I looked away. "Like relief."
"Just relief?"
"Like..." The words stuck, but he waited with that terrible patience. "Like coming home."
"Beautiful." He made a note on his tablet. "That's significant progress. Which brings us to today's session."
"Which is?"
"Exposure therapy." He turned the laptop toward me, and my heart stopped.
On the screen: me. Yesterday. Spread wide, dress bunched around my waist, face contorted in desperate need. The audio was off, but I could see my mouth forming those two words over and over. Please, Daddy. Please, Daddy. A litany of surrender on repeat.
"Turn it off." My voice came out strangled.
"No." He hit play, and suddenly my moans filled the room. The sound of my begging, my sobbing, my complete destruction played in surround sound. "This is you, baby. The real you, stripped of pretense."
I tried to look away, but he caught my chin, forcing me to watch. On screen, I convulsed against the machine, screaming those two words like they were the only ones I knew.
"Look how beautiful you are when you stop fighting," he murmured. "Look how perfect."
"That's not—I'm not—"
"Not what? Not the woman writhing and begging? Not the one who took five hours to say please but then couldn't stop saying it?" His grip tightened. "This is evidence, baby. Proof of who you really are beneath all that armor."
On screen, I came apart, body arching impossibly as the orgasm tore through me. My face in that moment was something I'd never seen—raw, open, transcendent. Terrifying.
"I have hours of footage," he continued conversationally. "Every session. Every breakdown. Every beautiful moment of surrender. A complete record of your transformation."
"You can't—you wouldn't—"
"Share it?" He released my chin, moving to stand behind me. "Of course not. That would violate our contract. But imagine if I did. If the world saw what you've become."
His hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs tracing the collar that marked me as his. On screen, I continued my performance—begging, sobbing, coming apart over and over.
"They'd see a woman discovering her true nature," he continued. "Finding freedom in submission. Beauty in breakdown."
"They'd see what you made me," I whispered.
"What I made?" His hands slid lower, over the sheer fabric that covered nothing. "I didn't make anything, baby. I just provided the structure for you to become."
The video looped back to the beginning. Me, proud and defiant, insisting I wouldn't beg. The contrast with what came after was devastating.
"Watch," he commanded when I tried to close my eyes. "Watch how your body betrays what your mouth denies. See how wet you were before the machine even started? Your body knew what it needed. I just helped you admit it."
His hands continued their exploration, teasing touches that built on the humiliation of watching myself. Part ofme wanted to fight, to rage against this violation. But a larger part—the part he'd so carefully cultivated—was responding to his touch, to his voice, to the evidence of my submission playing in high definition.
"Tell me," he said, fingers tracing the edge of my panties. "What would people think if they saw this? Your old bartender friends? The ex who said you were too cold?"
"Stop."
"Would they recognize you? The woman who served drinks with dead eyes and a fake smile?" His fingers slipped beneath fabric, finding me already wet. "Or would they see someone entirely new?"
"They'd see what you made, Daddy."
The words came out before I could stop them, and I felt him still behind me. On screen, I was mid-orgasm, face twisted in pleasure so intense it looked like pain.
"Say that again."
