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These were harder, making me cry out, making tears prick at my eyes. Not from the pain—I'd endured worse—but from the emotion of it. Each strike felt like absolution, like he was driving the guilt from my body through careful application of his palm.

"Five," he counted, and then his hand was gentle, rubbing circles over the heated skin. "You're forgiven. The bus schedules, the planning, the fear that made you consider running—all forgiven."

A sob caught in my throat. Just like that? Just five spanks and the hours of guilty planning were erased?

"What's next?" he asked, helping me back to kneeling. The cushion felt cool against my warmed skin. "What other moment do you need to confess?"

The list was long. So fucking long. But we had all night, and he'd promised to hear every one.

"Wednesday night," I began, voice stronger now that I understood the pattern.

"You asked if I wanted to color, and I said I wasn't feeling little.

But I was. I desperately wanted to curl up in my space and let you take care of me, but I thought—I thought if I pulled away first, it would hurt less when you left. "

"On your feet."

This time he bent me over the arm of his chair, a position that left me more exposed, more vulnerable. His hand fell five more times, each strike deliberate and measured, painting heat across my skin in careful patterns.

"Forgiven," he said when it was done, when I was crying freely from the release of it. "The lie about not feeling little, the attempt to protect yourself by pulling away—forgiven."

We continued like that, confession by confession, truth by painful truth.

Each position was slightly different—over his lap, bent over furniture, standing with hands braced against the wall.

Each implement from his bag had its turn—the leather paddle that made me sob, the flogger that overwhelmed without true pain, silk restraints that held me still when my body wanted to flee, nipple clamps that pinched, a gag that made me moan as he tormented me.

And after each confession, each careful application of discipline, came the same word: "Forgiven."

By the time we'd worked through the small lies, the daily deceptions, my skin felt like it was glowing, tender and warm and somehow clean. But I knew we were just beginning. The real confessions, the ones that lived in my bones, were still waiting.

"What else?" Dex asked, and I could hear that he was affected too, his voice rougher, his breathing not quite as controlled. "What are you still hiding?"

I knelt at his feet, tears drying on my cheeks, skin singing with forgiveness, and prepared to give him the truths that might actually break me.

The words clawed at my throat like living things, desperate to stay buried where they'd lived for years. But Dex waited with infinite patience, and I knew—knew with the certainty of someone mid-transformation—that these were the truths that mattered.

"Sometimes," I started, then had to stop, had to force air into lungs that wanted to close. "Sometimes I wished she would just die."

The confession fell between us like shattered glass. Dex's expression didn't change, but his hand found my hair, gentle encouragement to continue.

"My mom. When she was really bad, when I'd spent another night cleaning vomit or trying to coax her to eat or counting pills to make sure she hadn't taken too many or too few—" My voice broke completely.

"I'd think how much easier it would be if she just .

. . stopped. If I could stop watching her fade away by inches.

Stop being the parent when I was supposed to be the child. "

"How old were you when these thoughts started?"

"Fifteen." The number tasted like ash. "Fifteen and already so fucking tired. I loved her so much, but I hated her too. Hated her for giving up, for making me watch, for turning me into someone who could wish their own mother dead."

"Over the bench," he said quietly, and I knew from his tone this would be different.

The spanking bench was designed for extended discipline—padded in all the right places, restraint points that would hold me still when my body wanted to flee. I positioned myself carefully, feeling more exposed than ever as he secured leather cuffs around my wrists and ankles.

"The paddle," he said, letting me see him select it. "Fifteen. Because those thoughts don't make you evil, Cleo. They make you human. A child forced to carry burdens no child should carry. Tonight, right now, that burden is going to be lifted."

The first strike knocked the breath from my lungs. The paddle covered more area than his hand, delivered impact that went deep. By five, I was crying. By ten, I'd gone somewhere beyond tears, floating in a space where physical sensation and emotional release merged into something transcendent.

"Fifteen," he counted finally, and I felt the restraints release, felt his hands gentle as he helped me stand. My legs wouldn't hold me, so he simply lifted me, carried me to the bed, and held me while I shook apart.

