Page 17 of Daddy Knows Best

My hands shook as I complied, lifting the fabric with none of the charged anticipation from before. Now it just felt exposed. Vulnerable. Small.

The snap of nitrile gloves made me flinch. He pumped lotion into his palm, warming it between his hands with the same care he'd shown setting out the paddle. When he touched me, I bit back a whimper.

"Too cold?"

"No. It's—fine."

That was a lie.

His touch was clinical but thorough, spreading the cooling aloe over heated skin with firm, circular motions. Each pass of his hands sent conflicting signals—soothing the burn while reminding me why it burned. My body, apparently incapable of appropriate responses, started heating up again despite my mortification.

"The redness is even," he said, like discussing the weather. "No welting. You took it well."

Took it well. Like I'd passed a test instead of climaxing on his desk like some—

"Stop." His voice cut through my spiral. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. Shame serves no purpose here."

"How can you tell what I'm thinking?"

"Your shoulders are climbing toward your ears, and you're holding your breath. Classic shame response." He applied more lotion, movements steady. "What happened was physiological. Nothing more, nothing less."

Physiological. Such a clean word for the mess I'd made.

"All done." He peeled off the gloves, dropping them in the waste basket. "You can lower your skirt."

I did, grateful for even that small coverage. But standing was becoming an issue—my legs trembled, and the drop in adrenaline left me feeling hollow. Fragile.

He must have noticed because he settled into his desk chair and patted his thigh once. "Come here."

"I—what?"

"Aftercare includes grounding through physical contact. Sitting sideways on my lap will take pressure off the affected area while providing stability." He said it like prescribing medication. "Unless you'd prefer to remain standing?"

Standing meant continuing to shake apart by degrees. Pride warred with need, and need won. I approached carefully, lowering myself across his thighs with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. His arm came around my waist, steadying but not constraining.

"Better?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. It was better. Also worse. Also completely outside any framework I had for understanding therapy. His body radiated warmth through his clothes, solid and steady where I felt liquid.

"Drink." A bottle appeared in my hands—vanilla almond milk, warmed to body temperature. "Small sips."

The sweetness coated my throat, washing away the salt of tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. We sat in silence while I drank, his thumb moving in absent circles against my hip. Such a small motion, but it anchored me to the present. To this moment where I was safe despite being split open.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into the quiet. "About . . . what happened."

"I told you, there's nothing to apologize for."

"But it's not—I mean, people don't just—" I gestured helplessly. "In therapy."

"This isn't traditional therapy." His voice rumbled through his chest where I leaned against him. "Physical correction can trigger various responses. Tears, anger, arousal—they're all within normal parameters."

Normal parameters. Like my orgasm was a data point on a graph.

"Does it—" I swallowed, forced myself to continue. "Does it happen often? With other clients?"

A pause. His thumb stilled on my hip.

"Every client responds differently," he said carefully. "What matters is how we process and integrate the experience. You've shown remarkable courage today."

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