Silence met my words.

Then Malcolm glanced at me, gave a nervous laugh, and said, "You – you're joking right?"

"Not even a little bit."

"But I'm an adult."

"In body perhaps."

He looked ahead, and I could almost feel his mind working through the situation.

"Spanking involves hitting someone, usually on their rear," he gave a barely perceptible nod, the same motion of head going back and forth that he did when working through cases. "Mostly it's a punishment for children even though there has been massive research on possible psychological effects. Other countries have outlawed it, but America remains split on the implementation of corporal punishment."

I didn't say anything as I drove the car towards his loft.

"That's children though," the nodding increased. "For adults, it's an assault to hit another person. The only way it works between adults is for both parties to consent. I researched it for the Berkhead case. I read a quote about sex once compared to boxing – 'If both parties consent, it's sport. If not, it's assault.' That works for spanking activities, too. So I would have to consent to this."

He looked at me, that same eager way he does when working through a case and wanting approval for a line of logic. I've been careful to keep my responses to small bits of affirmation, giving out praise like I might give a small child candy – once or twice a week. The other members of my team have self-confidence, sure in their movements and actions; I could say good job after everything Dani does, and she would respond with a half-smile of recognition before moving on to her next task, but Malcolm needs approval like an addict. Smile at him too often, congratulate him too much, stand and marvel at his brilliance, and he becomes unmanageable in his careless disregard of rules and his own safety.

Now that I thought about it, I had been a little too relaxed at the office today, letting Malcolm do what he liked as we were between cases. I might have even used the words "You want the files from the Surgeon's first kills? Okay, have at them." I should have snapped, "You tell me why you want them, and then I'll decide if you get to read a single sheet at my desk where I can watch you."

But no good deed goes unpunished, and all lenience with Malcolm will always be regretted.

"You're going to consent to this," I told him. "It will hurt some, but after, you'll feel better and you'll sleep better."

"Really? I've heard that people who engage in this type of behavior do feel better after. It releases endorphins, they say, and helps with guilt. But I don't feel guilty . . ."

He trailed off, and I tried not to roll my eyes at his lies. He felt guilty about everything these days, his life one long self-punishment for the sins of his father.

"Did your parents ever spank you?" I was casual as I turned the car onto the street two blocks from his loft.

"My mother did," he rubbed his fingers over the seatbelt where the string had been. "I remember being small, before they caught the Surgeon, and I broke her china vase thing after she told me not to play with it. I think she swatted me a few times. I ran out in the street once, ignoring her, and when we got home, she put me over her knee and spanked me with her hairbrush. It must have worked – I haven't broken vases or run into streets without looking both ways since."

I hated to ask, "Did your father ever use corporal punishment?"

"No, he was too busy killing women to correct childish behavior."

The sarcasm was back, and I knew if I looked at him, his smile would be back, his faithful defense mechanism to avoid honesty.

"All right, fair enough. But," I pulled the car to a stop in front of his loft and killed the engine, "you're agreeing to this? You trust me to take care of you?"

The smile slipped, but he still exuded the feel of a caged, wary animal looking for an escape. Vulnerability was his kryptonite.

"I trust you, Gil," but Malcolm didn't meet my eyes, and when I saw his gaze trailing out to the sidewalk, I knew he was considering an escape.

"Tell me," I pulled the keys out of the ignition, "what you learned about adult corporal punishment during the Berkhead case. Is it always a part of BDSM lifestyles?"

"Not always," he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out. "Sometimes BDSM is about flaunting the regular rules of social behavior by doing the opposite." He fished in his pocket and unlocked the door with his keys. "So sometimes the top or the dom will use degrading language towards the bottom or sub as part of arousal. If you call someone a dirty slut in real life, it's meant to tear them down, but when done in a BDSM scene, it helps the sub get into subspace."

He turned on the lights, took off his coat, and tossed the keys on the kitchen counter.

"Sounds like a complicated system," I commented.

