Page 23 of Daddy Knows Best

Three words that shouldn't have meant everything. But when my fingers wrapped around his, when he pulled me up with careful strength, something in my chest cracked wider. Not breaking. Opening.

He guided me to the beanbag in the corner—plush, navy, big enough to swallow me whole. My romper rode up as I sank into it, but modesty felt pointless after showing him the ugliest parts of my insides. He grabbed a fleece blanket from a basket, mint green like my outfit, and wrapped it around my shoulders without touching more than necessary.

"Your body processed trauma today." He settled cross-legged on the floor, close enough to monitor but far enough to maintain those precious boundaries. "The nervous system often needsphysical release after emotional breakthrough. It's why people shake after accidents, why we cry at unexpected moments."

I pulled the blanket tighter, its softness a buffer against too many feelings. "I feel . . . buzzy. Like my skin's too tight."

"That's the trapped energy. We can work with that." His tone shifted to what I'd started thinking of as his doctor voice—clinical but caring. "There's a therapeutic technique that helps discharge that energy through guided self-touch. It's not about pleasure, though that may occur. It's about giving your body permission to release what it's holding."

The words landed in my belly, sending ripples through already sensitive places. "Self-touch?"

"You would touch yourself while I guide your breathing and focus. Romper stays on, but you can unsnap for access. No insertion, just external stimulation. I don't touch you at all—only provide verbal guidance."

My face burned hotter than the sun. He was describing masturbation. Therapeutic masturbation, but still. "And that's . . . normal? In therapy?"

"In somatic trauma therapy, yes. The body keeps score, as they say. Sometimes it needs help closing the loop on intense experiences." He studied my face, reading whatever was written there. "Your safe word applies. You can stop anytime. This is only if you feel it would be helpful."

Helpful. Would orgasming in my therapist's office while dressed like an escaped daycare resident be helpful? My body seemed to think so, already responding to the suggestion with warmth and wetness. The vulnerability of the drawing session had cracked me open. Maybe I needed this final break to put myself back together.

"Okay." The word came out breathy. "I mean, yes. I consent."

"Good girl." There it was again, that praise that hit me in places that had no name. "Lie back against the beanbag. Get comfortable. Blanket can stay or go—your choice."

I kept it, needing the weight and warmth. The beanbag cradled me as I shifted, trying to find a position that felt stable. My hands rested on my thighs, uncertain.

"We'll start with breathing." He had shifted into guide mode, voice dropping to that hypnotic register. "Four counts in through your nose, six counts out through your mouth. Just breathing first. Let your body settle."

I closed my eyes, following his count. In for four—hold—out for six. The rhythm felt like waves, washing away the lingering traces of tears and snot and shame. My muscles loosened by degrees, sinking deeper into the supportive foam.

"Good. Keep that rhythm. Now, very slowly, move one hand to your belly. Just resting there. Feel it rise and fall."

My hand obeyed before my brain could protest. The romper's cotton was soft under my palm, warmed by my body. Each breath moved my hand up and down like a boat on gentle swells.

"When you're ready—no rush—let that hand drift lower. Outside the clothes for now. Just pressure, just presence."

This was happening. I was really going to do this. My hand slid down, pausing at the junction of thigh and pelvis. Even through cotton and underwear, the heat radiated. I'd been wet since putting on the romper, body responding to vulnerability in its own language.

"That's it." His approval washed over me. "Now unsnap when you feel ready. Take your time. This is for you."

My fingers fumbled with the snaps, each pop loud in the quiet room. Cool air met damp underwear, making me gasp. I slipped my hand inside, finding slick heat that had been building since I'd walked in his door.

"Slow circles first. Let your body wake up gradually."

His voice became my anchor, something to follow when thinking became impossible. I circled my clit with light pressure, charge building in my belly. This was different from my usual rushed self-care—slower, more intentional. Guided.

"Breathe, Emily. In for four, out for six. Let the sensation build with the breath."

Emily. My name in his mouth while I touched myself sent lightning through my nerves. My circles grew firmer, finding the rhythm that made my hips lift. The beanbag shifted under me, accommodating my movement.

"You're doing so well. So responsive. Your body knows what it needs."

The praise wound through me like smoke, making everything hazier. My free hand clutched the blanket, needing something to ground me as pleasure built. His presence filled the room—not touching but everywhere, watching me come apart by degrees.

"A little faster now. Follow what feels good."

Good was an understatement. My fingers found the perfect pressure, the spot that made colors burst behind my eyelids. My breath hitched, disrupting his careful count, but he didn't correct me. Just kept that steady presence, that low guidance.

"Let it build. Don't chase it. Let your body tell you what it needs."

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