Page 8 of Daddy Knows Best

“Not even a little bit,” I said, mortified.

He nodded. “Then we’ll start light. Only what you’re comfortable with. If anything doesn’t feel right, you use the safeword. We stop immediately.”

I nodded. My mouth was too dry for speech.

He flipped to the next page—a chart, my name already filled in at the top.

“Weekly allowance is $75. Non-negotiable. Any spending over that, you document and bring to me next session.”

“What happens if I go over?” I sounded like a kid asking what the boogeyman did to his victims.

He pointed to the chart. “As we discussed. First infraction: Verbal Correction. Second: Written Lines. Third: Impact, if you’ve consented. If not, we double the lines.”

“And if I—” I swallowed. “If I do well?”

His eyes softened. “Reinforcement. Praise, extra privileges, even small rewards. Positive feedback is the backbone of habit change.”

It was all so clinical, so stripped of emotion. But every word made my heart thud harder.

He placed the consent form between us, a pen balanced on top. “You don’t have to sign today. Think on it, talk to yourfriend. But if you do, we start immediately. Are you ready, Emily?”

My hand reached for the pen before my brain caught up. I signed on the line, my signature shaky but legible.

His smile was small, almost private. “That’s commitment. I respect that.”

I clung to those words like a trophy.

He gathered the paperwork, filed it in a lockbox, and then said: “Your first check-in will be one week from today. In the meantime, track all spending. No judgment, no shame—just data.”

Nate steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk, and his tone dropped half an octave. “Before we finish, there’s one rule that overrides all others.”

I braced, expecting a lecture on homework or tardiness.

He continued, “This is a professional relationship. I am your therapist, not your partner. No romance, no personal involvement outside of these walls. If either of us crosses that line, therapy ends. Immediately.”

The words hit like ice water, sluicing the heat from my neck to my toes.

He held my gaze, neither apologetic nor soft. “Fiduciary duty means I act in your best interest, always. Blurring roles damages outcomes. It’s non-negotiable.”

My pulse drummed in my ears. I thought of the ink on my consent form, still fresh, and how badly I wanted him to break his own rule.

“Understood?” he asked, not a trace of doubt in the question.

I forced a swallow. “Yes, Doctor.” My mouth tasted of steel, and I barely caught myself from adding “Daddy” as a joke. It would have landed like a grenade.

"Before you leave." He opened a drawer with the same precision he'd used to dissect my spending patterns. "A baseline exercise."

Black nitrile gloves. The kind doctors wore for examinations, except the way he snapped one onto his right hand made it feel like something else entirely. Something that sent heat pooling low in my belly despite every rational thought screaming that this was insane.

"I need to assess your response to structured authority." His voice stayed clinically neutral, but his eyes—God, his eyes held something darker. "This will help me tailor our future sessions."

He wheeled his desk chair aside with one hand, creating an empty space on the plush carpet. The afternoon light slanted through his blinds, painting golden stripes across the floor where he pointed.

"Kneel here. Hands on your thighs, palms down. Eyes forward."

The words hit me like physical things. Kneel. Such a simple command, but my knees locked, rebellion flaring despite the contract I'd just signed. Or maybe because of it.

"Is there a problem, Emily?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting case study. Which I supposed I was.

---