"Sort of. I thought about venturing into it, but it's another set of rules where you have to remember to act properly, and the serial killer father thing would put off people who wanted to use pain as pleasure. There are professional dominatrix, but paying for it seems a little too close to paying for sex, and my mother would chain me permanently to the bed if she caught me paying for anything sexual. She put parental locks on our computers during high school and college which made it hard to study abnormal human psychology."

"I never thought of your mother as particularly prudish."

"Oh, she's not. She thinks it's tacky to pay for something that someone would give you for free."

Malcolm glanced around. "So where do you want me? Over the counter? Touching my toes?"

"You can go over my lap," I grabbed him by the collar and strode towards the bed. I was overplaying the stern father a little as he would have gone where I told him, but he looked too nonchalant and I was still irritated with him.

I sat on the bed. "Bend over my lap and put your torso on the bed. That way you won't be too heavy."

He stared at the bed as if he couldn't quite comprehend what I was staying and then, flustered, looked down at his pants.

"Pants off, shorts on," I instructed.

He nodded, and I saw his hands trembled as he unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned and unzipped the dark pants, and shoved them down to his knees. For underwear, he had on fitted black shorts, the expensive kind that cost more than my suit.

He might be tenting slightly in those shorts, but the look on his face was fear and worry, and any bodily response I was writing off as the tension of the situation. He made a movement to reach down and cover himself, but stopped; his eyes grew big and almost misty with apprehension.

"Stop being so dramatic," I tugged him down, angling his face to my left so my right hand could swat. I got him to rest his torso on the bed with a pillow under his chest. His legs bent with his shoes touching the floor, positioning his rear at the perfect angle for bringing down sharp smacks.

"What if you hurt your hand?" he tried to look back but couldn't quite make eye contact.

"I'll be fine."

I brought my hand down with a slap.

The sound broke through the loft, sharp and ugly.

Malcolm tensed, every muscle rigid.

"Ow!" he exploded. "Ow, that hurt. Let me up."

He made a motion to push up, and I swatted him again, twice.

"Settle down or I'm getting a belt."

"No, ow," he whined. "Ow, Gil. It hurts."

"Of course it hurts. What did you think a spanking was?"

"But people said it made them feel better afterward."

"Yes, afterward. Not during."

Malcolm gave a small stamp on the floor. "They should have clarified that in the studies!"

I didn't answer. I swatted, keeping my hand cupped to maximize the sound.

He nearly howled. "This is awful! I can't stand it."

"I've seen you take worse beatings than this on cases. A few slaps on the ass is worse than getting punched or choked or stabbed?"

"That's done in the moment of action," he panted. "Here I have to keep still for you to –"

I spanked him hard to finish his sentence.

"Wait, wait," he put his right hand back, his left trapped under the pillow. "Tell me when you are going to hit so I can brace for it."

"Kid," I made my voice gentle though I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of our situation, "I'm not trying to torture you. I'm spanking you for two reasons. First, so you never wander around New York in the middle of the night again. Second, because you need to let out all your guilt and fear and anger. Take my hand," I used my free hand to catch up his right and rest it in the small of his back, careful not to strain his shoulder. "You can cry, scream, wiggle, and stomp all you like. But you're going to hold onto my hand until it's over. Then, I promise you will sleep peacefully."

"You promise?"

"I promise, and you know you can trust me."

I heard him take a deep breath and then felt him squeeze my hand.

I began to swat in earnest, a pattern of four strikes: right, left, high middle, low middle. I completed three circuits on his rear and then moved down to slap high on his left thigh.

He had been whining softly, but now he jerked with another howl.

"Ow! Why'd you have to go there?"

I responded with a smack on his right thigh.

"No, go back up!"

I obliged, spanking his bottom twice with more strength than I had used before.

He lowered his head with a deep whine. He wiggled some, as if he were trying to shake off the soreness.

It was time to start the lecture. "I am tired of this nonchalant, devil-may-careful attitude of yours. You are so smart and brilliantly gifted, but you leap into danger because you think you don't matter. It's like you think you live on another plane of existence than the rest of us, a place where you are so special that nothing matters but cases and your own brain. Your father acts like that too."

