Didn’t decorate it with submission.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Creed didn’t move.
This was the moment.
Not the punishment.
The decision.
“Very well.”He gave a small nod.“At any time,” he continued calmly, “you may use the safe word.”
I nodded.
Not because I planned to use it.
But because acknowledging the boundary mattered.
He studied my face, assessing and searching not for obedience, but presence.
“Before we begin,” he said, “is there anything you wish to say?”
The words collided inside me.
Apologies.Confessions.Pleas.
None of them felt like enough.
None of them felt safe.
“I’m sorry,” I said.“Not just for lying.For doubting you.For trying to control fear instead of trusting you.”I swallowed.“I don’t know if I can repair what I broke.But I won’t hide from it again.”
Creed’s expression didn’t soften.
“Words are easy, Peyton.”
“I know.”
“Actions are what matter.”
He stepped back, creating space without relieving pressure.
He gestured and I assumed the position, gripping the footrail, grounding myself.
“Remember,” he said quietly, “this punishment was your choice.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Creed moved behind me.
He waited.
Long enough that my breath betrayed me.
The first strike landed softly.
Not painful.
