Page 25 of Daddy Knows Best

This time when our palms met, the contact sparked. He had to feel it too—the way the air charged between us, how my breathcaught, how his fingers tightened fractionally before releasing. But his face remained carefully neutral as he pulled me up.

"Steady?"

"Yeah." The lie came automatic. Nothing about me was steady. Not with my romper hanging open, not with the memory of his voice guiding me to climax, not with the way he wasn't quite meeting my eyes.

"Your clothes are behind the screen. Take your time changing. I'll prepare your homework materials."

Homework. Right. This was therapy, not whatever my body thought it was. I clutched the blanket around me and shuffled to the changing area on legs that still felt like water.

Peeling off the romper felt like shedding skin. Each piece of adult clothing—pencil skirt, work blouse, sensible bra—added another layer between me and what had just happened. By the time I'd finger-combed my pigtails out, I almost looked like someone who hadn't just orgasmed in her therapist's office.

The Emily in the mirror had glassy eyes and looked thoroughly debauched, yet somehow cleaner than before. Like someone had scraped her insides with steel wool and found something shiny underneath.

When I emerged, Dr. Whitlow was standing at a corkboard labeled "Progress Art." My Money Monster drawing hung from two pins, the gold star catching the light. Beside it, he'd written "Week 2 - Breakthrough" in that same precise handwriting.

"Visible progress matters," he said without turning. "You'll see this every week. Remember how brave you were today."

Brave. That's one word for writhing on his beanbag while he watched. I approached slowly, aware of every inch of space between us.

"Your homework." He handed me a sheet with bullet points, fingers careful not to brush mine. "Daily breathing exercises,two minutes minimum. And I want you to develop a self-soothing ritual that doesn't involve spending."

I scanned the list. "Scented hand cream?"

"Or tea, or a specific song, or stretching. Something sensory but affordable. Ten dollar maximum investment." He moved to his desk, pulling out another cash envelope. "Week three allowance. Same rules apply."

Seventy-five dollars in crisp bills. Another chance to prove I could handle this. That today meant something beyond the obvious.

"Dr. Whitlow," I started, then stopped. What was I going to say? Thanks for helping me masturbate? Sorry I called you Daddy?

"Boundaries remain critical," he said quietly, not looking up from his notes. "What happened today was therapeutic intervention. Nothing more. I need to know you understand that."

The words stung even as I recognized their necessity. "I understand."

"Good." He finally met my eyes, and for just a second, his control slipped. Heat flared in his gaze, want so naked it made my knees weak. Then it was gone, locked back behind professional distance. "You did exceptional work today. True vulnerability. That's . . . rare. Very, very rare."

"Same time next week?" My voice came out steadier than expected.

"Thursday at four."

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Chapter 5

Itfeltlikemylife was on fast-forward.

The only thing that mattered, the only thing I looked forward to every week was seeing Daddy.

I had to stop thinking of him like that.

It had been seven days since I'd called him Daddy. Seven nights of replaying that moment on his beanbag, my voice cracking around the word while pleasure rolled through me in waves that left me gasping.

My Week Three envelope crinkled between sweaty fingers—$14.10 left, every receipt paper-clipped with the precision of someone trying to prove they had their shit together. Bus fare, Tuesday. Generic ibuprofen from CVS. A used poetry collection that cost three dollars and made me cry for reasons I couldn't explain. All documented, all within budget, all evidence that I was being good.

"Emily, honey. Don't you look lovely today." Mrs. Delgado’s eyes tracked down my dress with grandmotherly approval that somehow made me blush harder. "He's just finishing notes. Have a seat."

I folded into the indigo armchair, hyperaware of how the wrap dress rode up my thighs. The homework sheet emerged from my folder. I wanted to look over it one more time, make sure it was perfect.

Daily breathing exercises—check.

---