"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.
I considered the question. My bottom still burned slightly, a constant reminder of consequences. My face was probably a mess. My body was wrung out from crying.
But underneath all that—peace. Clarity. The kind of clean feeling that came after releasing weight you'd been carrying too long.
"Good," I whispered. "Really good. Like I can breathe again."
His arms tightened around me. "You scared me yesterday. When I couldn't reach you. When I didn't know where you were."
"I know. I'm sorry." I lifted my head to look at him. "But I'm glad you came after me. Glad you cared enough to find me."
"Always," he said. The promise in that single word made my chest ache. "I'll always come for you, devotchka. Always."
His hand continued stroking my back in slow, soothing circles. Long motions from my shoulders down to my hips. Then up again. The repetition was hypnotic. Calming. Each stroke smoothed away more of the jagged edges I'd been carrying.
His other hand played with my hair. Tucking strands behind my ear. Running his fingers through the honey-colored length. Twirling pieces around his fingers then letting them fall.
I felt floaty. Soft. Like all my sharp edges had been smoothed away by discipline and tears and care. Like I was made of something gentler than flesh and bone. Something that could bend without breaking.
Little space. I was hovering at the edge of it. Not fully regressed—I was still aware, still thinking in adult sentences. But younger. Softer. The walls I usually kept up were down. Gone. Unnecessary.
Safe.
"How do you feel?" he asked quietly. His voice was a rumble in his chest under my ear.
I considered the question seriously. Wanted to give him a real answer, not just what he wanted to hear.
"Good," I said finally. "Really good." I paused, searching for words. "Like I can breathe again. Like something that was wound too tight inside me finally loosened."
His arms tightened around me briefly. "That's what I was hoping for."
"My bottom still burns," I admitted. Half complaint, half observation.
"It should. For a few hours at least." No apology in his voice. Just matter-of-fact. "That's part of the consequence. You'll feel it when you sit. When you move. A reminder."
The reminder would keep me anchored. Keep me from forgetting why rules mattered. Why trust mattered.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"For what?"
"For following through. For—" My voice caught. "For holding me after."
His hand in my hair stilled. Then resumed its gentle stroking. "Always, devotchka. I'll always hold you after. That's part of my job as your Daddy. Discipline and comfort both."
The word Daddy in his voice made my core clench. Made heat bloom low in my belly despite the lingering burn.
I shifted slightly in his lap. Adjusted my position. My hip pressed against his thigh and—
Oh.
He was hard. Unmistakably hard. I could feel him through his jeans, pressed against my body where I was draped across his lap.
He'd been aroused probably since he started spanking me. Maybe before. But he'd held it in check to focus on my discipline and aftercare. Had put my needs before his own desire.
The realization made something warm and liquid pool between my legs. Made my breath catch. Made me hyperaware of every point of contact between our bodies.
I pressed my hip against his hardness. Watched his jaw clench. Watched his eyes go dark. Watched his control fracture at the edges.
