Page 34 of Daddy Knows Best

Beautifully. The word made me cry harder than the strap. When the pacifier appeared again, I took it gratefully, sucking like it could save me from drowning in sensation.

The final set broke me completely. Sixteen landed with devastating accuracy on already molten skin. Seventeen caught the sweet spot that sent lightning through my core. Eighteen and nineteen alternated cheeks with mechanical precision.

By twenty, I was sobbing too hard to count properly. "Twen—twenty—needs before—before—"

"Wants," he finished for me. "Good girl. It's done."

Done. The strap disappeared, but the fire remained. My legs shook, threatening collapse, when his hand found my elbow.

"Up. Carefully."

He hauled me vertical with easy strength, my shorts and underwear still tangled around my ankles. The room spun, endorphins and pain creating a cocktail that made standing complicated. But he was there, solid and steady, letting me lean into his chest for one breath before stepping back.

"Corner." He pointed to the bedroom doorway. "Nose to the wall, hands laced behind your neck. The pacifier stays in. Ten minutes to process what just happened."

I shuffled toward the corner, each step reminding me of the fire he'd lit across my backside. The position felt more humiliating than the strapping—standing there like a scolded child, ass burning in the open air, sucking on a pacifier while he watched.

"Timer starts now." His phone chimed. "Don't move. Don't speak. Just think about why this was necessary."

The wall smelled like the vanilla candle I'd burned during better days. I pressed my nose to the paint, hands locked behind my neck, and let the minutes crawl by. Behind me, I heard him moving—maybe cleaning up, maybe just observing his handiwork. The not knowing made it worse.

My skin pulsed with each heartbeat, leather's kiss spreading warmth through my core. The pacifier forced rhythmic breathing, its weight on my tongue a constant reminder of my position. Of what I'd agreed to. Of what I'd needed.

Ten minutes to stand in my shame and feel grateful for it.

Minuteeightarrivedwiththe weight of every poor decision I'd ever made. The paint specks on the wall blurred into constellations, then static, then nothing my brain could process. My nose had gone numb where it pressed against the drywall, but the rest of me burned—ass still molten from the strap, chest tight with held breath, legs trembling from the effort of staying still.

The pacifier had gone from comfort to suffocation. Each suck reminded me of what I was—a grown woman standing in a corner because she couldn't control herself. Because she'd needed someone else to stop her from destruction. The vanilla scent from the walls mixed with lavender soap residue and my own sweat into something that made my stomach lurch.

"S-Sunshine." The word came out muffled around silicone, broken by tears I hadn't realized were falling. "Sunshine, please."

Movement behind me, immediate. The timer silenced mid-chime. Then Nate was there, turning me away from the wall with careful hands, the pacifier already unclipped and gone.

"Shh." His hand splayed across my sternum, firm pressure that gave my rabbit-hearted pulse something to beat against. "You're safe. Breathe with me. In for four, hold, out for six."

We breathed together, his hand riding the rise and fall of my chest until the static receded. My shorts still tangled around my ankles, making me shuffle awkwardly as he guided me away from the corner.

"We're moving to the bed for aftercare. Can you walk?"

I nodded, not trusting words yet. Each step sent fresh awareness through my punished skin, but his steady presence kept me grounded. The bedroom welcomed us with rumpled sheets and judgment-free surfaces.

"Lie down on your stomach." He pulled the blanket back, revealing sheets I should have washed days ago. But he didn't comment on the state of my bed, just waited while I crawled onto it, wincing as movement awakened every stripe he'd laid.

The bed dipped as he sat beside me. The aloe appeared from somewhere—maybe his bag of interventions held infinite supplies—and the first touch of cool gel against burning skin made me gasp.

"Too cold?"

"No. Good. It's good."

His hands moved with the same precision he'd used for punishment, but gentle now. Spreading cooling relief over each welt, taking inventory of what he'd done. The clinical touch shouldn't have been intimate, but my body had forgotten the difference between professional and personal where he was concerned.

"You safewording was perfect." His voice rumbled above me while his hands worked. "That's exactly what it's for. You recognized your limit and communicated it clearly."

"I wanted to be good." The words came out small, muffled by the pillow. "Wanted to take it all."

"You were good. You are good." His hand stilled on my lower back. "Taking care of yourself by safewordingisbeing good, Emily. That's the whole point."

The aftercare transformed into something else as his touch lingered. Not just tending my skin but offering comfort, tracing patterns that had nothing to do with aloe distribution. When he finished with the gel, he pulled the blanket up to my waist, then surprised me by stretching out beside me on the bed.

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