I felt him go rigid again, but I kept swatting. "Your father acts out of selfishness, and you act with this martyred, willing-to-sacrifice attitude where you are the atonement for his sins. I don't like it, Malcolm."

I so rarely use his first name that I knew I had his attention. His breathing was short and wet, but he had stopped whining to listen.

"I don't like this masochistic streak, and if I have to spank you to help you return to reality, so be it. Other people on my team listen to me – do you see Dani disobeying orders whenever she wants?

He shook his head hard, probably scared to talk and burst into tears.

I swatted him three times – my hand was starting to hurt – and I kept lecturing, "You want it both ways, the freedom of adulthood to do what you want and the dependency of childhood to disobey and float along in your own world without serious consequences. I'm not having it, and I'm not letting you play Russian roulette with your safety any longer. Am I getting through to you?"

"Yes," barely mustered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

"Am I your lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Am I your friend?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Am I the closest thing you have for a decent father?"

"Yes, sir, owwwwww!"

"And am I going to have any more foolishness from you?"

"No, please!"

"Then what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. "I'm sorry for not listening and disobeying you and causing problems."

"You focus on those thoughts," I pulled my arm up a few inches – ugh, my poor hand was going to hurt after this – and I walloped him hard.

Jerking, he gave a pitiful, "Aaahh!" before breaking into real tears.

I hardened myself against his agony – and my own as my hand was throbbing – and walloped him three more times just as hard.

He kept crying, wet and gasping, but he didn't move.

"Okay, we're done. You're going to sit beside me and calm down."

He was a sweaty, shaky, crying mess and it took some navigating to get him up, pants righted, and oriented enough to sit down which brought another round of huge tears as he put weight on his bottom.

He looked so miserable that I didn't even think as I slipped an arm around him and pulled him against me, ignoring the stiffness of my hand.

Malcolm wrapped both arms around my waist and buried his face in my right shoulder as he kept crying. I could feel his torso tremble with his sobs, but the tremor from his hands was gone.

"Shh," I told him though I didn't care how long he cried. It was a relief to have him this way; I haven't realized it, but his taunt emotions had spilled over to the rest of us and I was finally able to release just like he was. Granted, I wasn't crying, but I felt a comforting peace, a present calmness to the chaos of our lives.

"That hurt," he sniffled.

"I know," I forced myself to stroke his hair with my sore hand. "You took it really well."

A few more sniffles, and then, "Are you going to tell the others about this?"

"No, this is just between us."

"Good, I don't want JT to know."

"Not Dani?"

Hesitation and a long sniff before, "I don't know how I feel about her."

There was a depth of information there, but it was too late to go into that, and he would retreat into lies and evasion, and I saw no reason to give him a second spanking for dishonesty.

"Do you feel better?" I asked, my voice calm and matter-of-fact.

He squirmed but admitted, "Yes, but I'm still sore. I mostly feel wrung out, but I don't care so much. It's weird."

He turned his head to rest against my shoulder and let out a long breath. I ignored the stiffness of my fingers to rub the back of his neck, willing to just let him stay quiet for a few minutes. The only sound in the room was the soft twitter of his parakeet.

Malcolm yawned, and when I looked down, I saw his eyes were fluttering shut.

"Into bed," I pulled him up.

"No, don't leave."

"I'm not leaving, but you need to be in bed, restrained and mouth-guarded, before you fall asleep."

"You promised I wouldn't have a night terror," he pouted, but he got up, let me pull back the covers, and settled down on the bed with a wince. He barely noticed as I slid the cuffs on, and his eyes closed before I could reach for the mouth guard.

"Open up," I told him, and he opened his mouth without opening his eyes.

I thought about wandering away, but I stopped and allowed myself a moment of sentimentality for the boy who had save my life all those years ago. I pressed my hand down on his forehead and murmured, "Sleep well, my son."

He tried to smile around the mouth guard, but sleep had pulled him deep down into peaceful darkness.

I turned the lights off around his bed and went down into the living room area of the loft to sleep on the sofa. It was after 3, but I hoped to catch a few hours of rest before dawn came.