"That's not very polite, is it? Try again."
Understanding dawned. "Thank you, Daddy."
The sensations returned immediately, more intense than before. I moaned, not caring how desperate I sounded. This was what he'd been building to all these weeks—not just obedience but genuine desire to please. Not just submission but active participation in my own conditioning.
"Tell me about your morning," he said conversationally, as if I wasn't spread open and trembling. "Why were you humming?"
"Because I—oh—because I woke up happy." Each word had to be forced past sensation. "Happy to be here. Happy to be yours. Happy to stop fighting what feels good."
"What feels good?"
"Everything." The chair rewarded my honesty with a particularly intense pulse. "The rules. The structure. The way you look at me like I'm something precious even when I'm—fuck—even when I'm spread open like this."
"Language," he chided gently, and the sensations dimmed.
"Sorry, Daddy. I'll be good."
Full intensity returned, making me cry out. The chair was learning my responses, calibrating its rewards to keep me right on the edge of unbearable pleasure.
"You are good," he assured me. "So good I sometimes can't believe you're real. Tell me what you thought the first day. When you walked in here furious and spitting."
"I thought—" Memory felt distant through the haze of sensation. "I thought you were cold. Calculating. Another man who wanted to use me."
"Was I?"
"Yes." The honesty earned another reward. "But also no. You were—are—precise. Careful. But not cold. Never cold. Just... controlled."
"And now?"
"Now I know the control is love." The words came out in a rush. "That every rule is care. Every punishment is attention. Every moment you spend breaking me down is really building me up into something better."
"My smart girl." Pride colored his voice. "Learning so well. Tell me what you need."
"I need—" The chair pulsed teasingly, making coherent thought harder. "Please, Daddy. Please let me come. I'll be so good. I'll say anything, do anything."
"Anything?"
"Anything." No hesitation. "I'm already yours. Already broken open. Already exactly what you made me. Please use me. Fill me. Own me completely."
The chair's response was immediate and overwhelming. Every sensation point activated at once, synchronized and relentless. But more than that—something inside me clicked into place. Some final resistance crumbling as orgasm crashed through me like revelation.
I screamed, or maybe sang. The humming from this morning transformed into something primal, musical, a sound of pure submission that seemed to please him immensely. The chair worked me through it, drawing out the pleasure until I was sobbing with overwhelm.
When it finally gentled, I was floating. Aware of my body but not confined by it. Aware of him moving closer but not ableto focus on anything but the aftershocks still rippling through me.
"Beautiful," he murmured, hands ghosting over my heated skin. "Absolutely perfect. How do you feel?"
"Broken," I managed. "But the good kind. Like a bone that healed wrong and needed to be reset."
"That's exactly what you are." He began releasing the restraints, movements gentle. "My beautiful broken girl who's healing perfectly."
"The chair—"
"Responded to your honesty. Your genuine desire to please." He helped me sit up, supporting me when I swayed. "No calculation. No performance. Just pure submission given freely."
"I meant it." Important that he knew. "Every word. Even the desperate begging parts."
"I know." He pulled me against his chest, and I melted into him. "That's what made it so beautiful. You've stopped performing submission and started living it."
