I follow seconds later, the sight and sound and feel of him pushing me over the edge. I bury myself as deep as I can go andempty into his ass, vision whiting out, body shuddering with release.
For a moment, everything is silence and stillness and the shared rhythm of our breathing.
Then his arms give out, and he collapses onto the mattress.
He's not responsive.
I pull out carefully, the gape of his ass so beautiful as my cum leaks from him, before turning my attention to assessing his state. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Muscles completely slack. He's deep in subspace, his mind somewhere far away, his body running on autopilot.
I've seen this before. In footage of the ‘training’ assets got for clients who preferred domination.
This is different. This is chosen. This is surrender, not escape.
I need to bring him back slowly.
Grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom, I wet it with warm water, and return to the bed. Then I clean him gently—the sweat, the tears, the mess between his legs. He doesn't react, doesn't stir, just lies there like something abandoned.
"Elliot." I keep my voice low and steady. "I'm going to move you now."
I shift him onto his back, rearrange the blankets, tuck them around his body. Then I climb in beside him, pull him against my chest, wrap my arms around him.
Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
"You did well," I say. "You took everything I gave you. You were perfect."
No response. But his breathing is slowing, evening out.
"I'm here. You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
I keep talking. Low murmurs, words that don't matter, a steady stream of sound to anchor him. I stroke his hair, run my hands down his back, press kisses to his forehead.
It takes twenty-three minutes for him to come back.
I feel it happen—the shift from absence to presence, the subtle tension returning to his muscles, the change in his breathing. His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then gradually sharpening.
"Jace?"
"I'm here."
He blinks. Processes. His hand comes up, touches his face, like he's checking to make sure he's real.
"I went somewhere," he whispers. "I went... away."
"Subspace. It's a physiological response to intense sensation. The brain releases endorphins and other neurochemicals that create an altered state." I pause. "How do you feel?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiles.
"Empty," he says. "In a good way. Like someone scraped out all the bad stuff and left me clean."
"The memories?" I ask.
"Still there." His smile fades, but doesn't disappear entirely. "But... quieter. Like they're in another room instead of inside my head."
"That may be temporary."
"I know." He shifts closer, presses his face into my chest. "But right now, I'll take it."
I hold him. I don't speak. I just hold him, and let him breathe, and wait for whatever comes next.
