Page 15 of Daddy Knows Best

"Yes." The word barely qualified as sound. "I'm ready."

He stepped back, giving me space to approach his desk. The surface gleamed in the afternoon light, cleared except for a box of tissues placed thoughtfully at one corner.

I positioned myself at the edge, hands flat on the cool wood. Behind me, I heard him move into position, the whisper of fabric as he rolled his sleeves.

"When you're ready, Ms. Carter. Adjust your clothing and we'll begin."

My hands trembled as they found my hem. This was happening. Three days of discipline undone by rose-scented wax and a sale sign.

Time to pay the price.

The hem of my skirt felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as I lifted it to my waist. Cool air kissed the backs of my thighs, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature. My fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear—practical cotton, thank God, not the lace that would have made this even more mortifying—and slid them down to mid-thigh.

The city sprawled beyond the window, oblivious to my position. Bent over Dr. Whitlow's desk, ass exposed, waiting for punishment like the overgrown child I apparently was. The walnut surface pressed cold against my forearms as I tried to find a position that felt less . . . everything.

"Good." His voice came from directly behind me, low and controlled. "Remember—count aloud, then 'Needs before wants.' Clear?"

"Clear." The word squeaked out, my throat tight with anticipation.

I felt him shift, the subtle displacement of air as he raised the paddle. My whole body tensed, bracing for—

CRACK.

The first strike landed squarely across the fullest part of my ass, sending shock waves through tissue and nerve. Not gentle like last week's warning tap—this meant business.

"One," I gasped, remembering just in time. "Needs before wants."

The sting bloomed outward, sharp heat spreading like spilled wine. I'd barely processed it when—

CRACK.

"Two. Needs before wants."

He'd found a rhythm already, methodical as a metronome. Each strike landed in slightly different territory, painting heat across my skin in careful strokes. By the fourth, my voice shook. By the sixth, tears pricked at my eyes.

But underneath the spreading fire, something else built. Each impact sent vibrations through me, and my position—hips tilted, legs spread for balance—meant those vibrations found every sensitive place. My clit throbbed in time with my punished flesh, confusion mixing with arousal in a cocktail that made thinking impossible.

"Six," I whimpered, the words fracturing. "Needs before—ah—wants."

"Need a break?" His voice cut through my haze, professional concern overriding everything.

"No, don’t stop," I heard myself say, and meaning it. The pain was real, building toward something I couldn't name, but stopping felt impossible. "Please—keep going."

A pause. I imagined him processing my request, the "please" that had slipped out without permission. But when he spoke, his tone remained clinically neutral.

"Four more. You're doing well."

Well. The praise shouldnt have sent warmth flooding through me, but it did. I pressed my forehead to the desk, breathing through my nose as he repositioned.

CRACK.

"Seven! Needs before wants."

This one overlapped previous strikes, igniting already-sensitized nerves. My hips jerked involuntarily, seeking escape or contact, I couldn't tell which. The movement pressed my clit against the desk edge, sending lightning through my core.

No. This couldn't be happening. I couldn't be getting aroused by punishment, by the humiliation of bent-over correction in my therapist's office. But my body didn't care about shouldn't and couldn't. It only knew the building pressure, the wet heat gathering between my thighs.

"Eight." My voice broke completely, tears streaming. "Needs—needs before wants."

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