hanna had whispered, her heart thundering. "Make me cry, David. Don't stop until you're satisfied."

​At the book club, the silence was absolute. Even the clinking of teacups had stopped.

​"He made me strip and lean over his lap," Hanna continued, her breathing hitching. "He took his time. He spent ten minutes just swabbing my skin, his hands firm and clinical, marking the six spots he intended to hit. The anticipation was agonizing. I was already sobbing, my resolve melting into pure, submissive fear."

​She described the first injection. Because she had requested it as punishment, David was not gentle. He drove the long, thick needle deep into the muscle of her upper buttock with a swift, authoritative force.

​"I screamed," Hanna admitted, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I screamed until my throat was raw. The glass syringe felt so heavy, and the fluid was so thick it felt like my muscle was tearing. But he just leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back, and whispered, 'This is what you asked for, Hanna. Stay still for your husband.'"

​By the third and fourth injections, Hanna was a broken woman. She had begged him to stop, her hands clawing at the table, her body heaving with desperate sobs. She had forgotten her fetish, forgotten her desire; there was only the cold, sharp reality of the steel and her husband’s absolute power over her.

​"He gave me the fifth one right as I thought I would faint," Hanna said, her voice trembling. "And the sixth... the sixth he delivered so slowly I thought it would never end. I was wailing, incoherent, my face soaked in tears. I was no longer the leader of a club or a woman of standing. I was just his wife, being disciplined."

​"And after?" Mia asked softly.

​"Afterward, he left the needles on the tray for me to see while I lay there recovering," Hanna said. "He told me that my submission was beautiful, but that if I ever lagged in my duties again, the next session would be ten needles instead of six. I’ve never felt more centered. More... handled."

​Hanna sat back down, a sense of calm authority returning to her features. The four women sat in the fading light, bound together by the secret knowledge of their husbands’ needles and the painful, submissive peace they all found in their "treatments."