Page 45 of Daddy Knows Best

"Too tight?" His voice came from everywhere and nowhere, the darkness making sound three-dimensional.

"Perfect," I breathed.

Without sight, everything else sharpened. The whisper of his clothes as he moved. The vanilla candle mixing with his cologne. My own breathing, suddenly loud as thunder. I sat frozen on the bed, hands twisted in the sheets, afraid to move in this new geography of darkness.

"Lie back." His hand found my shoulder, guiding me down to the pillows. "Arms at your sides for now. Just feel."

The mattress dipped as he moved, but I couldn't track where. Then—the lightest touch. The cane tip drew a line from my ankle to knee, barely there, raising goosebumps in its wake. I gasped at how such gentle contact could feel like lightning.

"Sensitive already." Not a question. He could read my body like his old case files, cataloging every response. The cane traced my other leg, slower this time, pausing at the hem of the bee sock. "These stay on. Need my little bee properly dressed."

The tip traveled higher, ghosting over my inner thigh. I spread my legs without thinking, chasing contact, but he moved to my arms instead. Light touches from wrist to shoulder, then across my collarbones. The cane whispered over the swell of my breasts through thin cotton, making my nipples peak harder.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So responsive. Show me more."

The exploration continued—lazy figure-eights on my stomach, circles around my hip bones, always light, always leaving me wanting more. When the cane finally traced the crease where thigh met hip, I whimpered.

"Use your words," he reminded me. "What do you need?"

"Touch me." The darkness made honesty easier. "Please, Daddy. Actually touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I mean."

His chuckle rumbled through the space between us. Then a different sensation—the vibrator humming to life, its note low and promising. But instead of where I ached for it, he pressed it to my inner wrist. The vibration traveled up my arm, surprisingly intense.

"Everything's connected," he said, moving the vibe to my other wrist. "Every nerve leads back to center. Let me show you."

He painted me with vibration like an artist—the inside of my elbows, the dip of my throat, the valley between cloth-covered breasts. Each touch sent pulses through me, building charge with nowhere to go. When he finally brushed it over one nipple, I arched off the bed.

"Steady." His free hand pressed my hip down. "We have time."

Time. It barely meant anything anymore. It became elastic in the dark. He played my body like an instrument, alternating between cane traces and vibrator kisses, never quite where I needed. My cami had ridden up to just below my breasts, and he took full advantage, buzzing patterns on exposed skin until I shook with want.

"Please." The word had become my only vocabulary. "Please, Daddy. Please."

"Wrists," he said simply.

I offered them without hesitation, feeling silk wrap around. The binding was loose enough to slip if I tried, but the symbolism held me tighter than any rope. I was choosing this. Choosing to be bound, to be his, to surrender control I'd gripped too tight for years.

"Good girl. Now we begin."

The first cane strike landed exactly where he'd promised—the thickest part of my ass, a quick snap that bloomed into warmth. Not punishment hard, but enough to make me gasp.

"One," I said automatically, then caught myself. "Wait, I don't have to count?"

"No counting. No earning. This is for you." Another strike, slightly lower. "Just feel."

So I did. Five strikes painted across my backside, each one building on the last. The pain was different when divorced from shame—cleaner somehow, transforming to heat that pooled between my legs. Between sets, he rubbed the warmed skin with his palm, spreading the sensation.

Then the vibrator returned, finally pressing where I needed it. Even through the cotton of my cami, against my aching nipples, the sensation made me cry out. But he kept it light, teasing, never quite enough.

"Check in," he said, pausing a moment.

"Bee. Fuck, bee. More, please more."

Another set of strikes, these across my thighs. The rattan was flexible enough to wrap slightly, catching sensitive inner skin that made me writhe. But writhing just pressed my pussy against the bed, adding friction that wasn't nearly enough.

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