"Listen," he commanded. "Hear who you really are."
I wanted to cover my ears, but his look stopped me. Made me sit there as my own voice described what I'd become. What I wanted. What I needed.
"Please use me, ruin me, break me."
"I'm Daddy's little hole."
"Make me nothing but yours."
Over and over, a litany of submission that made me squirm with shame and unmistakable arousal. He watched my face, cataloguing every response.
"Touch yourself," he ordered. "Show me how these words affect you."
My hand moved without conscious thought, finding evidence of my body's betrayal. The shame of being aroused by my own degradation added another layer, a feedback loop of humiliation and need.
"Tell me what you hear."
"Someone broken," I gasped, unable to stop touching despite the mortification. "Someone who needs to be owned. Someone who—oh god—someone who gets wet from being reduced to nothing."
"Not nothing," he corrected. "Mine. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Nothing has no value. But being mine means you're precious. Treasured. Worth the effort of breaking down and rebuilding." He moved closer, still not touching. "Worth keeping forever."
The orgasm built despite or because of the shame, my own voice providing the soundtrack. When I came, it was to the sound of myself begging to be ruined, and the contradiction of it—degradation and devotion tangled together—made me sob.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Now come here. Show me you mean every word."
I crawled to him, knees weak, my voice still echoing around us. What followed was intense but tender, him using me exactly as I'd begged to be used while whispering praise that contradicted the degradation.
"My perfect girl," he said as I served him with desperate enthusiasm. "So good at being exactly what I need. So beautiful when you let yourself want shameful things."
The dichotomy broke something in me. Or maybe healed it. The part that had always equated desire with shame, need with weakness. Here, in our twisted dynamic, I could want degrading things and still be valued. Could beg to be used and be cherished for the begging.
When he finally finished, my jaw ached and my throat was raw, but I felt cleaner than I had in years. Like speaking those dark truths had exorcised them. Or at least transformed them into something manageable.
"Let me see you," he said softly, tilting my chin up.
I met his eyes, expecting judgment or clinical distance. Instead, I found warmth. Pride. Something that looked dangerously like love.
"All those shameful words," he murmured, thumb tracing my swollen lips. "And you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever owned. Maybe more beautiful because you can voice the dark parts. Because you trust me with every twisted corner of your need."
"Did I pass?"
"There was no test." He pulled me into his lap, cradling me against his chest. "Just truth. Just showing you that shame and arousal can coexist. That wanting to be degraded doesn't make you less valuable."
"But I said—"
"You said what you needed to say. Voiced fantasies that have been eating you alive." His hand found my hair, soothing. "And the world didn't end. I didn't leave. You didn't cease to exist."
"I feel... empty." But it wasn't bad. "Like you drained poison out."
"Maybe I did." He kissed my forehead, gentle as butterfly wings. "All that shame you've been carrying about what you want, who you are, what makes you wet. Gone now. Spoken aloud and survived."
"The recording—"
"Is yours." He gestured to a USB drive on the table. "To keep or destroy. Proof that you can say the worst things about yourself and still be held after."
