I thought the worst was over.
I thought the cuffs, the flogger, the invasion of his fingers had been the test. But Master Vincent was only beginning to write his script on my body.
He flipped me onto my back, the leather biting into my wrists as he secured me tighter, spreading me open like a canvas waiting for his strokes. My kimono slid off, leaving only lace clinging to curves that now felt like offerings.
He loomed above me, cock heavy and ready, eyes dark with hunger. My chest rose and fell, my breath shallow. I braced for the thrust.
But instead—warmth.
A sudden heat splashing across my stomach.
I gasped, my mind struggling to catch up. The smell, the sensation—no, it can't be.
Golden.
My first instinct was shame. Every social script I had been taught screamed, disgusting, dirty, wrong. But my body? My body arched into it, shuddering. My cunt clenched hard enough to ache.
"You wear my mark now," he growled, his stream coating my skin. "This body is mine to use, mine to desecrate, mine to worship."
Tears pricked my eyes—not from humiliation, but from the shock of how much it turned me on. I had never felt so claimed, so stripped of pride and yet so alive.
And then, as if the universe wanted to mock me, my orgasm hit. Violent. Relentless.
I squirted. For the first time in my life. My juices mixing with his, soaking the towel beneath me.
He laughed softly, dark and pleased. "There she is. Daddy's messy little fountain."
Shame and ecstasy collided in my chest. I shook, trembling under his gaze. But he didn't mock me further. He wiped my stomach with a warm cloth, slow and deliberate, cleaning me as if I were sacred.
That tenderness undid me more than the piss had.
He kissed my forehead, surprising me. "You did well, Lethabo. You let go. That's harder than you know."
For the first time, I realized this wasn't just play. This was transformation.
And Daddy was both my destroyer and my healer.