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For a moment, I consider not opening it. He wants to be punished, so making him endure this alone and rejecting his attempt at recourse would be punishment enough. But I don’t. Ican’t.
Slowly, I rise from the stairs. When I open the door, I don’t say a word.
He closes the space between us, hugging his arms around my waist and burying his face in my neck as he lifts me just a few inches from the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Moisture drips down my neck, and I don’t reply as he cries into our embrace, repeating those words over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
As I hold him, I realize I was wrong. Beau isn’t broken. He was just never whole to begin with. He fills the cracks with other people's feelings, never considering what it costs those he loves.
It’s not an excuse. It’s an observation.
And it only makes me care about him more. That tenderness in my chest is growing to the point of being painful.
When he pulls away, anguish still on his face, I delicately touch his cheek.
“Why am I like this?” he cries. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“I won’t really cheat on you. I was just saying that—"
“I know.”
“You’re not stupid, Maggie. You’re so fucking smart, and I don’t understand why—”
“Shhh…” I quiet him with a kiss, our tears mingled on our lips, and we stay like that for a while with our foreheads pressed together in silence. After I feel him start to relax, I take his hand in mine. “You hold it all in for so long that you explode.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I stroke his hair, feeling him shiver from the adrenaline. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Just tell me what to do,” he whispers, pleading for help.
If this was still an experiment or just something casual, I’d turn him away. I’d send him home and let him handle this on his own, but our relationship has become so much more and we both know it. To even talk about cheating means what we have is serious. And I can’t send him away. He needs me. I feel that need seeping through the way he looks at me. It’s a Domme’s job to take care of her sub, so that’s exactly what I want to do.
“Come on.”
I pull him up the stairs, his fingers intertwined with mine as we reach the shower. “Take your clothes off.” My tone is cold and assertive because I realize that’s what he needs. When Beau is desperate and afraid, he feeds off the emotions of others, so I won’t give him mine. Not right now. Instead, I turn the water to cold and watch him shed his clothes until he’s naked.
As he steps into the frigid water, he sucks air in through his teeth, and jerks his foot back out.
“Get in,” I say in a detached command.
It’s not a punishment, not the way he wants, but it’s enough to wash away the regret he’s feeling.
As he submerges his body in the cold water, he starts to shiver, breathing heavily, in and out, through tight lips. When he finally submits to the temperature, I watch every muscle in his body relax. With his hands on the wall, he ducks his head and lets the cold rinse away everything.
His breathing is still labored, but he’s surrendering to the sensation.
After a while, when he seems at peace, I reach in and turn the dial to Off. Just like the day with the plug, I towel him off with affectionate detail while he shivers. And he lets me take care of him, patting off his arms and legs.
Then, I take him to bed, crawling under the sheets with him after removing my own clothes. It’s not about sex tonight. It’s about feeling the things that need to be felt, no matter how uncomfortable they are.
His body is still cold when I press mine against it.
“Why didn’t you hit Sophie’s boyfriend?” I ask. “You wanted to.”
“She was upset. I didn’t want to make her more mad at me.”
