38. Thirty-Seven

The days after my rescue blurred together, a hazy stretch of time where sleep came in fits and reality felt like it was balancing on the edge of a knife. Shepherd took the week off to stay with me, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos of my mind, but even with him nearby, something inside me felt cracked, jagged. He didn’t push me to talk about it, didn’t ask for details I wasn’t ready to give, and in that quiet understanding, I found some semblance of comfort. But it didn’t last. The guilt—sharp and suffocating—had already started sinking its claws into me, festering, and no matter how hard I tried to bury it, I couldn’t escape the growing weight of what I’d done. What I’d broken. What I couldn’t fix.

For the first day or two, Bryce stayed fronting, his warm presence and easy smile a welcome distraction from the shadows lingering in my mind. He kept close, never more than an arm's reach away, and filled the heavy silences with idle chatter about everything and nothing at all. Sometimes, he'd turn on the TV and find some mindless sitcom, the canned laughter echoing through the room as he'd curl up next to me, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my skin. In those moments, with his solid warmth pressed against my side, I could almost pretend that everything was okay, that the world hadn't tilted off its axis and left me scrambling to find my footing.

But as the days stretched on, the cracks in my facade grew wider, deeper, until I could no longer ignore the yawning chasm inside me. Bryce's light-hearted approach, once a comfort, now felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves, grating and insufferable. I found myself withdrawing, pulling away from his gentle touches and soft words, the guilt and shame like a living thing writhing in my gut. I knew he meant well, knew he was trying to help in his own way, but I couldn't bear the weight of his kindness, not when I felt so undeserving of it.

On the fourth day, Keres emerged, his presence a stark contrast to Bryce's gentle warmth. He didn't speak, didn't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes or forced cheer. Instead, he simply sat with me, his dark eyes watchful, his posture relaxed but alert. There was a predatory grace to his movements, a coiled strength that spoke of barely restrained violence, and yet, in his company, I felt a strange sense of safety, of protection.

He didn't touch me, didn't invade my space, or try to coax me out of my self-imposed isolation. He was just there, a silent guardian, a watchful presence that demanded nothing from me. In the quiet stillness of his company, I found a small measure of peace, a respite from the constant turmoil of my thoughts.

But even Keres' steady presence couldn't chase away the restlessness that had taken root inside me. My body was healing, the bruises fading and the cuts scabbing over, but my mind remained fractured, splintered by the horrors I had endured. I felt disconnected from myself, from the world around me, as if I were watching everything through a thick pane of glass, distorted and out of reach.

As the days turned into a week, Shepherd's absence became a palpable thing, a hollow space that echoed with the weight of my own thoughts. He'd returned to work, the demands of his teaching and his practice pulling him away from the quiet sanctuary of our home. I understood, of course. The world didn't stop turning because mine had shattered, and there was a part of me that was grateful for the distraction, for the chance to breathe without the constant reminder of his worried gaze.

But still, the emptiness persisted, a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow me whole. Shepherd encouraged me to try to find some semblance of normalcy, to pick up the pieces of my life and try to fit them back together. So I went back to the tattoo studio, the familiar hum of the machines and the sharp scent of ink a welcome respite.

I lost myself in the work, the steady drag of the needle against skin, the careful lines and shading that slowly took shape beneath my hands. But even as I poured myself into each piece, each intricate design, I could feel the hollowness inside me, the sense of disconnection that lingered like a bitter taste on my tongue.

The days fell into a routine, the hours blurring together in a haze of monotony. Shepherd's schedule was a whirlwind of activity, his Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays packed with classes and lectures, his Tuesdays and Thursdays spent as half days at his psych practice.

The evenings were a little better, when Shepherd would return home and we'd fall into our familiar patterns, the structure and routine of our dynamic providing a small measure of comfort. We took things slowly, easing back into our roles with a gentleness that spoke of his understanding, his patience.