"Forgiven," he murmured against my hair. "Those dark thoughts, that bone-deep exhaustion, the guilt of wanting suffering to end—all forgiven."

I cried harder at that, at being absolved for the thing that had haunted me since her death. When I finally quieted, he stroked my back and waited for the next truth.

"I stole food," I whispered into his chest. "When things were really bad. Gas stations, mostly. Candy bars, chips, anything I could slip into my pockets. I told myself it was survival, but I had choices. I could have asked for help, could have gone to food banks, could have—"

"How often?"

"Dozens of times. Maybe more. I got good at it." Shame burned my throat. "Quick hands, watching for cameras. Choosing stores with tired employees who wouldn't notice or wouldn't care. I became a thief because I was too proud to beg."

This time he positioned me standing, hands braced against the brick wall, legs spread wide. His hand, sharp and precise, marked the tender skin where thigh met bottom just twice.

"Forgiven," he said when I was crying again, when my legs shook with the effort of standing. "The theft, the pride, the shame of doing what you needed to survive—forgiven."

But I wasn't done. The deepest truth still waited, the poison that had lived in me longest.

"I used to fantasize about killing him." The words came out in a rush, like vomiting poison. "My father. I'd lie awake imagining ways he could die. Car accidents. Bar fights. Overdoses. I'd picture getting the news, imagine how I'd pretend to grieve while feeling nothing but relief."

Dex's hands stilled on my skin. "How detailed were these fantasies?"

"Very." I turned to face him, needing him to see my eyes, to judge if this made me a monster.

"I'd imagine the funeral. His biker brothers talking about what a great man he was while Mom and I knew the truth.

I'd imagine spitting on his grave. Telling everyone what he really was.

I wanted him to suffer like he made us suffer. "

"Bench again," he said after a long moment. "This needs ritual. Ceremony."

This time the restraints felt like safety, holding me still for what I knew would be the most intense discipline yet. He showed me each implement—paddle, flogger, his hand—explaining how he'd use each one.

"For the fantasies," he said. "For the weight you've carried. For the child who had to imagine violence because she had no other power."

What followed was the kind of discipline I'd only read about.

Not cruel—Dex was never cruel—but thorough.

Methodical. He worked in sets, paddle followed by flogger followed by his hand, building sensation until I couldn't tell where pain ended and catharsis began.

I screamed. Begged. Sobbed. Said things that made no sense, apologies to my mother, curses at my father, pleas for forgiveness from a universe that had made me this damaged.

Through it all, Dex's voice anchored me. Counting strikes. Reminding me to breathe. Telling me I was brave, I was good, I was forgiven.

When he finally released the restraints, I couldn't move. Everything felt liquid, boundaries dissolved. He gathered me up like I weighed nothing, settled us on the bed with me in his lap, my face buried in his neck.

"Forgiven," he said, and the word broke something in me. "Every dark thought, every violent fantasy, every moment you wished harm on the man who should have protected you—forgiven."

I should have been empty then. Should have been cleaned out, hollowed and ready to be filled with better things. But one truth remained, the one that scared me most.

"I love you," I whispered, the words torn from somewhere so deep I hadn't known it existed. "I love you so much it terrifies me."

His arms tightened around me, but I wasn't done.

"I'd rather lose you by running than lose you by not being enough. Rather be the one who leaves than the one who gets left. I love you, and I'm so fucking scared that one day you'll see what everyone else sees—that I'm too much work, too much damage, too much need."

Silence stretched between us, broken only by our breathing and the distant sound of classical music from somewhere in the building. Then Dex shifted, tilting my chin up so I had to meet his eyes.

"This doesn't require discipline," he said softly. "This requires something else entirely."

The look in his eyes made my breath catch—hunger and tenderness and possession all tangled together. After everything we'd just done, after all the tears and confessions and careful violence, we were finally ready for what came next.

"You're forgiven," he said one more time. "For loving me, for fearing loss, for every moment you've doubted your worth. Forgiven and mine."

Mine. The word held promise that made my tender skin prickle with anticipation. The discipline was over, but we weren't done.