Page 33 of Daddy Knows Best

Two minutes stretched like hours. Lavender oil seeped into every taste bud, turning my mouth into a garden of regret. Tears tracked down my cheeks—not from pain but from the overwhelming nature of being held accountable. Of someone caring enough to correct me.

Saliva pooled, threatening to drip. He noticed immediately, grabbing a dishcloth to catch the overflow. His movements stayed clinical, efficient, but something in his eyes had gone molten watching me submit to this consequence.

The timer chimed like salvation. He removed the soap, letting me rinse and spit, the water running purple with dissolved lies. My mouth felt stripped clean, raw in a way that went beyond physical.

"Living room." His hand returned to my back, guiding me through my apartment's obstacle course of poor choices. "The strapping happens on the loveseat."

Loveseat. Where I'd binged Netflix and wine, numbing myself with consumption. Where I'd placed orders for things I didn't need with money I didn't have. The fabric still bore stains from spilled drinks and tears.

"Lower everything." He stood back, giving me space but watching to ensure compliance. "Pants and underwear at your ankles. This isn't about humiliation—it's about accessing the areas that need correction."

My hands shook on the waistband of yesterday's sleep shorts. They puddle at my feet along with the expensive lace that had seemed so important when I'd bought it. Cool air hit bare skin, raising goosebumps and worse—awareness of how exposed I was.

"Bend over. Palms flat on the cushions."

The position made everything worse and better. Worse because my ass was raised, presented for punishment like an offering. Better because I couldn't see his face, couldn't read whatever professional distance he was maintaining while preparing to strap me.

The leather whispered as he drew it from the bag. "This is a dire situation. There will be twenty strikes. You'll count each one and say 'Needs before wants.' If you miss count or forget the phrase, that strike doesn't count. Clear?"

"Clear." My voice came out high, scared.

"Additionally." The pacifier clip appeared in my peripheral vision. "Every fifth strike, we pause. You'll take the pacifier and focus on breathing. This isn't about endurance—it's about processing the correction mindfully."

He clipped it to the collar of my sleep shirt, the weight of it a reminder of what was coming. Then he moved behind me, and I felt the air shift as he found his position.

The first strike landed without warning. The leather cracked across both cheeks with surgical precision, blooming heat in its wake.

"One!" The word exploded from me. "Needs before wants!"

"Good." His approval made the sting worth it. "Continue."

The second landed lower, catching the curve where ass met thigh. The leather had weight to it, density that the paddle had lacked. Each impact sank deep, sending ripples through muscle and nerve.

"Two! Needs before wants!"

By the fifth, my voice had gone ragged. The heat built in layers—surface sting over deep warmth, spreading until my entire backside felt like it had been redesigned by fire. He paused, and I heard him move to my side.

"Pacifier." Not a request.

The silicone slipped between my lips, and instinct took over. I sucked, drawing comfort from the repetitive motion while my ass throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The pause wasn't mercy—it made me hyperaware of what had happened, what was still coming.

"You're taking this well." His hand didn't touch me, but I felt him studying his work. "Breathe through your nose. We resume in thirty seconds."

Thirty seconds to exist in this space between punishment and care. To feel small and held accountable. To know that someone gave enough of a damn to stop my spiral with leather and structure.

The pacifier disappeared. Position resumed. The strap sang through the air.

Six through ten blurred together, each strike building on sensitized skin. My counting grew desperate, words tumbling together: "Eightneedsbeforewants! Nineneedsbeforewants!"

But he heard each one, acknowledged them with the next precise strike. Never overlapping completely, never striking the same spot twice in a row. He wielded that strap like a surgeon, creating a map of consequence across my burning skin.

Another pause at ten. Pacifier between my lips while I sobbed around it, snot and tears making breathing complicated. But I didn't safeword. Didn't even consider it. This was what I needed—payment for the destruction I'd caused, delivered by someone who understood the weight of it.

Strikes eleven through fifteen tested new limits. The leather found virgin territory—the tops of my thighs, the tender creasewhere cheek met leg. Each impact forced sounds from me that bypassed language, primal acknowledgments of his authority.

"Fifteen! Needs—fuck—needs before wants!"

"Language." But his tone held amusement rather than censure. "Five more. You're doing beautifully."

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