He gave me simple tasks at first, like preparing dinner, tidying the house, laying out his clothes for the next day. I threw myself into these chores with a single-minded focus, desperate for the distraction, for the sense of purpose they provided. There was a certain peace to be found in the mundane, in the repetitive motions of chopping vegetables or folding laundry. The work quieted the noise inside my head, if only temporarily.

But even as my hands moved through the familiar tasks, my mind remained distant, disconnected. I felt like a ghost in my own skin, going through the motions but never fully present. The guilt was a constant companion, a heavy weight that settled in my chest and made it hard to breathe.

Every time Shepherd praised me for a job well done, every time his hand lingered on my shoulder or his lips brushed against my temple, I felt the shame coiling tighter in my gut. I didn't deserve his kindness, his affection, or his protection. Not after what I'd done. Not after the worry and fear I'd put him through.

Gavin's presence was a constant in those early days, his comings and goings as reliable as the tides. He arrived at seven every morning and swung by most afternoons around five or six o’clock when he wasn’t working at the hospital.

Gavin tried, in his own reserved way, to bridge the growing distance between us. He would sit with me in the living room, the silence stretching taut and heavy as he worked on his laptop or read through dense medical journals. Occasionally, he would glance up from his work, his dark eyes searching my face for something I couldn't name.

Sometimes, he would try to engage me in conversation, his tone carefully neutral as he asked about my day or my latest tattoo project. I answered him in monosyllables, my voice flat and lifeless even to my own ears. The words felt clumsy on my tongue, as if I'd forgotten how to string together a sentence.

The guilt gnawed at me like a living thing, a parasitic creature that had burrowed deep into my marrow and refused to let go. It colored every interaction, every moment of stillness, with a sickening shade of self-loathing. I couldn't escape it, couldn't outrun the pervasive sense that I was tainted, broken beyond repair, even though I couldn’t explain why I felt that way.

Shepherd watched me with growing concern, his keen eyes tracking my every move, every flicker of emotion that managed to break through my carefully constructed mask. He didn't push, didn't demand answers I wasn't ready to give, but I could feel the weight of his worry, the silent questions that hung in the air between us.

I tried to lose myself in the familiar patterns of our dynamic, in the rituals and routines that had once brought me such comfort, such peace. I knelt at his feet, bowed my head in submission, and waited for the quiet to settle over me like a balm. But even as my body went through the motions, my mind remained distant, disconnected.

The rules and structures that had once been my anchor, my safe harbor in the chaos of the world, now felt like chains, like shackles that bound me to a reality I couldn't bear to face. Every command, every gentle correction, every praise felt undeserved.

I found myself growing restless, agitated, wanting to claw off my own skin if only to feel something, anything, other than the emptiness that’d taken over my life. I needed to punch a hole in myself and let the rest of the world bleed back into me, fill me with color again.

One evening, in late September, I knelt at Shepherd’s feet and something felt different. The evening sun slanted through the windows, painting the room in shades of amber and gold. Shepherd's gaze was heavy on me, as if he could see straight through the cracks in my facade to the fractured mess beneath.

“Eli,” he said, his voice low and measured, a hint of steel beneath the calm. “We need to talk about what’s been going on.”

I didn't look up, didn't lift my head from its submissive posture. I knew what was coming, knew that Shepherd had seen through my flimsy attempts at normalcy, at pretending that everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't.

“Yes, Sir,” I murmured.

Shepherd sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. He reached out, his fingers curling under my chin, tilting my head up until I had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually so warm and affectionate, were now filled with a quiet intensity, a seriousness that made my stomach clench.

“This dynamic, this relationship between us, it only works if we're honest with each other,” he said, his thumb brushing over the ring in my lower lip.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight with emotion. I knew he was right, knew that the foundation of our relationship was built on trust, on communication, but the words lodged in my throat, sharp and painful. How could I explain the depth of my guilt, the suffocating weight of my shame? How could I make him understand the twisted, tangled mess that my mind had become?

“I don't know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don't know how to be okay again.”

