Page 24 of Daddy Knows Best

What it needed was more. More pressure, more speed, more of his voice saying things like "good" and "responsive" and my name. I was climbing toward something vast, bigger than the usual quick release of shower orgasms. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, wind whipping my hair, about to jump.

"You're close." Not a question. He could read my body like those receipts—every tell catalogued and understood. "When you reach the edge, you have permission to let go. Full permission to feel everything."

Permission. The word cracked something open. I'd spent years denying myself—not just things but feelings, pleasure, the right to want. But here, in this impossible moment, someone was giving me permission to fall apart.

"Please—" The word escaped without thought. "I need—"

"I know what you need." His voice dropped lower, more command than guide. "Let go, Emily. Now."

The orgasm crashed through me like a wave breaking on stone. My back arched off the beanbag, romper riding up, thighs shaking as pleasure rolled through in devastating waves. I heard myself cry out—wordless at first, then his name.

"Daddy!"

The moment it left my lips, I knew I'd crossed a line. Not Dr. Whitlow. Not Doctor. Not even Nate.

Daddy.

It was a terrible mistake.

But the orgasm didn't care about boundaries, wringing me out until I collapsed back into the beanbag, boneless and buzzing.

Silence filled the room, broken only by my ragged breathing. I couldn't look at him. Couldn't face whatever expression he wore after watching me come while calling him that.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the ceiling. "I didn't mean to say—"

"Shh." His voice held no judgment, just warmth. "Bodies do what they need to do. You're safe. You did perfectly."

Perfectly. Even in my mistake, he found something to praise.

My body hummed at a frequency I'd never felt before, like I'd been taken apart and reassembled with better instructions. The romper's snaps hung open, cool air kissing oversensitive skin.

"Stay still. I'm getting aftercare supplies."

His voice had returned to pure professional, but underneath I heard something else. Not strain exactly, but conscious control. Like he was holding himself in check through will alone.

I heard the mini-fridge open, liquid pouring. His footsteps returned, and then he was kneeling beside the beanbag, close enough that I could see the pulse in his throat. Quick, like mine.

"Strawberry milk." He held out a bottle warmed to body temperature. "Sip slowly. Your blood sugar probably dropped."

My hands shook as I took it, careful not to let our fingers touch. The sweetness coated my throat, childhood comfort in liquid form. He watched me drink with that clinical assessment, but his eyes kept dropping to my mouth.

"I'm going to clean your face. That okay?"

I nodded, not trusting words yet. The cool cloth was heaven against flushed cheeks, wiping away tears and snot and the salt of exertion. When he reached my throat, his hand paused.

"Your pulse is still elevated."

"I wonder why," I managed, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue. But the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile.

"Post-orgasmic physiology can take time to regulate." So clinical. So controlled. So at odds with the way his pupils had dilated when I'd called him Daddy. "Keep drinking."

I finished the milk while he sat back, maintaining that careful distance.

"How do you feel?" The question came loaded with professional concern, nothing more.

"Floaty. Empty but full. Like . . ." I searched for words that wouldn't cross lines. "Like something got reset."

"That's exactly what happened. Your nervous system discharged trapped energy. The regression work opened pathways, the physical release closed the loop." He stood with that lazy grace, extending a hand. "Think you can stand?"

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