Penance

He has failed me twice this week, and I'm furious.

"Come up with your own punishment," I told him, and he whimpered. But he did it... I wonder if he knows that I don't trust myself to think of something appropriate, if he realizes that I was too angry to trust myself not to choose something which would harm him.

He mentioned several options, stumbling a little and whimpering. His fear soothed me a little, and the shame in his voice eased the last of my fury. He wants this punishment, needs this penance to expiate the shame which he feels- a shame likely far stronger than my anger.

By the time he arrives at my home, over an hour's drive away, I am calm again. His face as he enters my home is beautiful- frightened and ashamed and loving and willing and beautiful. It melts me, but I keep my face still. I no longer need this, but it is clear to me that he does. Penance, else he will blame himself for his failure forever.

My boi is hard on himself, harder perhaps even than I am, and I love him for it.

And because I love him, my voice is cold: "Strip".

He strips, kneels.

I read for a while, sprawled on the couch. Concealed Carry Magazine, belated birthday gift courtesy of one of my bosses. I read about the merits of the new Kahr .380, possibly my next expensive gift for myself once I get my hands on one to try it out.

He is perfectly still, aside from the misery on his face. Test passed.

I stand quickly, 3 quick strides and my fingers are twined in his hair. He starts to stand, starts to try to come to me, but I shove him back to the floor. I am not angry any longer, but this roughness is what he wants right now, what he needs.

It's breaking my heart.

I drag him along the hallway, forcing him to keep up with my long, fast strides and then dump him onto my air intake grate.

My house is old- 1940's officer housing for a nearby Army base. It was built long before central air was standard, and central air was installed below the floors. That means that an air intake is needed. Mine sits in my floor, just outside of our media/guest room. It's a huge metal grate, maybe 3.5x2.5'. It hurts to stand on, I can't imagine how it feels to kneel on it.

He's kneeling now, his face tight with pain.

I'm sprawled on our guest bed, reading my magazine again and keeping a subtle eye on him.

He shifts, whimpers slightly, rights himself.

Sniffs, puts his arms behind his head, steals a glance at me.

Minutes pass, slowly. So slowly.

I didn't think to bring my phone, I don't know how much time is passing, but I'm watching him. I watch him consider safing out, watch him discard the notion.

He told me that an hour would be a good period of time.

It hasn't been 20 minutes and he bends over, body shaking. Instantly, I'm terrified. Was this too much? Is he retching from the pain? But my voice is cold, amused, laced with condescension, "Are you puking?"

He shakes his head, whispering, "No, ma'am."

"Good."

I return to my magazine, but now I can see the shininess of his eyes, the shivering of his muscles.

Good, it's time. I want him to feel the strain, recognize that it was hard... but not to fail. I never want him to feel like he's failed me again.

It takes barely two strides in the smaller room before I'm on him, twisting my fingers in his hair once more and dragging him into the room. He stumbles after me, dropping to his knees in front of me. His face is flushed and sweating, his lovely hair matted and stuck to his cheeks.

He has never looked more beautiful to me.

I wrap my hands around his face. "Do you understand why I was angry with you?"

He nods, still miserable.

"Do you understand why I did this?"

He nods again, eyes down.

"Look at me." He obeys. The fear in his eyes is something I would normally sip like a fine wine, but not today. Not with that misery behind it. Today it only twists my gut into knots of anxiety.

"It's over now," I tell him, letting my voice take the loving tone I've been denying to myself for the last half hour and drawing him into me.

He clings to me, sweaty miserable shamed boy, and I realize that he's whispering, the same words over and over: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

It breaks my heart a little more, twists the pieces a little harder.

I draw him back to see my face, let him see the love, the tenderness in my eyes. "It's over. I forgive you. It's over."

And then he is in my arms and pressed against me and I am stroking him, kissing the top of his head over and over and we are both whispering incoherent nonsense to one another but it's all right because I know what he is saying and he knows what I am.