Shepherd's expression softened, his hand moving to cup my cheek, his touch gentle and grounding. “You don't have to be okay right now, Eli. You've been through something traumatic, something that no one should ever have to experience. It's going to take time to heal, to process everything that's happened.”

I leaned into his touch, my eyes falling closed as I tried to steady myself, to find the courage to speak the words that had been haunting me for weeks. “I can't stop thinking about that night,” I said, my voice trembling. “I keep replaying it in my head, over and over again, trying to figure out what I could have done differently, how I could have prevented it.”

Shepherd's thumb brushed over my cheekbone, a soothing caress that made me ache with the need to be closer, to be held. “What happened to you wasn't your fault. You didn't ask to be kidnapped and held prisoner.”

“But I knew it could happen when I walked out that door,” I said, eyes watering. “I knew the cult was waiting, watching me. They’d approached me at the mall. I helped them bury bodies, Shepherd. I knew they were dangerous. I knew what they could do to me, and that I shouldn’t be out past curfew. I keep wondering if I wanted them to take me. Maybe I wanted to go back.”

Shepherd's brow furrowed, his eyes searching mine with a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. “Eli, listen to me,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “You are not responsible for the actions of others. The cult members who took you, they're the ones who chose to do harm. They're the ones who violated your trust and your autonomy. You didn't ask for that. You didn't deserve it.”

I shook my head, fighting tears. “I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve been more prepared. Been smarter. And then…even before. The first time? I should’ve seen what they were. Why didn’t I try to leave sooner? Why did I let them…” My hand closed around my throat. “I ate their food, Shepherd, and I don’t even know what it was. It might’ve been… a…a…” A person . I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

Shepherd's grip on my chin tightened, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You did what you had to do to survive, Eli. That doesn't make you complicit in their crimes.”

“I buried bodies for them. I am complicit, Sir. And I deserve to be punished for it.”

Shepherd was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that made me want to look away. “Eli,” he said at last, his voice low and measured. “Punishment is not the answer here. It won't erase what happened or absolve you of the guilt you're feeling.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with emotion. “I know that, Sir. But I need... something. I need a way to release this weight, this burden that's been suffocating me. Every day, every moment, I'm punishing myself inside. I can't escape it, can't outrun the memories or the shame. And I'm afraid... afraid that if I don't find a way to let it go, it'll consume me entirely.”

Shepherd's expression softened, his thumb brushing over my lower lip in a tender caress. “And you think that physical punishment will help? That if I hurt you, if I make you suffer, it'll somehow balance the scales?”

I nodded, tears blurring my vision. “Maybe. I don't know. All I know is that I trust you, Sir. I trust you to give me what I need, even if it's not what I want. And right now, I need to feel something other than this... this emptiness, this disconnection. I need to feel your hands on me, your control, your dominance. I need…” I swallowed. “I need to give you control over this because I can’t fucking handle it anymore.”

I stared down at my clenched hands, hot tears blurring my vision. The confession hung heavy in the air between us, the weight of my words pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. I felt raw, exposed, like I'd ripped open my rib cage and bared the ugliest parts of myself to the one person whose opinion mattered most.

Shepherd was silent for a long moment, his gaze heavy on the top of my bowed head. I could feel the intensity of his focus, the careful consideration he was giving my request.

“Eli, look at me,” he commanded softly.

I raised my head slowly, reluctantly meeting his gaze. His eyes, usually so warm and affectionate, were now filled with a solemn understanding that made my breath catch in my throat.

“I hear what you're saying,” he began. “And I understand the impulse to seek punishment as a way to atone for perceived wrongs. But I need you to understand something, Eli. Any punishment we engage in, any penance you serve, it won't be because I believe you're truly at fault for what happened to you.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Shepherd silenced me with a look.

“I’m not finished,” he said firmly. “If we do this, if I agree to punish you, it will be on my terms and within the boundaries we've set together. I won't allow you to use this as a way to harm yourself or to wallow in misplaced guilt. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whispered, my voice rough with emotion. “I understand.”

