"Up when you're ready," he said gently. "We have more work to do today."
It took several minutes before I could move. Everything hurt. Sitting would be impossible. But eventually I managed to stand, dress falling back into place, legs shaky.
He'd returned to the vanity, pulling items from his case with renewed focus. "Have you heard of regression therapy?"
"That's the repressed memory bullshit, right?"
"Different concept." He held up something that made my blood run cold. "This is about accessing emotional states that were interrupted or denied during development. Returning to points of trauma to process them properly."
The pacifier in his hand was adult-sized, pale pink silicone with a white shield. Medical grade, because of course it was. Everything here was precisely engineered for maximum psychological impact.
"Absolutely not." I backed away. "Whatever you're thinking, no.That's—that's sick."
"It's therapeutic." He set it on the vanity along with other items—a sippy cup, a small blanket, what looked like a children's book. "Many adults never learned to self-soothe properly. Never had the safety to be vulnerable. This provides that opportunity."
"I'm not a baby!"
"No. You're an adult whose development was interrupted by having to be too mature too young." He arranged the items like a display. "This isn't about infantilization, Lilah. It's about giving you permission to need things. To want comfort. To accept care without viewing it as weakness."
"By sucking on a pacifier?"
"Among other things." He picked up his tablet again. "The protocol includes specific trigger words designed to help you access that headspace. Would you like to hear them?"
"No."
"Little one. Sweet girl. Baby." He watched my face as he spoke. "Princess. Daddy's girl. Good baby."
Each word hit like a physical blow, making something in my chest tighten. My face burned with humiliation and something else, something worse than shame.
"Stop."
"Your pupils dilated on 'good baby.' Interesting." He made a note. "The body remembers what it needed and never received. Even if the mind rejects it."
"I don't need anything from you."
"Then this should be easy." He picked up the pacifier, holding it out. "Put this in your mouth for sixty seconds. That's all. One minute of allowing yourself to try something new."
"No."
"No?" He set it down, picking up something else. A small remote. "Then we'll do this differently."
I recognized the remote. Knew what it meant. My body remembered too, already tensing with sense memory from that first day.
"Don't you dare—"
"Edges, not orgasms," he clarified. "Each time you refuse a simple request, I'll bring you close and stop. Your body is already primed from punishment. This should be very effective."
"That's torture."
"That's motivation." He pointed to the bed. "Lie down, please. On your back."
I could refuse. But refusal meant consequences, and I was already drowning in those. So I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hating him with every fiber of my being.
The vibration started gentle. Just a tease against oversensitized nerves. But he knew exactly what he was doing, finding the rhythm that made my body respond despite everything.
"All you have to do is try," he said conversationally. "Sixty seconds with the pacifier. Then this stops."
"Never."
