The cry. God, yes, that. He'd told Tom to be quiet, but in some ways it had been a lie, because what he had really wanted was this. To hear him let go enough to give him this. To hear him in pain. He's heard that before; he's had to put pressure on a wound to keep him from bleeding to death and he's half carried him out of danger when he'd fallen and broken his ankle, but none of those sounds have been like this.

It's freely endured. Freely given.

He stops then, standing and staring at the welts rising on Tom's buttocks and thighs, the belt held limp in his hand and his breath very loud in his ears. "All right," he whispers. "Enough, now."