Page 14 of Daddy Knows Best

Two words, but they carried the weight of expectation I'd shattered. Obviously, he’d already checked the online paper trail. Still, he wanted to see the had evidence. I handed over the bag with trembling fingers, watching him examine the contents.

He spread them on his desk with methodical precision. The coffee purchase, the bus fare—those innocent first receipts—and then the Wick & Whim disaster, its crumpled receipt smoothed flat under his palms.

"Three days." His voice held no emotion, just fact. "You maintained discipline for three days before spending..."—he calculated with horrifying efficiency—"seventy-seven dollars and ninety-five cents."

"There was a flash sale," I heard myself say, then immediately wanted to crawl under the chair. "I mean—that's not an excuse. I just—"

"No." He held up one hand, and I shut up instantly. "Explanations come later. First, we need to establish facts. You spent your entire weekly allowance plus twelve percent. You used digital payment to circumvent the cash-only rule. And you purchased..."—he lifted the receipt to read—"a seventeen-dollar wick trimmer."

Each word landed like a precise cut.

"Yes." My voice came out smaller than intended. "All of that. Yes."

He set the receipts aside and finally, finally looked at me. Not with anger or disgust, but with something worse—professionalassessment. Like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person who'd failed.

"This jump-start relapse requires escalation." He pulled out my file, flipping to the behavioral contract I'd signed last week. "According to our agreed-upon structure, we’d normally begin with a verbal warning.”

Verbal warning. That didn’t sound too bad.

“However. This is a serious breach of out rules, therefore I’m going to escalate. In my professional opinion, this calls for impact correction. You consented to this consequence. Do you maintain that consent?"

The words hung between us, clinical and precise. This was it—the moment where playing at submission became real. Where theoretical consequences turned physical.

"I need verbal confirmation, Ms. Carter."

My mouth felt desert-dry. I thought about running. About making some excuse and fleeing to continue my cycle of financial self-destruction in private. But then I remembered the relief of that first swat last week. The way it had cut through all my mental noise and left blessed silence.

"I consent." The words came out steady, surprising us both. "I mean—yes. I maintain my consent to the agreed consequences."

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite approval, but recognition maybe. He nodded once, crisp and professional.

"Your safeword?"

"Sunshine."

"Use it at any point, for any reason, and we stop immediately. No questions, no judgment. Understood?"

"Understood."

He stood with that same liquid grace I'd noticed last week, moving to his desk drawer with purpose. The leather paddle emerged first—small, maybe eight inches total, the business end no bigger than his palm. Beside it, he placed a bottle of whatlooked like aloe lotion. The casual preparation made everything surreal, like watching someone set a table for dinner.

"Before we begin." He returned to stand in front of me, the paddle resting against his thigh. "This is not about shame or humiliation. Physical correction serves as a circuit breaker for destructive patterns. The discomfort creates new neural pathways, associating overspending with immediate consequence rather than delayed anxiety."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The technical explanation should have made it less charged, more clinical. Instead, the careful way he framed everything—therapeutic, boundaried, controlled—made my body hum with anticipation.

"We'll do ten strikes total. You'll count each one aloud and repeat the phrase 'Needs before wants.' If you lose count or fail to repeat the phrase, that strike doesn't count. Questions?"

Ten. The number echoed in my head. Last week had been one. One casual swat that had haunted my dreams. Ten felt like . . .a lot.

"What if I—" I swallowed, tried again. "Position?"

"Over the desk. Skirt raised, undergarments lowered. You'll need to lift your skirt yourself—I won't be adjusting your clothing."

The clinical distance in his voice contrasted sharply with what he was describing. My face burned, but lower, heat pooled in places that had no business responding to punishment.

"After completion, we'll have mandatory aftercare. This is non-negotiable. You'll need time to process the experience safely." He paused, studying my face. "Are you prepared to begin?"

Prepared seemed like too strong a word. But I was here, consent given, consequences accepted. I stood on shaky legs, smoothing my skirt.

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