His hand stayed pressed against my bottom, current flowing in sustained pulses instead of a single shock. The electricity raced through my body in waves that built and built and built until I was shaking uncontrollably. Until the sobs coming from my throat didn't sound human anymore. Until every defense I'd ever built shattered completely and I was just broken open, laid bare, surrendered.
Through the bond, I felt his absolute control. He was monitoring the current. Making sure it stayed below dangerouslevels while still pushing me to this place of complete vulnerability. This wasn't cruelty. This was care. Fierce, demanding, uncompromising care that refused to let me hide behind performance or conditioning or analytical detachment.
When he finally lifted his hand—after seconds that felt like eternity—I was limp across his lap. Boneless. Crying openly. Electricity still sparked weakly across my skin because I'd lost all ability to control my power.
The world spun. I couldn't remember how to make my body work. Couldn't remember what I was supposed to do next.
"Ten." The word came out broken. Barely recognizable. "Daddy's rules keep me safe."
Through the bond, his satisfaction wrapped around me completely. But underneath that, something else. Something warm and protective and absolutely certain.
Pride. He was proud of me. For taking it. For surrendering. For letting him break me open and prove his structure was real.
The discipline was over.
What came next was something else entirely.
Hishandsweregentlenow. One cradled the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. The other rubbed slow circles on my back, right between my shoulder blades where tension lived. The touch didn't carry electricity anymore—or it did, but soft, barely there, just enough to keep the connection humming without overwhelming.
I couldn't stop crying. Couldn't catch my breath between sobs. Couldn't make my body do anything except shake and spark and leak tears onto his thigh.
"Easy," he murmured. "You're okay. I've got you."
He shifted me carefully. Lifted me from my vulnerable position across his lap and gathered me into his arms like I weighed nothing. Settled back in his chair with me cradled against his chest, my legs draped over his thigh, my head tucked under his chin.
The position was impossibly safe. Enclosed. His arms formed a cage around me that felt like shelter instead of prison. His heartbeat thundered steadily beneath my ear—faster than normal, evidence that the discipline had affected him too—but controlled. Reliable.
Through the bond, his emotions surrounded me completely. Satisfaction that I'd taken the discipline so well. Pride in my surrender. Fierce protectiveness that said nothing would hurt me while I was this vulnerable.
"You're forgiven," he said quietly. His lips brushed against my hair. "Completely. Fully. What happened is done. All of it. You tested, I followed through, now we move forward. Understood?"
I made a sound that might have been agreement. Couldn't form actual words. My brain was too foggy, too submerged in the floaty place where everything felt distant and soft and safe.
"You took that beautifully." His hand stroked down my back in long, soothing motions. "Such a good girl for Daddy. So brave. So perfect."
The praise washed over me like warm water. Each word settled into places that had been empty, starving, desperate for evidence that I'd done well. That I was good. That I was worth keeping.
The cult had used praise so sparingly. Had taught me to earn every scrap of approval through perfect performance. Had made care conditional on flawless execution of their demands.
This was different. This was praise for surrender. For vulnerability. For letting him see me break apart.
Something rustled near the desk. I heard fabric moving but couldn't make sense of what it meant. My senses were workingstrangely—some things too loud, some too quiet, all of it filtered through the subspace haze.
Then warmth surrounded me.
A blanket. Impossibly soft. He wrapped it around my shoulders, tucking it carefully around my body until I was completely enclosed. The fabric was thick and plush, probably cashmere or something equally expensive. Storm-cloud gray. It smelled like him—ozone and clean linen and something indefinable that made my hindbrain relax.
"I prepared this earlier," he murmured against my hair. "Knew you'd need something soft after. Knew you'd be cold once the adrenaline faded."
He'd prepared it. Before the discipline. Before he'd even called me to his study. He'd known I'd need aftercare and had made sure the supplies were ready.
Fresh tears leaked from my eyes. Not from pain now. From being cared for. From someone anticipating my needs and meeting them without being asked.
His thumb brushed across my cheek, wiping away tears with gentle precision. "No more crying, little lightning. You're safe. You're forgiven. You're exactly where you belong."
But the tears kept coming anyway. Releasing something that had been trapped for too long. Six years of holding everything in, of maintaining perfect control, of never letting anyone see weakness.
He didn't tell me to stop again. Just held me. Kept stroking my back, my hair, murmuring praise in that low voice that rumbled through his chest into mine.