Shepherd held my gaze for a long moment, searching my face for any hint of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he gave a small nod, his jaw set with determination.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “Now, when we made our contract, we agreed to the use of physical punishment such as spanking, so I’m going to spank you with my bare hand, Eli, until I feel you’ve had enough or until you use your safe word. Do you remember your safe word?”

“Icarus,” I repeated quietly.

Shepherd nodded. “Very good, boy. Now, when I spank you, you're going to count each strike, and you're going to thank me for it. Do you understand?”

I nodded, my breath quickening as a shiver of anticipation raced down my spine. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”

Shepherd's gaze darkened, his pupils dilating with a hunger that made my cock twitch and start to swell. “Strip and lie over my knee,” he commanded.

I stood on shaky legs, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of my shirt as I hastened to obey. I shrugged out of the garment, letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of fabric. My jeans and boxer briefs followed, until I stood before Shepherd, naked.

His dark eyes raked over my body and I flushed as he noted my cock was hard and heavy between my legs.

“Over my knee, boy,” Shepherd commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

I complied without hesitation, draping myself across his strong thighs, my chest pressed against the rough denim of his jeans. I could feel the solid heat of his own arousal through the fabric, the unmistakable hardness of his cock pressing against my stomach. The knowledge that this was affecting him too, that he wanted me even in this moment of discipline, sent a thrill through my veins.

Shepherd's hand came down hard on my bare ass, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing through the room. I gasped, my body jerking at the sudden sting, the heat that bloomed across my flesh.

“One,” I counted, my voice strained. “Thank you, Sir.”

Another blow, just as hard, the pain radiating out in waves. I gritted my teeth, my fingers digging into the couch cushions.

“Two. Thank you, Sir!”

Shepherd set a steady rhythm, his hand rising and falling with metronomic precision. Each strike was a bright burst of pain, a searing heat that spread across my skin and sank deep into my muscles. I counted each one, my voice growing hoarse, tears stinging my eyes.

With each blow, my cock throbbed between my legs, hard and aching, smearing pre-cum across Shepherd's jeans. The pain and the pleasure twined together, inseparable, until I was gasping and shaking, my skin slick with sweat.

“You don't have permission to cum, boy,” Shepherd reminded me, his voice rough with his own arousal. “You'll take what I give you and nothing more.”

“Yes, Sir,” I managed, the words little more than a sob. “Nine. Thank you, Sir!”

“Punishments and rewards are mine to bestow,” he continued. “Your pain and your pleasure belong to me now, boy. And I will administer each as I see fit.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Shepherd's hand fell again and again, the blows coming faster now, harder. I counted each one, the numbers tumbling from my lips in a breathless litany, the thanks following on their heels. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

By the fifteenth strike, I felt like I was barely tethered to my body anymore. It was as if some essential part of me had detached, floating free on a sea of endorphins and adrenaline. The pain was distant now, muffled, like something happening to someone else entirely. In its place was a bone-deep sense of peace, of rightness.

I was lost in a haze of sensation, my mind adrift. The world had narrowed down to the heat of Shepherd's hand against my skin, the sharp sting of each blow, the deep ache that radiated out from my core. I was vaguely aware that I was still counting, still thanking him, but the words seemed to come from somewhere outside of me, disconnected from the floating, blissful creature I'd become.

Time stretched and warped, losing all meaning. There was only the rhythm of Shepherd's strikes, the steady cadence of pain and pleasure that kept me tethered to my body even as my mind soared free. Each impact sent a jolt of electricity through my nerves, lighting me up from the inside out until I was glowing, incandescent.

I didn't notice when the spanking stopped. One moment I was riding the crest of a wave, the next I was sinking down into a warm, dark sea, my limbs heavy and languid. Distantly, I felt Shepherd's hands on me, his touch gentle now as he gathered me into his arms.

