Page 7 of Daddy Knows Best

He smiled again, this time with the corners of his eyes. “Good. Then let’s get you set up.”

He stood, crossed to a low file cabinet, and retrieved a leather-bound portfolio. He moved like he knew every inch of the space, like he’d measured and approved every object in it. He set the folder on the desk between us and opened it with a satisfying snap.

Inside was a single-page contract, thick paper, sharp black print. I didn’t need to read it to know I’d already agreed. Still, he slid it over and tapped the line at the bottom.

“Review, then sign. Afterward, we’ll establish your first week’s ground rules.”

I picked up the pen. I read through the document, taking in the guidelines he’d laid out for how to manage my money. Deliberate barriers, a notebook to record spending, other, sensible stuff. My hand shook, just a little, but I signed. It felt like jumping off a bridge.

His eyes met mine as I handed the pen back. “Welcome to your new beginning, Emily.”

The words landed between us, final as a gavel. I smoothed my skirt, suddenly aware of the silk pressing against my skin, and wondered for a moment, if he had X-ray vision.

Probably not,right?

He closed the contract, then met my eyes. “What I do here isn’t traditional therapy,” he said. “It’s closer to behavioral conditioning, with layers of structure that most patients lack outside of childhood. Are you familiar with DDLG?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the acronym. "Um, I'm not familiar."

His expression didn't falter, but a glint of anticipation danced in his eyes. "DDLG stands for Daddy Dom/Little Girl. It's a type of dynamic that some find beneficial for their growth and behavior modification."

My heart thudded uncomfortably in my chest. "I-I don't think I understand..."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled once more. "It's about nurturing and guidance, structure and support. The Little seeks care and discipline from their caregiver, establishing a bond based on trust and obedience."

“So . . . I pretend to be a kid?”

He leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "In this dynamic, you can experience a sense of safety, support, and structure that may help you navigate through your challenges. It's about tapping into different parts of yourself to address underlying issues and provide a framework for growth."

The idea felt like a door opening to a realm I had never considered. A realm where vulnerability was met with care, discipline was wrapped in understanding, and growth was nurtured through trust.

“In this office, DDLG is a set of symbols—rituals that frame power exchange for therapeutic ends. No ageplay, no regression past what’s comfortable for you. You remain Emily Carter, twenty-eight, fully consenting adult.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“The point isn’t to infantilize,” he continued. “It’s to give your brain a shortcut to safety, structure, and discipline. We use a ‘little’ headspace not as fantasy, but as medicine.”

He flipped open a laminated sheet and slid it across the desk. The rows were color-coded. Green, yellow, red. I tried to focus, but my vision fuzzed out at the columns: Behavior, Reinforcement, Aftercare.

He pointed to the first cell. “Verbal Correction. If you exceed your spending limit, I’ll address it directly. Clear, unemotional, immediate.”

My cheeks burned. I nodded, afraid if I spoke I’d reveal the static in my head.

“Next: Written Lines. You’ll copy a statement—fifty times, one hundred, depending on the infraction. Not as punishment, but to burn the lesson in.”

That one sounded almost quaint.

He pointed to the next row: Impact. “If you consent, there is the option of physical correction. Hand, paddle, or cane. Never more than ten strokes at a time, never bare skin unless you explicitly request it.”

My breath stuttered. My thighs pressed together so hard my knees ached.

“Then there’s Corner Time. Simple, but effective.” He pointed at the last cell. “Aftercare is always mandatory. Check-in, hydration, decompress.”

The words hit me like a data dump. My brain tried to process: Would I actually have to kneel in a corner? Write lines like a kindergartener? Would hereallypaddle me?

The thought sent a hot pulse through me. I tried to kill it, but it only multiplied.

He watched me with the patience of a long-haul trucker. “Have you experienced any of this before?”

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