I took a shaky breath, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "I love when you take care of me. When you feed me, braid my hair, make decisions when I'm overwhelmed. It feels... safe. Like I can finally stop fighting for just a moment." I paused, gathering courage. "But what if that's not enough for you? What if you need me to be something I'm not?"
"What do you think I need?" he asked quietly.
"I saw the changing table in your playroom," I admitted, my voice barely audible. "And I know some Littles use diapers and... I don't think I want that. I don't think that's me. But what if it's what you want?"
Understanding dawned in Dion's eyes, followed immediately by tenderness. "Emily, look at me." When I complied, he continued. "That room was built for someone I hoped to find someday, but I never had a specific person in mind. I created a space that could accommodate many different needs because I didn't know what those needs would be."
"But—"
"No," he said firmly but gently. "Let me finish. A real Daddy Dom doesn't force his Little into a predetermined mold. He discovers who she is and creates the dynamic that serves her needs, not a vague fantasy."
Relief flooded through me so intensely I felt dizzy. "You mean that?"
"I mean that," he confirmed. "I already told you if you never want to use a pacifier, we'll never use one. If the changing table makes you uncomfortable, it becomes storage furniture. Our dynamic is about what makes you feel safe, cared for, and loved—not about checking boxes on some imaginary list."
I pressed my forehead against his, overwhelmed by gratitude. "I was so scared you'd be disappointed."
"The only thing that would disappoint me is if you pretended to be something you're not," Dion said, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. "I want the real Emily—all of her."
"Even the parts that are messy and complicated?"
"Especially those parts," he assured me, then smirked. “Although, sometimes you could dial back the stubbornness. Now, how about we get you into something more comfortable? I think you've had enough excitement for one day."
I nodded, suddenly aware of how emotionally drained I felt. The spanking, the conversation, the revelations—it had all taken its toll.
Dion helped me dress in one of his soft t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, the familiar routine soothing after the intensity of our discussion. I knew I had my own pajamas, but he must have sensed I’d feel better in his. When he guided me to sit on the bed, I winced slightly as my still-tender bottom made contact with the mattress.
Dion's eyes darkened with concern. "I should have gotten you some arnica. Stay right there."
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a small jar. "This will help with the soreness," he explained, sitting beside me. "Turn over for me, sweetheart."
I froze for a heartbeat, cheeks aflame, then rolled onto my stomach, every nerve ending alive with embarrassment. Dion’s fingers hooked under the waistband of my boxers, easing them down just enough to reveal my heated skin. The moment thecool cream touched, relief flamed through me—iced silk against fire—as he spread it in firm, meticulous strokes. At first his touch was all business, eyes locked on my reddened flesh, but with each pass of his palm the air between us thickened, charged.
“Better?” he murmured, voice low and husky.
I exhaled, astonished at how the sting had bloomed into a searing warmth that pulsed through me. Had this been what Abby meant?
“What was that thought?” he murmured.
I swallowed. “Abby said she likes this.” I wished I could see his face.
“Hmm,” Dion replied and slid a finger down my crease. I shuddered as a million nerve endings came to life. “This was a punishment, little one, but sometimes a spanking can be used for other things.”
I might have made some sort of noise that didn’t qualify as words.
His fingers strayed, ghosting over the soft planes of my inner thighs. A gasp slipped free. “Dion…”
“Say it,” he breathed, pausing mid-stroke. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
I twisted my head, eyes dark with need. “Don’t stop.”
His gaze flickered, something primal and urgent flaring there. He leaned in, lips brushing a hot kiss between my shoulder blades. “You sure, baby girl? You’ve been through a lot.”
I pressed my hips back against his hand, heart hammering. “I’m sure.”
He groaned—deep, raw surrender that shook me—then swept my boxers the rest of the way off. I kicked them away as he helped me turn, guiding me onto my back with reverent care. He paused a second, drinking me in.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with appreciation.