He cradled me against his chest, murmuring soft words of praise and reassurance. “That's it, sweet boy. You did so well for me. Such a good boy, taking your punishment like that. I'm so proud of you, Eli. So proud.”

His voice was like honey, sweet and syrupy thick. I wanted to swallow the sound of it, which made no sense, but I had this odd primal urge to get some part of him in part of me, anyway I could.

I nuzzled into Shepherd's chest, my face pressed against the soft cotton of his shirt. His scent wrapped around me, a heady mix of spice and leather that made me feel safe, cherished. The steady thump of his heart beneath my ear was the only measure of time I needed.

Shepherd's hands roamed over my body, his touch light and soothing, almost reverent. He traced the curve of my spine, his fingers skimming over each knob and ridge, mapping the topography of my back. His other hand cradled the nape of my neck, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the sensitive skin there.

I felt boneless, weightless, as if I were floating in a warm sea, buoyed by the strength of Shepherd's arms. The pain of the spanking had receded, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. It was a good ache, a cleansing one, as if Shepherd had drawn the guilt and shame from my body with each well-placed blow.

A soft whine escaped my throat, a wordless plea for more of his touch, more of his closeness. My tongue felt thick and clumsy in my mouth, incapable of forming coherent words.

Shepherd's fingers carded through my hair, his touch gentle and grounding. “Do you need something in your mouth, sweet boy?” he asked, his voice low and soothing. “Would that help you feel better?”

I nodded against his chest, a soft whimper escaping my throat. The urge to suckle, to have some part of Shepherd inside me, was overwhelming. I needed that connection, that tangible proof of his care and affection.

Shepherd shifted beneath me, his hands guiding me down his body until my face was level with his crotch. The scent of him was stronger here, muskier, and I nuzzled against the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans, seeking that comforting aroma.

He lifted his hips, shoving his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, hard and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum. The sight of it made my mouth water, my own cock twitching weakly between my legs.

“Go on, sweet boy,” Shepherd encouraged, his hand cupping the back of my head. “Take what you need.”

I leaned forward, my tongue darting out to lap at the salty-sweet liquid that beaded at the tip of his cock. The taste of him made me moan softly, my eyes fluttering closed. This was exactly what I needed.

I parted my lips, taking the head of Shepherd's cock into my mouth. The weight of him on my tongue was a comforting presence, solid and real. I sucked gently, savoring the velvety softness of his skin, the salty tang of his essence. My eyes drifted closed as I lost myself in the soothing, repetitive motions, my mind quieting as I focused on this one simple task.

Shepherd's fingers combed through my hair, his touch tender and reassuring. “That's it, sweet boy,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. “You're doing so well, serving me so well.”

I hummed softly around his length, the vibrations drawing a quiet groan from Shepherd's throat. His praise washed over me like a warm breeze, wrapping me in a cocoon of safety and acceptance. Here, with his cock in my mouth and his hands in my hair, I felt cherished, treasured. The guilt and shame that had weighed so heavily on my soul began to dissolve, chased away by the pure, uncomplicated pleasure of serving my Sir.

Time lost all meaning as I drifted in that blissful haze, my world narrowed down to the slide of Shepherd's cock between my lips, the gentle scratch of his nails against my scalp, the rumbling timbre of his voice as he murmured words of praise and encouragement. My jaw began to ache, but Shepherd massaged it, easing the pain so I could keep going.

Shepherd's pleasure was a distant thing, registering only vaguely in my subspace-fogged mind. I felt the twitch and pulse of his cock, the warm flood of his release flooding my mouth, but it was secondary to the soul-deep satisfaction of serving him, of being used for his gratification. I swallowed reflexively, savoring the bitter-salt taste of him on my tongue, proof of my devotion, my submission.

But even as his orgasm faded, I continued to suck, needing the connection, and he let me have it.

