"Define more."
"Maybe..." I turned in his lap, straddling him. "Maybe you could make me come. Not with toys or machines but with your voice. Your hands. Your approval."
"You think you've been that good?"
"I've been perfect." Said without arrogance, just truth. "Followed every rule. Shared honestly. Learned to appreciate what's given instead of always begging for more."
"Have you?"
"I'm trying." I met his eyes. "Know I still have work to do. Know one week isn't enough to fix years of touch starvation. But I'm trying so hard to be what you want."
"You already are what I want." He cupped my face. "Just needed to learn to see it yourself."
"Help me see?" The question came out small. "Show me what good girls get when they're patient?"
"Since you asked so nicely..."
What followed was devastating in its gentleness. He touched me like I was precious, each caress deliberate and reverent. Built me up slowly, using weeks of learned responses. Made me shake with need before granting relief.
And through it all, he talked. Told me how good I was. How proud he was. How beautiful I looked earning my rewards. The words sank into my bones, replacing old scripts of unworthiness with new truths.
When he finally let me come—just from his fingers and his voice and the weight of his approval—I cried. Not from shame or frustration but from pure overwhelm at being seen, valued, cherished.
"Daddy loves his good girl," he murmured as I shook apart. "Loves how hard you try. How much you've grown. How perfect you are when you let yourself be."
The words tipped me over again, body responding to praise like physical touch. I collapsed against him, beyond speech, beyond thought, beyond anything but the feeling of being completely his.
"There we go," he soothed, holding me through the aftershocks. "Learning that approval can be just as powerful as touch. That being good gets you everything you need."
"Love you," I mumbled against his neck. "Love you so much it hurts."
"I know, baby. I love you too."
We stayed there as morning became afternoon, teaching and learning in equal measure. He showed me how to ask for touch without desperation. I showed him how deeply his approval affected me. Both of us preparing for a world beyond these walls where we'd need to navigate without scripts.
By the time he left for his afternoon meetings, I felt steadier. Still hungry for touch but trusting it would come. Still needy but confident in my ability to earn what I craved.
One week left of formal training.
A lifetime after that of practicing what we'd learned.
Of earning his touch through good behavior.
Of learning to exist in the spaces between contact.
Of trusting that being his good girl meant never being truly alone, even when his hands weren't on me.
The thought made me hum again, that soft sound of contentment that lived in my throat now. Because I was learning.Growing. Becoming someone who could be loved without clinging, held without desperation, touched without drowning.
Becoming someone worthy of the life we were building.
One earned caress at a time.
Degradation Play
One week had become three days, and Gabriel was systematically destroying every wall I'd rebuilt. After yesterday's touch training, I'd thought I understood the game. Thought I'd learned all the ways he could take me apart.
I was wrong.