I drifted in a hazy, blissful sea of tranquility, only dimly aware of the passage of time. The world beyond Shepherd's strong thighs, the wet heat of my mouth, the weight of his spent cock on my tongue, had all faded away. There was only the primal comfort of suckling, of being filled, used, cherished. I floated in that soft-edged space, my mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

Shepherd's hands were a constant presence, stroking my hair, tracing the curve of my cheek, massaging away the ache in my jaw. His touch was a tether, a lifeline connecting me to the waking world even as I sank deeper into the warm dark.

Time stretched like taffy, minutes bleeding into hours until I had no concept of how long I'd been nestled between Shepherd's strong thighs, my head pillowed on his groin, his softening cock a comforting weight in my mouth. I drifted, floating, only vaguely registering the distant murmur of Shepherd's voice, the rumble of it vibrating through his body and into mine.

Gradually, I began to surface. Awareness returned in stages—the ache in my knees from kneeling on the hard floor, the soreness in my jaw, a stiffness in my neck. I lifted my head from Shepherd's groin, my movements sluggish and uncoordinated. His cock slipped from between my lips, leaving behind a hollow feeling, an emptiness that made me whimper softly. I felt drugged, my limbs heavy and my mind pleasantly fuzzy, wrapped in a haze of blissful tranquility.

Shepherd's hands cupped my face, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. His eyes were warm, filled with a tender affection that made my chest ache. He brushed his thumbs over my cheekbones, wiping away the tears I hadn't even realized I'd shed.

“There you are, sweet boy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You did so well for me, Eli. I'm so proud of you.”

I leaned into his touch, nuzzling against his palm like a touch starved cat. My whole body felt heavy and languid, my mind blissfully quiet, drifting in a hazy sea of contentment. There was no room for guilt or shame here, only the bone-deep satisfaction of having pleased my Sir, of being exactly where I belonged.

Shepherd retrieved a soft, damp cloth from somewhere and began to tenderly wipe my face, cleaning away the tears, drool and remnants of his release. Each stroke of the cloth was soothing, grounding, a tactile reminder of his care. He took his time, his movements thorough but unhurried, as if he was savoring this moment of quiet intimacy as much as I was.

When he was satisfied that my face was clean, Shepherd leaned in and brushed his lips against mine in a chaste, almost reverent kiss. I sighed into it, my eyes fluttering closed, losing myself in the simple comfort of his affection.

“My sweet, perfect boy,” Shepherd murmured against my lips. “You took your punishment so beautifully, and then served me so well. I'm honored by your submission, Eli.”

I flushed. “Thank you, Sir.”

And for the first time since that terrible night, I realized I felt safe again.

Shepherd's strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me up from my kneeling position and guiding me to lay face-down across his lap. I went willingly, eagerly, craving more of his touch, his closeness. The rough fabric of his jeans was a delicious friction against my tender, well-spanked skin, making me squirm and gasp.

“Easy now, sweet boy,” Shepherd murmured, his large hand splaying possessively over my lower back, stilling my movements. “Let me take care of you.”

I melted under his touch, the last dregs of tension bleeding out of my muscles as I surrendered to his control. Shepherd's other hand drifted lower, ghosting over the hot, throbbing flesh of my punished backside. I hissed at the contact, the sting reigniting, but didn't pull away. The pain was a good ache, grounding and cleansing, the physical proof of Shepherd's dominance, his mastery over me.

Shepherd hummed approvingly, his fingers tracing the curve of my buttocks, mapping the undoubtedly vivid hand prints he'd left behind. “It doesn’t look too bad. I don’t think you’ll have bruises. I’ll have a pillow for you to sit on for the rest of the day. No more kneeling.”

I frowned at that. I liked kneeling.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better,” I replied and nuzzled into him. “Like that was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Sir.”

I love you . The words sat on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t ready to say them yet, and I didn’t think he was ready to hear them. That didn’t make them any less true.

Shepherd planted a kiss on my sweaty temple. “Come, boy. Let’s go take a bath and then you can help me make dinner. How does that sound?”

I nodded and smiled up at him, still feeling half drunk on…whatever that was. I didn’t know for sure. Whatever it was, I wanted more of it.